Prez could feel tears pushing behind his eyes. His chest heaved with anger, and blood throbbed at his temples.
“I’ll never forget Brennie-Man and what they did to him.”
The headline of Washington’s prominent, supposedly liberal newspaper, the Washington Chronicle, told one story: “Negro Males Shot While Looting White Lincoln Park Establishment, Charges are Pending.”
The Afro-American Times headline told a very different one: “Negro Youth Murdered, Another Injured by D.C. Police in Unprovoked Lincoln Park Shooting, Charges are Pending.”
27
Montreal, Summer Solstice, 1969 – Supper
“Grande tante Céleste! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. How are you?” Prez gave her a big hug. “This is Tala, a dear friend of mine from back home. Tala, this is Marianne’s great-aunt Céleste.”
“You’re so pretty,” Céleste said to Tala. “You are of mixed parentage, no?”
“Afro-American and Filipino.”
Tala and Céleste shook hands warmly.
“Jamie and Marianne are in the kitchen?” inquired Prez.
“Doug! Doug! What’s happening, brother man?” Jamie rushed down the hall doing his best rendition of what he thought was a classic “soul brother” greeting.
Before he could clasp Prez’s hand, Prez turned and put his arms around Tala and said, “Jamie, meet my dear friend from back home, Tala. And please, none of your pitiful theatrics—taking her hand while looking at it as if it’s the most delicate thing you have ever touched. And don’t try to kiss it. It is not yours to kiss.” Jamie looked caught out. Céleste snickered.
“Hi,” said Tala. “Pleasure.”
“Oh no, the pleasure is all mine. Marianne’s in the back.”
“Lead the way,” said Prez. “After you, Tante Céleste.”
“No. I can’t stay. I’ve something in the oven. I’ll be back.”
Tala and Marianne greeted and hugged like two long-lost sisters.
“Jamie! Smoke that thing outside, please,” demanded Marianne.
“But, Marianne,” said Prez, “you smoke.”
“Not lately,” said Jamie. “I have no idea what that’s about except Marianne just being her usual flakey self.”
“I’m serious, Jamie.” Marianne stood in front of him and pointed towards the kitchen door. “Go smoke on the back balcony. Prez will tell you how he solved the Citroën’s carburetor problem.”
“Oh, alright,” he whined.
Prez stepped out onto the back steps with Jamie to tell him.
“Can I help you with anything?” asked Tala.
“Well, please recommend a good waste disposal service,” said Marianne as she cut a quick glance over in Jamie’s direction.
“Oh no! Really? Can’t help with that. Why not try the Yellow Pages?”
“And what about you, Tala?”
“Oh. I really have nothing to dispose of. Nothing at all.”
Céleste had just come back in and overheard the exchange and giggled with them.
Dinner was roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes, and lightly breaded asparagus served under the most delicate white-wine sauce. They broke French baguettes and washed it all down with a good red wine, except Prez didn’t drink the wine. He had apple cider instead. And poor Jamie?
“Here are your raw sesame green beans and bloody beef strips just as you like them. Ugh! Jamie thinks he’s eating Japanese. Enjoy,” said Marianne with a wink at Tala.
The conversation was loose and lively. Céleste, however, was somber.
“I have a new TV. It’s nice but the shows aren’t. The characters on Lurch for Tomorrow are so devious and vain. They lie so much!”
“The old art-imitating-life-imitating-art phenomenon,” said Jamie. He shifted his attention to Tala. “How long have you known each other? How did you meet? Was it love at first sight, or did you hate each other’s guts?”
Prez cut in, “I don’t think she liked me at all. I was with my boys in the park. I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Until she kicked me.”
“She what?” asked Marianne.
“Prez, shut up,” said Tala, cutting in. She glared at Prez. “Who says we’re in love, Jamie?
“We met at Lincoln Park, a park in our neighborhood in Washington, D.C. Actually, it was my father who wanted to invite Prez to join his kung fu class, and he asked if I wouldn’t mind speaking to him about it. But I won’t digress there right now. I’m picking up your bad habits.” She glanced at Prez. “It was a beautiful day in the park. At least it started that way.”
“That was in 1959—in the fall.” said Prez.
“You’ve known each other for ten years?” asked Jamie.
“No, it was the summer of 1960 when we met,” said Tala. “I was sixteen and in my freshman year in college. I had a twenty-one-year-old boyfriend so Prez was just a kid in the park.” She laughed. “But seriously, he was impressively mature for his age.” She looked at Prez. “You know, Prez, you really grew up that summer.”
28
Washington, D.C., August 1960
Prez had a court appearance the morning of Brennie-Man’s funeral. The judge reminded Prez of his grandfather, except the judge was a white man.
“The court notes that the grand jury has chosen not to indict. As the defendant’s attorney has pointed out, it is probably certain that the grand jury was exclusively composed of whites based upon the research data he presented that tallied past grand juries. If the good white citizens on the ‘People’s Panel’ won’t indict it indicates they saw no merit in your evidence and arguments before them.
“Clearly, I see none. You have presented conflicting physical evidence, your police officers have given contradictory statements and your presentation has been so convoluted you may as well be a pretzel. Indeed, when this court sniffs, the skunk of vendetta rears it ugly head. The integrity of this court will never be compromised by attempts to further political agendas and careers.
“The court notes the facts of this case. Mr. Downs and his friends were in Lincoln Park along with a host of other individuals of both sexes and races. It was a summer afternoon. There had been no trouble in the park or in the vicinity of the park. There were no All Points Bulletins or other alerts issued for the park, the general vicinity, for Mr. Downs or any of his friends. Yet, and for reasons which the district attorney still cannot enunciate, there was a police car continuously driving around the outer perimeter of the park and two more parked on side streets adjacent to the park. As Mr. Downs and his friends emerged from the park, the police car that had been circling the park began driving in their direction. Mr. Downs and his friends began running. The other two police cars became involved in what has been described by the DA as an effort to apprehend them—again for reasons undisclosed and unknown. An officer—still unidentified—drew his service revolver and fired a number of shots in the direction of the running youths, striking one of them in the back and killing him. Mr. Downs was struck and seriously wounded in the leg.
“I note that the district attorney has made it a point to use the term ‘fleeing’ when speaking of the youths running from the park. If he seeks to invoke an image of youths fleeing from police due to criminality or to imply the police were exercising their lawful duties, he has failed to show how such a characterization is warranted, and the evidence before this court does not establish it. That is why I have chosen to use the word ‘running’ and not ‘fleeing.’ I am being as careful and precise here as I can possibly be.
“Absent probable cause, a person cannot be apprehended or arrested for running, which is not a crime under our criminal code.
“The district attorney advances the conclusion that young Mr. Downs poses a threat to his neighborhood and society at large and thus must be placed under the authority of juvenile officers in the interest of
public safety. Yet all he has presented is the following: That Mr. Downs does not have any criminal record, is an honors student and a first-class athlete who happened to have been running from a park when he was shot by police for reasons which have yet to be put before this court. None of this supports the conclusion that Mr. Downs poses any sort of threat whatsoever. That leaves me to wonder if the district attorney is thus indirectly putting forward the argument that getting shot by the police is in itself and of itself proof of one’s being a danger to society and/or having engaged in criminality.
“Preston Coleman Downs, Junior, you are being entrusted to the care of your mother. The district attorney’s reasons to have you removed from your home and placed into the custody of juvenile court officers are completely without merit. The court shall not be used to further political agendas or careers.” He looked sternly towards the prosecutor’s table.
“Please, Mrs. Downs, do take your child home. Court is adjourned.”
29
Washington, D.C., late August 1960
In the days and weeks following the burial of Brennie-Man—Brendon Fraser Whitaker, Jr.—there was a marked difference in the neighborhood’s mood and behavior. The adults were constantly ill at ease. Negro parents forbade their children to set foot in Lincoln Park. To compensate, there were more house parties. The streets in front of their homes became their playgrounds. But those same streets became ominous trails of evil when police cruisers drove down them. The cops would stop mid-block and glare. They wanted the hate in their eyes to be seen. They wanted you to know they knew where you lived.
And they knew exactly where Prez and his family lived. Sometimes they would spend what seemed like a whole shift parked in front of their apartment building. At other times they would roll right down the back alley behind the church and park facing his building. One Friday night there were even two cars, one in the front and one in the back alley. Mattie was scared out of her wits and called Ellis, who, mercifully, was at the precinct. She was able to give Ellis the numbers of the two squad cars. He was furious. He and his partner hopped in an unmarked car and rolled down the back alley, parking right behind the patrol car. Ellis flashed his headlights. The officers in the squad car didn’t move. He flashed again then put his car in gear and nudged the patrol car with his front bumper. Still there was no acknowledgment from the officers in the squad car. Ellis backed away, put it in gear again and rolled hard into the rear bumper of the squad car, knocking its occupants forward with a jolt. Now their doors flew open and they emerged quite angry, their hands reaching for their holsters. But Ellis’s partner was already standing beside the passenger door of his unmarked car holding a Tommy gun. This froze the two white officers. One of the officers looked at the other and motioned to get back into the car.
“Just a minute. I haven’t dismissed you.” Ellis emerged with deliberate slowness from behind the wheel. He placed his hands on his hips in a sweeping gesture that exposed his Walthers in a double shoulder holster under his jacket.
“I had a look at the roster and the schedule before I left the station house, and you boys are supposed to be off. You know what else? I could find nothing that authorizes you boys to be parked in this back alley. Now you need to tell me what you are doing here and under whose authority.”
“We were having a lunch break, Lieutenant.”
“Well, I tell you what, the two of you will be having a very extended lunch break as soon as I write my report. You’re going to be suspended without pay for insubordination and disrespect to a supervising officer while in uniform and while on duty.”
“But you already said you checked and saw that we are off duty.”
Ellis walked up to the big mouthy one. “Yes, but I am on duty—very much so.”
He didn’t bother to check the car out front. He knew it would be long gone.
*
Mattie had already been considering moving. That incident made it a certainty. She had spoken with Ellis, with her neighbors, and with her best friend Lois about it. She was hesitant to take her son Preston out of another school before he could finish it. And both her sons had fared so well in that neighborhood. They had lots of friends and the adults were truly neighborhood parents; they looked after everyone’s children. But the horrifying Lincoln Park events and the constant police harassment left her no choice. She had to get her sons, especially her oldest, away from there.
With the rental section of the classified ads under her arm and her best walking shoes on her feet she set out that Monday morning on a mission to find a new home for her sons and herself. Prez also had something to attend to that day.
*
The August sun was baking the day. Prez wetted his bandana under the cold faucet in his kitchen before venturing out. As he rounded the corner onto East Capitol Street from Fourteenth with his crew in tow, neighborhood youth noticed. When they saw Prez in the lead, they wondered what was going on, so the little procession became two swarms that moved down both sides of the street. When they reached the corner in front of Mr. Richardson’s burned-out pharmacy and looked down East Capitol, they could see another group of youths approaching. Kids from around the park took notice and everyone converged on the corner expecting a rumble. Tala was somehow among them. When the crowd recognized Freddie Snaps and the Serpents, the dead-dry heat of the August air became electrically charged. But something was different. Prez was not standing ramrod straight with a fist pointed at his adversary.
A circle formed with Prez and Freddie Snaps in the middle. Freddie Snaps stepped forward. Then Prez stepped closer. As people wondered who would throw the first punch, Prez untied the green bandana from around his neck and held it out. Freddie Snaps did the same with his black bandana. They exchanged them. They grasped each other’s hands and shook. They hugged. Then they turned to face the crowd, holding each other’s hands high with their green and black bandanas. Debra started to cry. She may have had a clue but she was still shaken. Everyone else was shocked; everyone, that is, except Tala, who recognized Prez’s potential to be extraordinary from the day they first met. She couldn’t wait to tell her father.
“It is time,” said Prez, “for us to stop fighting each other. My friend Brennie-Man is dead and it wasn’t the Serpents who did it. Al got all shot up right here on this corner and it wasn’t the Serpents who did it. Old Preach Mouth is dead. The cops killed him too, right here on this corner. We know who did those things. And we know none of us burned down Mr. Richardson’s Drugstore. So it’s time for us to stop fighting each other because I don’t think we are enemies. I think we are really brothers and sisters. I think we need to start acting like it.”
“A new day. A new hope for us to succeed. That’s what this is,” began Freddie Snaps. “Prez is correct to analyze things the way he has and we have got to get right because so far we haven’t been. There are too many more important things for us to think about than fighting each other. We cannot do anything about freedom unless we do it together. Hey, everybody. This is a really good thing happening here. Snap out of it.”
He started to clap his hands rhythmically.
“I’ve been going down south with my mother and Deb’s mom. There’s a lot of stuff happening to try to desegregate the South and win equality for the Negro. Sometimes we forget that we too are in the South. I’ve been to sit-ins and I’ve been to marches. Here’s a song we sing sometimes:
“Oh freedom, oh freedom, oh freedom over me
And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave”
When Freddie Snaps got to the end of the song, he invited everyone to join in. “C’mon, y’all.” Soon the whole street corner reverberated with the words, “And before I’d be a slave, I’d be buried in my grave.”
*
Later that evening after the boys were in bed and Mattie and Celia were sitting on the front stoop catching the night breeze and listening to the neighborhood’s
ambient noises, Celia said, “I saw one of Preston’s little friends today. Cute little child. Quite mature looking for her age, though.”
“You’re talking about Miss Debra Wilbanks. Hmph! That girl cannot keep her lips off my Preston Junior!”
“Oh my,” Celia giggled. “You know about that?”
“Girl, the whole neighborhood knows about it. I’m surprised you saw her. They meet around the corner and then they kiss like they’re slurping licorice sticks or something! Oh yes, I’ve been told. Who do they think they’re fooling anyway? And Preston Junior always gives it away.” She mimicked her son, “‘Hey Mama, I’m just going out to meet some friends.’ Some friends, he says. Lordy, I tell you, Celia. But I’m not worried because that boy has a good head on his shoulders. And Miss Deb, as the boys call her, so does she. I believe she has a good heart too. I just wish these children would stop behaving like they invented their little sly maneuvers. We did!”
Exile Blues Page 16
