Ding, Dong, and Ditch and The History of Nigger Knocking - written by Imam Hamzah Alameen (MHS)

My grand nephew Luther was bought to me for scolding. Luther had been caught ringing door bells in upstate, Kingston New York on Halloween night. When I asked Luther what had happened he said he was playing a game called Ding, Dong, and Ditch. It was at that point that I realized how relevant my Halloween night some thirty five years prior really was.
Amazingly, It all started in this country three hundred years ago during slavery, the Paddy Row knockers served as overseers on southern plantations where they beat errant slaves caught roaming out of bounds. Nigga' knocking began in the post-bellum south. White night riders, soon to become the Klu Klux Klan would go around the Colored part of town at night and go door to door knocking and whoever answered would be attacked and sometimes lynched. It was like being one of the Children of Israel in ancient Egypt with the Death Angel coming to your door only to find there was not enough lamb's blood to go around. African-Americans who migrated north brought with them the awfulness, nervousness and trepidation of being pulled from their homes at night.
Somehow African-American children and teenagers in the ghettos on Halloween began to terrorize their neighbors by knocking on doors and harassing anyone who answered. Where I grew up in New York City, in Washington Heights we called it Nigga' knocking and today the youth refer to the practice as Ding, Dong and Ditch. It is often the case that sufferers become victimizers. Children respond to their environments with songs and games, which often are passed to each successive generation as if it were religion. Behaviors are learned even anti-social folkways, and mores. How do a people subjected to such violent behavior remove the psychological chains that bind them? African American culture was and is about survival.
On Halloween night we would go knocking door to door harassing people. Sometimes we rode the trains and were roguish. We knocked on doors, made noise and threw eggs. We also filled socks with ground chalk inside so that if it struck you, it left a chalky mark and stung a little bit. We considered this harmless fun which we performed ritually on Halloween.
We heard people saying we needed to stop hurting ourselves and instead get the White man. People would hear about an African-American person getting mugged and might say, "Why don't they go rob the white man instead?" It was the height of the Black Power movement and we were possessed by a sense of urgent militancy.
Like wolves howling at the full moon, the streets were filled with hundreds of kids from the surrounding blocks. Some of them had gang jackets and others had naughtier plans. We were not a gang per se, but we were from the same block, and in Harlem, that meant, we stuck together. Parents were starting to escort small kids because there was a rash of poison candy incidents. Everyone was leery of accepting candy.
We spilled onto Amsterdam Avenue, and walked up to The Church of the Intercession , on 155 Street in Amsterdam. I remember that it was the same year that the Queen of England visited the cemetery; it was in all the newspapers. The battle of Washington Heights was fought at the cemetery, and so some believed it a spooky place filled with ghosts. They also say no African-Americans were buried there only white notables like the Audubons, Astors, Dickens, Alfred Tennyson, and their rich descendants. Everything around us belonged to the White man, so we had no respect or love for what we thought we could never have.
If you showed heart on Nigga' knocking night you had respect throughout the following year. We called it bragging rights. Our usual was to show our bravery by running across to the other side of the cemetery. No vandalism or destruction just good old ghetto fun. We knew there were some vicious dogs there and that was the sport if you were slow you would get bit. It was an annual rite of passage.
About thirty of us jumped the wrought iron fencing and landed in the cemetery. We had to beat the dogs. It was dark, and we could hardly see. We were running wildly and losing our sense of direction, especially once the dogs showed up. Three of the wildest guard dogs you ever wanted to see, a mutt, a Sheppard, and a giant poodle roamed the grounds. Of the three the poodle was the most vicious.
Bert was inches from being caught by the poodle. I saw him running in circles about the tombstones, ducking and dodging until finally I saw him run head first into a granite mausoleum. He was knocked the hell out, with all three dogs biting the heck out of him. I felt terrible but I had to leave him.
After getting over the fence I noticed that we were down to about fifteen guys. I figured some got caught, and others never jumped the fence at all, and instead went back home. We crossed over to the bus stop on 155th in front of the school IS 10, after exiting the cemetery. We boarded the 100 bus headed for 205 Dykeman street. We knew that this area was filled with, mainly Jews and Irish who had fled Harlem and Washington Heights.
I mean we had our own white people who had stuck it out, but we couldn't bother them our mothers would have found out, since they knew us and our treacherous little ghetto games. In Dykeman we were more likely to get away and avoid knocking on African-American doors.
On this particular Halloween we ventured a bit further than usual. You could feel a sort of tension that said, "Anything may happen." On the bus we sometimes would get off at interesting stops yelling and hooting and then reboard the same bus before it could leave. One of the guys handed out cans of face paint and we became goons, goblins, devils and beasts.
We came off the bus screaming like sirens or demons. People were terrified and scooted out of the way. We were all barking, but had no bite, nor any intention of hurting anyone. We meant only to prove ourselves, knock on some doors, throw some eggs at white kids, and pound them with chalk. We thought that this was fair given the way Whites had treated African-Americans in the past.
It was the seventies, people were still angry, and because of the past riots people asked why we (African-Americans) were burning our neighborhoods. We had a racist song that must have been horrifying, it went, "Aw Beep Beep, walking down the streets, ten times a week, Ungowwa, Black power, destroy, white boys; we said it, and we meant it, we mean it 100%..." I cannot remember all of the verses, but that was the gist of it for sure. The anger people felt concerning civil rights had affected the children's psyches. We hated our situation and had chosen violence, if necessary, as a strategy for change.
Most people usually figured we were out for trick or treat, and would open their doors and offer us candy. Sometimes we took the candy thanking them sincerely. If it was a man we might hit him with eggs but mostly we just made noise, and ran laughing, that was our fun. Sometimes people responded to us with violence because they knew we were opting for tricks rather than treats. People chased us with bats and whatever they could grab. There was a sense of risky adventure, and unknown consequences associated with knocking on people's doors.
I don't know why we picked that particular building or that door. We entered stealthy and knocked I remember on apartment door three. But this guy saw the socks and eggs and figured we were up to no good. He opened his door in a total rage, and my boys screamed, and threw a couple of eggs. We were scared witless. But this strange bearded man was not; rather he was on auto pilot. He was enraged, and out of nowhere I felt his hand grab and drag me into the apartment.
This guy was really freaking out, breathing hard and hyperventilating crazily. I thought he might be a sex offender, and I was afraid something bad was going to happen to me. This man, dressed in a black suit, removed his Fedora type hat, and beneath it was a yarmulke. I also saw he had long brown curls on each side of his head. He seemed to be anxious and barely able to restrain his emotions. Then he saw me staring at him like a caged animal.
He rolled up his sleeve and pointed to a tattoo, he asked me if I knew what the tattoo was. I shook my head and he said I am you ...I am you." I thought, "What the hell are this old Jew talking about and what was he going to do." I knew he was Jewish because he had those funny strings on each side of his belt, and was dressed like Mr. Weiss, the tailor from around my way. I didn't know what he planned to do, or what the Hell was his problem, but I intended to escape. He asked where I was from, but I was shocked into silence, but he guessed right that I was from Washington Heights.
He pointed to my chalk sock and asked me what it was? I was scared and prayed "Sweet Jesus don't let this man kill me!" I explained to the old man that we were just Nigga' knocking and that it was game we played and that I was sorry if I had bothered him. He looked with tear flooded eyes that seemed focused on a far away object, and now I realize it was a far away land and far away time.
He told a horrible story about the Kaunas pogrom from when he was a teenager in Lithuania. The enraged Christian Lithuanians marched about with weapons and chants of hatred toward Jews and gypsies. The riots cumulated on June 28, 1941, with Nazi inspired Lithuanians knocking on doors, terrorizing the Jewish populace. He said it lasted four nights, and eventually they knocked at his door which led to the murder of seventeen family members. While he watched through a hole in the wall he witnessed the murder of his family. They were summarily abused and shot in front of the boy. He pleaded with me to understand that I was acting like those Nazi monsters.
Watching us through his peep hole had caused a dej� vu, he was reliving those bloody nights over thirty years prior. He said he could have ripped us apart since he thought finally he could atone for hiding like a coward behind that wall. This was why he had opened the door, to stop us from hurting the family he had lost many years prior. I now know the power of catharsis having been confronted with Luther and my ghost. This old man was the sole survivor of an incredulous moment in history. He saw that I may have benefitted or at least was scared out of my wits. He ended his story and just looked at me with the saddest face of grief I have ever known.
Afterward the Jew (I never found out his name) simply slumped down the wall of the apartment as if he had lost his balance, he repeated, "When will it end ...go just go".
I remember until this day the ghastly grimace on his face it was one of horror and disgust. Lastly he asked if I went to church. I said, "Yes". So he said, "Do you think Jesus would do what you did tonight, " and I answered "no" of course, and he said, "Then stop this madness and ask to be forgiven child." I made the sign of the cross and promised to, "never again", do this thing. There was redness in his eyes and all he said was, "Go get out of here and don't you ever come back again." Then he looked down at me and pointed his finger, and sighed but said nothing more. I dropped the sock and ran back to my boys. I knew something had quieted his anger and it seems he pitied me. He knew just how sad Nigga' knocking was and what evil it represented.
The guys asked what had happened and I told them the old geezer and I had a tussle and I got away. They believed me and I never told them the truth. I wanted them to think I was a tough dude that nobody wanted to mess with. I never went Nigga' knocking again. My boy Bert was the subject of our humor that year, but he would go on Nigga' knocking and get shot in the back a few years later.