“No. It ain’t. What’s your answer? Hey, Rick, wake the fuck up, man. Think about the words of the Declaration of Independence.” Prez pulled a copy from his bag. “Here, read it out loud so you can hear yourself.”
“We hold these truths to be self-evident.”
“Okay. Stop right there and think about what ‘self-evident’ means. Go on.”
“. . . that all men are created equal and that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
“Rick. There it is.”
Rick read back over those lines, allowing his lips to move with the words as if that would help him to absorb the meaning and apply it to the problem at hand.
“Of course, Prez. We were born free and with rights. I knew that. So why did I have such a problem with your question?”
“Because of our conditioning in this society. You have read those words so many times that they’ve become practically irrelevant, like the Lord’s Prayer. No one can give you your birthright. And that includes the president, and the government. We believe that those leaders who met with the president are waiting for him to ‘give’ us our freedom, instead of demanding that he recognizes and protects the freedoms that we already have.”
“That’s deep, man. Let’s get to the meeting.”
36
One Week Later
Prez had a big problem: expressive tangentialism. He thought that designation up all by himself. He considered himself lucky to be afflicted with something that he could identify. Whether he was reading, thinking, or talking, he always went off at a tangent to the subject matter at hand. One thing always led to another. There were layers under layers. He just wanted to see them all. Which was why, as he rode the streetcar up Georgia Avenue to his class at Howard, he was deep into Friedrich Engels’ The Materialist Conception of History, a book that wasn’t even on Professor Okoro’s list but one that had been referenced in another book on her C reading list. The professor had said that she would be discussing the philosophy of history so he felt he was just taking some very constructive initiative. He intended to ask her if he would get any extra points for referencing the book.
Having one’s attention buried in a book can obscure things going on around oneself; that realization struck Prez when he looked up to see Miss Marsha Lamay sitting on the streetcar a few seats in front of him. He had no memory of her getting on.
“Hello, Miss Lamay. I hope you remember me. From class. I’m Preston Downs. Philosophy. May I sit down?”
“Oh yes, I remember you. Don’t they call you Prez or something like that?”
“How’d you know that?”
“Think back, year before last at the Southeast Washington Boxing Tournament. Do you remember a tall, curly-haired, light-skinned boxer?”
“Oh yeah. He was really good. Good jab, nice hand speed, good footwork. I enjoyed watching his bout.”
“You weren’t watching. You knocked him out in the second round.”
“Oh . . . that tall, curly-haired guy.”
“That was my big brother. I hated you for a long time after that. You ruined his dream.”
“But he got a silver medal. That’s quite an accomplishment. Look, I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.” He took advantage of the streetcar being at a stop and got off. He was still a few stops away from Howard, but it was a lovely morning and he had time to engage in one of his favorite pastimes, walking, even in stifling heat.
As he approached the next stop, he saw that Marsha had gotten off and was waiting for him.
“Mr. Downs. Preston. I’m sorry. That was so immature and thoughtless of me.”
“Your brother, he’s doing alright?”
“Oh, sure. It was frightening to see him out cold for so long. But afterward he said he was glad it happened because it made him realize that boxing was not for him and maybe not for anybody. He became so inspired he decided to become a neurosurgeon. He’s in med school now, two years to go before he graduates.”
Prez smirked as he thought about how a good ass-whipping could change a motherfucker’s mind, but he said, “That’s really fantastic news. Great, really.”
“Are you still boxing? My dad said you looked like you could go all the way to pro if you wanted to.”
“No. I stopped.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t figure out why I was doing it any more, where it was supposed to lead. I read this novel called Mandingo soon after that tournament and couldn’t stomach fighting another soul brother. And the way this country is treating us, I lost my desire to represent it. The thought of turning pro and fighting for money made me feel kind of dirty; filthy is a better word—filthy like one slave fighting another to please the master.”
“We’re not slaves anymore,” said Marsha.
“But,” said Prez, “the dollar is still the master.”
They walked up Georgia Avenue defying the late summer’s heavy heat.
“Thank goodness it’s only Thursday. That will give things a chance to cool down by the weekend,” said Marsha. “If it doesn’t cool down, I’m burnt toast on Saturday.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I’m racing on Saturday. I don’t do well in the heat. It’s bad enough to get beat, but to get left behind and struggle to the finish, that’s getting burned really bad.”
“You do cross-country?”
“Yes, I do. I’ve been running cross-country since I was about six or seven. My whole family runs. We go out for what is supposed to be a slow, fun run, and end up racing. My dad’s a big cheat. He’ll drift off way out in front and then scream that the race is on to the next big tree or whatever, but he’ll be halfway there already.”
“But,” said Prez, “you don’t seem to be built for distance. You have . . . your legs are so . . .”
“Oh, will you stop it! You’re checking me out on the sly.”
“No I’m not, just searching for the right medical or scientific terms. C’mon, though, you know you’re not built like a distance runner.”
“I run the hurdles.”
“See, I know what I’m talking about. I did it the dialectical way—observation, investigation, and conclusion.”
“You’re nuts. You know that?”
“Where are you running this weekend?”
“At the Bladensburg Races.”
“Hey!” Prez burst out laughing. “That’s in my neck of the woods. I live near there. You do mean Bladensburg, Maryland?”
“Yes. That’s right. But what’s so funny about that?”
“The Bladensburg Races. That’s historical. The original Bladensburg Races occurred in 1814, during the War of 1812. But it really wasn’t a race. It was a humiliating defeat at the Battle of Bladensburg of the American forces, who were trying to keep the British from reaching Washington. The British sailed down the Chesapeake Bay, landed, started marching, and when they got to Bladensburg the American forces turned and ran. The press, disgusted, called it the Bladensburg Races.”
“Wow. I knew nothing about that. How did you find out about it?”
“This past fourth of July, I was curious about the song, ‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’ We all know Francis Scott Key wrote it, but I wanted to know more, you know, about Fort McHenry, why he was there and all that. Well, it turns out he was there because the president had asked him to go talk to the British about releasing a man, a close friend of the president’s. The British had captured him when they overran Bladensburg, went on to Washington, burned the city, and captured some prominent Americans. Well, this guy for sure, just can’t remember his name right now. Anyway, Francis Scott Key went up there and got stuck in Fort McHenry, so he was there when the British attacked. And that’s when he wrote the song.”
“You must have loved histo
ry classes, then.”
“Actually, no, I hated them. They just wanted us to memorize a bunch of names and dates without painting the context. Stuff doesn’t just happen, you know, and great men just don’t show up in history without a reason.”
“What about great women?”
“Especially great women.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hm, well, it sounded good, but back to history teachers. Without context, they paint a false picture in history class. After what I just told you, do you still think of the writing of “The Star-Spangled Banner” as being something heroic?”
“Maybe not totally. Not like before, you know, now that I know about the original Bladensburg Races.”
“See, that’s what I mean. Why didn’t they teach us that part? And the worst part for me was when I read that Francis Scott Key was one of the officers at the Battle of Bladensburg and he took off and ran too. Imagine, an officer leaving his men and running away from a fight. That, to me, is low, low, low. When you’re a leader you never leave your men behind. Now I can’t listen to “The Star-Spangled Banner” without thinking about old Francis Scott Key being a main participant in the Bladensburg Races.”
“Wow. Is that stuff true, Preston?”
“I read it in a book about the War of 1812 and in another book about Francis Scott Key.”
They walked along in silence for a while, trying not exert any more energy than necessary.
“Is it alright with you if I come to watch you run on Saturday?”
“Sure, I don’t care. My family will be there. They’ll probably think you’re my new boyfriend or something.”
They sat down on a bench. Prez took out his pen and some paper and starting writing. When he finished, he stood up in front of Marsha and read what he had written:
I, Preston Coleman Downs III
Do solemnly swear
That whenever you need me I’ll be there
That I’ll honor my oath
To always be true
And never give you a reason to be blue
I will build for us
Through strength and trust
A skyward momentum never knowing bust
I reach out
With my palms opened wide
For your hands to be placed inside
He gave her the poem.
“Oh, my! You’re asking me to be your girlfriend? Are you sure? We don’t know each other. Are you positive? How do you know? You just wrote that out of the blue? Yes. I’ll be your girlfriend.”
37
Northeast Washington, October 1963
It would become a ritual that after Friday’s track practice, Prez accompanied Marsha to her home and had dinner with her family. The shocker for him was that she lived on North Carolina Avenue just down the street, albeit a very nice street, from Lincoln Park. Her family were Catholics and she always attended Catholic schools, which partially explained why Prez had never seen her when he lived in the area.
The very first time he sat down with them for dinner, her father made no effort to conceal the fact that he was tolerating Prez’s presence for a greater good called peace in his home. Prez could see right through Marsha’s father, yet he redoubled his efforts to dissolve the man’s intolerance towards him. Prez’s efforts to break the ice were awkward. Initiating a conversation regarding the significance of John Stuart Mill being Bertrand Russell’s secular godfather did not produce positive results. Marsha’s mother was amused at Prez’s take on critical thinking. Her father was, well, just nasty.
“Secular godfather? Isn’t that a bit like saying that something is a true lie? Heh?”
After dinner Prez was surprised that Marsha’s father did not help clear the table and wash the dishes. He went into the living room and sat in a huge tan leather lounge chair. On a folding tray in front of him he had a small clear glass filled halfway with a green liquid that Prez thought must have been poured from the bottle of Crème de Menthe also on the tray.
As Prez helped with the dishes he observed Mr. Lamay pour into his glass a few times. After the last dishes were dried and put away, Mrs. Lamay suggested they go sit in the living room and listen to some Béla Bartók recordings she inherited from her father.
“I’ve got Hungarian on my father’s side. That side of my family have been devout Catholics for many generations, I’ve been told. But what do I know?”
“What does she care?” piped in Mr. Lamay snarkily. “She’s an atheist.”
“I just read an article in DownBeat where Miles Davis said he’s been influenced by Bartók’s music. What a coincidence,” said Prez.
Marsha cast a sort of take that you idiot! look at her father. But he was just getting warmed up.
“What I really want to know, Mister Prez, is whether or not you have ceased your hoodlum ways?”
“Robert!” said Marsha’s mother with a stern look on her face.
“Let him answer.”
“Can you explain what you are referring to, sir?” said Prez.
“The Schnapple family and mine go way back. Our families attended the same church. They are long-time patients of mine as well. I remember keenly that young Frederick required a great deal of dental work some years ago after you beat him up.”
“Oh, that was way back when I was in seventh grade. I didn’t beat him up. Freddie Snaps, they called him. He was the leader of the Anacostia Serpents. I was the leader of the Lincoln Parkers. He came over to our school acting like a bully and picked a fight with me. It was a fair fight. I believe in fairness. It doesn’t seem fair to me that you would criticize my behavior and not his. I’m proud to say that since then a lot has changed. We called a truce a long time ago. Nobody is gangfighting in this city anymore. We treat each other like brothers.”
When Prez got up to leave he said, “Thanks for inviting me over for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Lamay. I really enjoyed it. Sorry I missed your brother, Marsha.”
“Well, frankly,” Mr. Lamay had said, “I got sick and tired of Marsha whining about it.”
*
Just before the third Friday’s dinner, Marsha coaxed Prez out to the back-alley garage ostensibly to look for some old track cleats. Instead she produced the keys to her father’s car, pulled Prez down onto her in the back seat—and that was how Prez lost his virginity. It was nothing like he had expected. Nothing at all.
After that, sexual intimacy with Marsha was a rarity, though they were constantly kissing, hugging, dry humping, and moaning. He had seen more of her body watching her run than when they were alone together. At track practices and meets he discovered she had breasts. He noticed them, he felt, quite late in the course of things. But when he thought about it, he was really a face guy. Even though it was Marsha’s legs that first caught his attention, her face sealed it. The saying was that opposites attract, yet he and Marsha were both very shy. Up until that garage episode and often thereafter, he and Marsha were probably making Plato very happy. He needed to read up on that.
38
Washington, D.C., November 22, 1963
One Friday toward the end of November, he arrived in the early afternoon to pick Marsha up from track practice and found her already dressed and waiting for him. She was more somber than he had ever seen her.
“Hey,” he said, smiling, “who died?”
“President Kennedy.”
“Very funny. Hey, you can’t be that nervous.” Prez was taken aback. Marsha had not exhibited even a hint of sarcasm or dry humor before. This track stuff must be really affecting her, he thought. Her eyes were welling up with tears; she starting shaking. He put his arms around her. “It’s just track and field, Marsha. It’s not the end of the world.”
“President Kennedy got shot. They killed him for real. Don’t you know?”
“What the hell are you talking about?�
�� He released her and took a step back.
“It’s true. Coach told us. He cancelled practice. I called my mother. It’s true. He’s dead. Kennedy’s dead.”
Prez sat down on the steps beside her. He pinched his temples to try and quell the feeling that his brain was swimming around in his head.
“Somebody shot the president? President Kennedy? Who would do that? How can you shoot the president? Wait, Marsha, it can’t be true. You’re talking about President Kennedy. He has too much protection—the Secret Service, the FBI, the army. It’s impossible. C’mon, I’m taking you home.”
As they walked toward the streetcar stop the streets felt deserted; the day suddenly seemed ominous, as if a natural disaster had occurred. A car stopped at a light and they heard its radio blaring, “President Kennedy was shot today at around twelve thirty in Dealey Plaza. He was pronounced dead at one o’clock.”
Classes didn’t resume at Howard until the week after the state funeral for the assassinated president. The mood on campus was somber, like a ghastly cloud of sulfur ash the winds couldn’t blow away. Prez sat in his first creative writing class taught by a professor with a very radical reputation. He began the class expressing his great skepticism of the official government version of events surrounding the assassination. Some of his students were from families who had one or both parents on the police force, in the military, or working for the government overseas. Their sense of patriotism would not allow them to question anything the government said. But the professor had what he hoped was an antidote to what he called “the arrogant stupidity of nation-state worship.”
“Let us imagine a big steamship rolling down the river. It’s so long one cannot see the whole thing until it sails by. Seagulls are flying all around it. There are people standing on the eastern shore and people standing on the western shore. They see the steamship approaching and wave to the captain while the ship is still some ways off.
“From the cargo hold at the rear of the ship, and unseen by observers on both shores, emerge two assassins, one wearing a red hat; the other, a blue hat. Red Hat sneaks along the port side while Blue Hat sneaks along the starboard side. The people on the eastern shore can see Blue Hat but not Red Hat. Those on the western shore can see Red Hat but not Blue Hat. They wave again at the captain, who does not suspect he is about to be killed. The captain looks up to wave and there is the sound of gunfire as Blue Hat and Red Hat open fire. The captain’s body is jerked toward the port side but he bounces off something and falls off the bridge toward the starboard side and rolls into the water. You are following me, I trust, because I am giving a lecture—surprise!
Exile Blues Page 21
