Billy Connolly's Route 66_ The Big Yin on the Ultimate American Road Trip - Billy Connolly [24]
I didn’t like to say no.
He went off to get me one, returned, then pointed to his own so that I could find the appropriate page. I’m not a Christian now, and when I was a Catholic I didn’t know the Bible – we used a missal to guide us through the mass (Catholics and the Bible have a funny relationship, but that’s another story for another time). But I could follow the pastor’s preaching. I was enjoying it and having fun with a little girl and her young brother who were sitting beside me, faffing around and getting them to laugh and joke and jest with me.
It was delightful. And what amazed me – even though it shouldn’t have, because it’s happened so many times when I’ve been among black communities – was the kindness and generosity of spirit shown to me.
The previous day I’d been to the oldest cigar store in America. It’s in the centre of Chicago, next to the El. The crowd inside was mostly black and they were all watching the Chicago Bulls playing basketball. I had a shoeshine, bought my cigar and sat down. I’m not much of a basketball fan, but it was a very good game. One of the crowd of black guys recognised me while another thought I’d been in Monty Python. (It’s a recurring disappointment for me in America. Maybe the association is because I did The Secret Policeman’s Ball with some of the Pythons and that was a big hit in the States.) The guys were cracking jokes and having fun, then one asked if I’d like a drink.
‘No, I don’t drink,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to smell it, if you don’t mind.’ It was Maker’s Mark, a Kentucky bourbon whiskey, and I had a sniff. ‘Oh … memories. Memories.’
The guys all laughed and smiled. Then one of them stood up, came over and handed me a ten-inch-long Bolivar cigar. A Havana. ‘Welcome to Chicago, Billy,’ he said.
I nearly fell off my seat. Such friendliness, such overwhelming bonhomie and joie de vivre. And for nothing. All I had done was walk into the shop. And they had shown me such outstanding hospitality and kindness.
So I should have known better than to be surprised at the homeliness that was shown to me in Quinn Chapel as everyone who came near me shook my hand, wished me a good day and said they were glad I was there.
As I said, I’m not a believer any more and I don’t think I ever will be again. I used to be quite a sincere Catholic when I was a boy, but it hasn’t stood the test of time for me, especially when a child dies and some fool says, ‘Jesus wanted him for an angel.’ I just want to lash out when I hear something like that; I want to get violent. I think religion’s time has come and gone. They’re having a lot of fun just now throwing bombs at each other, aren’t they, all the peace and love merchants. That said, the spirit and the sheer enthusiasm in that room persuaded me that if I was going to be religious again, that might be the religion I’d go for. I certainly came out feeling much, much better than when I went in.
It was just a joy watching that congregation of people at their best, worshipping as they saw fit. And what they saw fit, I saw fit. I wasn’t jealous of their faith, but I admired it. I thought a wee bit of it would do me some good. It took me back to when I was a boy, when I had faith. And although that’s gone now, visiting Quinn Chapel and being among a congregation of good people doing good was a happy experience, a wholesome thing to do. I’m glad I did it.
Chess Records and Quinn Chapel border on to a neighbourhood of Chicago called Bronzeville, which in the early twentieth century became known as the Black Metropolis after half a million African-Americans fled the oppression of the South and migrated to the city in search of industrial jobs. The city authorities confined the new arrivals to this borough, which extended over a very small area between 29th and 31st streets. The conditions were extreme at times. For instance, twenty thousand people were housed in four twenty-two-storey buildings