'The Hypnotist’

A handsome young hypnotherapist teaches a racist about empathy.

Story published in Phylon Literary Magazine by the writer’s deceased mother. The story was passed on to heirs including her son, Matthew Bamberg.

As someone who isn’t fond of segregation, I recently learned where my views about it originated.

Not everyone can claim that their mother was a writer. My mother was, and her writing jolted me. When I obtained her story, The Hypnotist, I had no idea what the story was about, but I do know that she wrote over 100 short stories in the 1960s.

After reading the first sentence, my thoughts on segregation arose. I wondered why I was vehemently against it. I’m certainly not fond of homogeneous crowds of people when I go out though, after all, variety for me is the spice of life. All colors and all cultures — I want to learn about the experiences of everyone. That’s why I travel so much.

My mother writes from a male perspective. In her story, The Hypnotist, she is a good-looking young man in his early 20s who had a premonition. “Certain men are destined to fill her missions,” she writes. The character Mr. Spengali, had an issue with the multi-millionaire segregationist, Forrester McCloud, writing:

“I first saw him on television…his arms flailing, sparse gray hair on end, loose jowls, quivering, spilling over the tight rim of his shirt collar, his eyes two beady jettisons of hate in his pale, porcine face.”

Mr. Spengali is a hypnotist with extensive knowledge of the occult. As a young white man, he knows that reaching McCloud wouldn’t be easy. Well-known for his hypnotism sessions at popular nightclubs, he intends to find Forrester McCloud.

My mind wanders… This was written in the 60s. It sounded as if it’s the same situation many Americans feel they are in today. Mr. Spengali goes on to say that he wanted to reach into the screen and strangle Forrester McCloud. Then it dawns on him that it would not be possible.

Mr. Spengali travels to Magnolia County in the Deep South and locates McCloud’s office. He owns property throughout Magnolia County in an undisclosed part of the South. He makes an appointment to meet with Mr. Thomas Harwell, McCloud’s renting agent, to let the office know that he wants to rent a space for a hypnotherapy office.

Let’s have coffee

While at the office, Mr. Harwell questions the motives and political orientation of Mr. Spengali. The writing advances to Southern dialect with racist tropes, Harwell asking, “you ain’t one of them radical [N-word] because if you are, boy, you are going to be right unhappy heah.”

Mr. Spengali replies, “Indeed not.” He explains that his views are similar to Mr. Harwell’s and Mr. McCloud’s views of “how they [Blacks] are forgetting their place.” Harwell reacts, affirming that “the boy” is correct, calling him a Smart Yankee. Harwell rents the store space to Mr. Spengali.

At this point, I understand where this story is going. My mother, as Mr. Spengali, tricked Harwell into believing he was a racist. The disbelief I feel at the entire story, from the use of terms that are no longer politically correct to characters who are overtly hateful. I mean, my mother wrote this. A woman who died at 56 and whose real life was working in the occult. In her 50s, she moved from writing fiction to writing an astrology column for the Latin American Vanidades magazine.

What you think is going to happen in the next part of the story, doesn’t. Before you read on, think about how the story might develop.

While Mr. Spengali talked Mr. Harwell into letting him rent a place for a hypnotherapy business, the two had shared race-baiting epithets until Mr. Harwell was convinced that Mr. Spengali was racist, like he was.

The language spoken about race is abominable: Mr. Harwell alluded darkly to, “people who knew and had to do what had to be done about them.” That line hits home, and in the rapidly shifting present moment, it could have been said about more than Black people. Add to the list: government workers, scientists, educators, university administrators, and professors. It’s as if the anti-woke think tanks used the same language for anyone they don’t like.

Yet, the hypnotist agrees, saying, “I still want to kill,” heavy-handed words to get inside the twisted morality of eugenic-like thinking. Now, kill here doesn’t mean murder, I think my mother was burying woke ideas without having people ask questions.

While it’s a bit different from what’s happening today, it’s true to life. The story is an overt telling of the ruins of racism in another time and place, saying what has been implied for decades and is now moving in the direction of overtness as it existed in many locales in the South back during the Civil Rights Movement.

Next in the story, the “right, bright boy” pleased Mr. Harlow, an ignorant rental agent who was easily deceived. The “boy” had some more convincing to do when Mr. Harwell talks of hypnotists turning people into “yapping dogs.”

Self-assured, the boy transformed into a man — a hypnotherapist, serious about his work. After setting up shop in an empty store despite Mr. Harwell’s disagreement about his effort, Mr. Harwell visited him, abruptly changing his mind and deciding to try Mr. Spengali’s magic. After swinging his pendulum, Mr. Harwell dove into Neverland upon being ordered softly to “sleep, sleep.”

At that point, Mr. Harwell was easily manipulated. The hypnotist began his questioning slowly, extracting information about Forrester McCloud, first by stating he was a cousin, then referencing him by his childhood nickname, "Fatso Forr."

With that, my mother leaps further into the world of political incorrectness. This type of reference is remarkably like the politicking instituted by a not-so-nice leader of the free world. Think Little Marco, and others, by adding the adjectives lyin’, slippery, and slimy.

Under the trance, Mr. Spengali ostensibly focused on Mr. Harwell’s aching joints. The most important factor, though, of the hypno-session was that Mr. Spengali had “Cousin” Mr. Harwell come to be fond of his new tenant and desire for him to meet Forrester McCloud. Yes, Mr. Spengali will soon come face-to-face with ‘Fatso Forr’. The hypnotist also suggests that Mr. Harwell will have an urgent need for him to hypnotize Forrester McCloud — “He would sing my praises to Old Forr and prevail upon him also to partake in a few hypnotherapy treatments”, along with giving the hypnotist a not too modest $200 for his services.

Satisfied with the hypnosis, pain in his joints lifted, Mr. Harwell informed Fatso Forr of how effective Mr. Spengali’s treatment was. Upon visiting Old Forr, Mr. Harwell, “had flexed his crippled fingers under his nose.”

As an ardent smoker and eater, Forrester McCloud agreed to be hypnotized. Rosebelle, his wife, also badgered Old Forr to participate in the hypnosis exercise. Old Forr was always receptive to his wife’s advice.

Let me say a bit about Rosebelle. “Who may have once been a real belle.” I think my mother is judgmental in the next part of the story as she describes Old Forr’s wife: “She honestly disengaged into a lumpish, twittering, cold old siren.” Nothing like a little mean added here and there.

The best of all descriptions is that of Rosebelle: “Dressed in dove-gray and pink with her skin dressed in corduroy, but still pearly white as milkglass, she exuded all the charm of a dried onion.” This is a set-up for Rosebelle to meet Mr. Spengali.

Yes, they do make an acquaintance; the former is flirty with the latter. Batting her eyelashes and fluttering over to Mr. Spengali, Rosebelle provides a speech about the hypnotist’s looks and personality, then the two chit-chat for a spell. It’s all Rosebelle has to do to keep from reaching out and cuddling him.

Then, a contentious exchange between Mr. Spengali and Forrester McCloud runs the gamut of racism that is referred to as “monologic prejudices.” The fastball speeds by: “Tell me, boy, what’s your reason for being heah?” Rosebell castigates her husband for being suspicious of Mr. Spengali.

Once convinced to try the hypnotherapy, saying, “you’ll feel nothing but a tickling sensation,” Mr. Spengali stabbed Old Forr in the hand with a large-sized hatpin. At this time, Old Forr is in a quasi-slumberland of divulgence. “Somnamulism,” my mother labels it — a deep trance favorable for molding attitudes.

“Don’t ask me why,” Old Forr rasped, as the session began, “I just hate ’em. Always have and always will.”

Mr. Spengali suggests forgetting about “them”, to move his thinking forward.

“What are your favorite things?” my mother asks and continues with specific example suggestions of food Old Forr might like and ends up with cake, saying “…you like cake?”

From here on, there’s farcical talk about chocolate cake, analogous to the trope of Oompa-Loompas, or “pygmies imported from ‘deepest and darkest’ Africa.”

Here we go — the climax of subversive racism in my mother’s story floats aloft — high and mighty — like that of Roald Dahl, the author of ‘Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,’ who created racist characters in his children’s storybook.

The narrative moves on to propel readers into a screwy transformation of McCloud’s racist attitudes— through a trance of hypnotism to a newfound acceptance of people of color.

After describing the sensory details of eating fudgy chocolate cake, my mother moves Old Forr to creating a chocolate cake that had him salivating: “satiny brown, creamy brown, honey brown, brown cake, brown candy, brown hair, brown skin…” suggesting he might like to be brown himself…”deep mahogany brown all over.”

When all is said and done with the ‘brownin’ of Old Forr, he is also instructed to quit smoking and stop eating so much.

Delighted by the result, Rosebelle and Mr. Harwell rave about the hypnotist’s skills.

Finally, Rosebelle gets really tan from a lamp because her husband now prefers to be around brown people.

Ending with a sense that the world still turns, my mother embraces her own disgust at people who tell others they need to go back to Africa, suggesting that after the browning, Forrester McCloud would like to go to Africa too.

While I don’t comprehend all of the ideas my mother communicates, it’s cathartic. Having a conversation about this subject through her writing sheds new light on my stalwart mind.

Today, I fight for the woke, penning nearly a dozen stories about how segregation and related anti-woke evil warp some minds to repeal decency and education.

As I pen my way to racism-relief for all, I know one voice can only help infinitesimally, but l and a million other voices, infinitely.

Reference

Bamberg, E. G. (1968). The Hypnotist. Phylon (1960-), 29(4), 403–409. https://doi.org/10.2307/274026