The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  Jack elevated his eyebrows and swiped his knuckles across his goatee. There was silence.

  “Well,” offered Jordan tentatively, “I’ve got an older sister who’s twenty-three. And she’s kind of rough around the edges, too. She’s pretty and she’s tired of metro guys.”

  Jack blinked. He looked at the girl, his lips parting to form an inquiry. Then he saw all the faces smiling his way, and he slumped down in his chair.

  “Ah, hell,” he finally uttered, then smiled. “This conversation shouldn’t be in front of all these people, but who cares. Is she comin’ to the next FCP meeting, ‘cause I’d be game for meetin’ her.”

  James and Pedro gave hoots that were congratulatory but mildly derisive. The male students in the class followed the older men’s lead, and the girls smiled.

  “All right, class, that’s enough.” Margaret reigned in her students, the vestiges of a grin of her own on her cheeks. “Jack, the two of you can discuss your plans after class.”

  “Wait, wait, wait, Mrs. Stewart. Just some quick questions so I don’t get my hopes up. I know there’s gotta be a catch.” Jack turned toward Jordan. “She probably hates kids, doesn’t she? I’m sure she’s like most girls and never wants any.”

  “Nope, she loves kids. She wants either two or three.”

  Jack’s eyes raised.

  “Well,” he probed, “she probably only likes non-white guys. If she’s that way don’t bother introducing me because I don’t even want to meet her then.”

  “Get real,” Jordan laughed, “she’s FCP; of course she’s not into that.”

  “Oh.” His utterance was quizzical. “Well, I don’t want to meet her if she’s lesbo either. Guys are like, ‘Oh, it’s so sweet to have a bi chick’—and it’s okay for a casual date here and there, but to me it’d be disturbin’ knowin’ that your wife’s that way.”

  Jordan looked exasperated. “She’s not a lesbian!”

  “She . . . she seems like a pretty awesome girl so far then.”

  “All right, young man, no more interrogations,” Margaret interceded. “I wanted to visit this issue because I find it disturbing that you have a hard time finding white girls to date. You’re a handsome, rugged looking guy. You have clean, masculine, symmetric features and a strong build. But you’re not too bulky and don’t look ponderous—you look like a special forces candidate rather than a bodybuilder. Your build, your word choice, your accent, your face, your outfit—you fit the ‘bad-boy’ stereotype—the stereotype that young girls are supposed to swoon over.”

  “Well, ain’t seen none of ‘em swoonin’.”

  “Maybe runnin’,” said his brother. “In the opposite direction.”

  “Shut up, bro. Before you found your chick you weren’t any better off than me.”

  The students had revolved in their chairs to face the back of the room. Their eyes dazzled. Even the forlorn faces of Europe brightened, and surveyed the men with amusement. Rick, with his boundless desire to learn, improve, and win. Pedro, with his gelled black hair and insightful remarks. And the brothers, with action-hero looks, alive with banter. The students didn’t know their names, but appreciated their presence.

  This was an interesting alternative to history class, in which they studied ancestral halcyon days when their predecessors strove for power and attained it with genius, duplicity, and bloody swords. Or to English class, where they pondered the literature of dead men and women, and, they feared, a soon dead people.

  “There’s one more commercial type from this era I want to cover before we move on.” Margaret thumbed a button on the controller, and a new commercial initiated.

  Unlike the prior office milieus, this commercial began in an urban environment. A tall, lean black man strode into an apartment. He wore baggy jeans and a button down plaid shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. An attractive, slender, white blond woman drifted from the kitchen and fell passionately into his arms. As he spun her around with a deft dance step, she began working on removing his shirt.

  Hip-hop music brought bass to the encounter, and with a flick of her wrist the woman flung his unbuttoned shirt onto the table. Winking, she led the man down a corridor until they were lost to the camera.

  Seconds later, a furtive, scrawny white man entered through the open door. Looking both ways, as a child does before crossing a street, he tiptoed toward the shirt, then snatched it greedily. The look on his face was smug as he donned the shirt and left the apartment.

  The next scene was of the white man, in his thieved shirt, strutting down the sidewalk. Women grimaced as he passed by. After several comic rejections by the women, the white man became frustrated. Tearing off the shirt, he flung it skyward. The shirt miraculously sailed through the open window of the apartment in which the white thief had discovered it. Its owner and his girlfriend were seated on the sofa. She was massaging his muscular shoulders, and the two looked vaguely amused as the shirt arced into the room.

  “Not everyone can wear J-Flow,” a voice announced. “But . . . that’s not a bad thing. Because it doesn’t make you cool. It just makes you cooler.”

  As the black man retrieved his shirt and put it on, he and his girlfriend peered out the open window and saw the white fool jumping around in the street, cursing. The white woman assumed a look of revulsion, while the black man chuckled and shook his head.

  “J-Flow. Can you wear it?” And the screen faded.

  Jack stared numbly, his mouth hanging slightly open.

  “Okay,” he conceded, “those jerks are startin’ to upgrade.”

  “I’ll handle this one, because I want to move along to some of the media from the mid century,” said Margaret. “As Jack just noted, the attack on our people is more explicit in the commercial you just watched than the others. The foolish, inept, weak, unattractive, uncool white man thinks that by wearing a black man’s outfit he’ll acquire the black man’s charm, intelligence, strength, coolness, handsomeness, et cetera. Of course, the look on the black man’s face at the end of the commercial tells all—it’s as if he’s saying, ‘Silly white man, don’t you ever learn?’

  “What the white man has learned, class, is that he can never be as cool as a non-white man. And what the white man has learned, the audience has learned, and to some degree assimilated merely by viewing this. It doesn’t matter what clothes you wear, foolish white man—you can’t change your race—so you can just forget about finding a woman, because no woman wants a white man. You’re the dreg of society. The outcast.”

  As Margaret uttered these words she happened to train her eyes on Evan. He stared back, cyclopean, and even though he knew the address was rhetorical, he slumped to a side and his face was ashen.

  “Okay, we’re going to skip ahead a decade,” the teacher notified. “Things didn’t start getting appreciably bad until the 2030s. So that’s our next commercial destination. But before we resume, let me tell you why we’re doing this. I hope to equip all of your minds with defense systems to tag and reject all the trash assailing you in the media. By recognizing themes, tactics, and stereotypes, you’ll have a better chance at repelling subtle brainwashing.

  “And our little detour a moment ago may in itself prove helpful. Here’s a little relationship 101 secret—the old saying ‘opposites attract’ is generally only true in the broad sense, such as when boys are attracted to girls and vice-versa. On a more specific level, you’re usually much more compatible with someone who shares your core beliefs and values. So, before you boys get too dejected about your incompatibility with the rest of U.S. women, always remember the female members of the FCP and their family and friends. More and more women are joining our movement and adopting our beliefs by the day, so keep your heads up and be patient.”

  The students and men turned their eyes toward the bright rectangle until it was radiant, once again, with color.

  Chapter 20

  Rick was anxious to see his wife teach. He had always marveled at her reading voice and the way it captivate
d children. When Rick had read to Blake years ago, he tried to emulate his wife’s style by personifying each character with their own distinctive inflection and tone. It was a poor substitute for Cathy’s mastery, but Blake appreciated the effort, and used to kindly remind his father when he confused one character’s voice for another’s.

  It was difficult to find children’s books without a political agenda or a villainous white character. Most of the books read and taught from kindergarten through sixth grade in American schools were from the perspective of a non-white protagonist struggling to overcome a cruel white adversary. Usually this protagonist would befriend other persecuted non-whites and dissidents and, in a colorful confederacy, subvert their oppressors. Grimm’s fairy tales and the European rhyme and folk tradition were unknown to the children of America. It was unnecessary to ban the Brothers Grimm and their ilk. People regulated themselves, as instructed by the media—no state or federal censorship was required. With no demand to warrant publication, the rhymes and stories of old Europe had died. Only moldering editions from libraries remained, some of which had been copied and posted to the burgeoning Caucasian civil rights websites.

  Rick had eaten lunch with the high school students, and had listened to their stories and concerns. Over a turkey sandwich he had learned the source of Klement’s wound—a suicide bomber’s shrapnel. The Welsh boy, whom he learned was named Evan, was friendlier now. The other men stayed for lunch, too, and were big sources of interest at the lunch tables. Rick spotted Jack reiterating a plan with Jordan one last time.

  “We need to start a dating service or something for our people,” Rick said as he moved close to Margaret. “At least like a singles group or something.”

  “I agree,” she averred. “I’m going to look into that. I think that should be prioritized over my ballroom dance classes. Actually, perhaps I could incorporate them both somehow.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Rick. “Well, Hans started a flag-football league, so why can’t we start a singles group?”

  “Yes, that Hans is quite a character. He was telling me all about the two new teams he created—the Werewolves and the White Sharks.”

  “How fitting. Well, thanks for letting us observe; I think we all learned a lot. I’d definitely recommend this to other members.”

  “You’re welcome.” She smiled warmly. “God bless you, Rick.” She whispered his name. “And good luck.”

  Rick walked quickly toward the kindergarten building. It was a few minutes to one, and he folded his arms as the wind raked his thin shirt.

  Max stood outside the classroom surrounded by parents. He was engaged in conversation, gesticulating hands trying to simplify complexities. Many of the men and women around him were nodding and smiling. Others seemed consternated; a few offended. The old leader nodded at Rick, and Rick nodded in return then peered through the small rectangle of glass in the closed door. His wife was seated at a desk, reviewing papers.

  She looked up, notified by the primordial instinct within humanity that alerts when being watched. Her face brightened when she saw her husband, and she looked at the clock.

  “Two more minutes,” she worded.

  Rick grinned, and launched into a show of comic faces. She laughed, her head turning to a side, before she resumed her document scan.

  When the door opened there was a throng of children waiting for admittance. Cathy smiled and greeted each one as they filed by, her back to the open door.

  “I should have brought an apple, teach,” Rick teased as he strolled past her. “But how about I make you dinner tonight instead?”

  “Sounds great.”

  “I’d suggest we go out but. . .”

  “I know, we’re fugitives,” she whispered in his ear, and smiled.

  “Only until we make things right again in this country, baby. Well, we can at least go for a walk after dinner.” Rick took a seat at the back next to Stewart.

  The chatter in the room was polyglot, and Rick quickly deduced that most of the children, unlike the high school seniors, were European refugees. Then it struck him why—very few white families living in America had kindergarten-aged children.

  Rick noted with relief that the contusions inflicted by Bradley were completely healed as he watched his wife produce a battered copy of Hansel and Gretel.

  After a brief introduction to the class’s observers, and a traditional rendition of the Pledge of Allegiance, Cathy bade the children come sit on the carpet around her chair. When they had situated themselves, she began to read. Her voice was enchanting, and the children slipped into a reverie evident by their intense stares and parted mouths. Rick couldn’t remember the last time he had seen so many white children—there were in excess of thirty. Much like their older counterparts in high school, many of their outfits were hole-ridden and tattered. Some of the children bore scars or limped, but none were missing appendages.

  Their eyes lit when Cathy reached the fiery denouement of inversion, the witch cooked in her own oven by the clever and resourceful children. Cathy had laid down the book midway through after discovering pages were missing; her transition was seamless, and within seconds the little eyes had all shifted from the discarded book to the storyteller. Those with little comprehension of English were guided along by the storyteller’s gestures and animated character development.

  When Cathy had finished, she surveyed the students. Many looked charged, eyes intense, shoulders shifting. To Rick’s surprise, not one was crying, despite the arguable horror story element of the tale. Instead, they looked ready to act—to run, to shout for aid, to help a downed sibling or parent. Many of their tiny fists were clenched.

  “After we finish our story each morning, I try to explore it with the students a bit,” Cathy addressed the parents at the back.

  “In this story,” she looked at the little faces, “two children, a brother and sister, met up with a very bad person who wanted to hurt them.”

  A youngster fanned his hand after he began speaking, his eyes serious. “I . . . I meet up with bad people who want to hurt me back home and they, and they, and they try to hurt me and . . . and my mommy and pappa. And we run.” The accent was French.

  Suddenly, there was an explosion of chirping voices imparting tales of conflict and flight.

  “Class. Class! Remember how to speak—raise your hand first and wait for me to call on you.” The clamor ceased immediately. “Thank you for sharing that, Gerard.” Cathy smiled. “We’re very glad to have you here with us in America.”

  “They have . . . guns and . . .” Gerard searched the carpet for a word. “Guns and . . .” He traced a curve in the air with his finger, then made a gesture with his hand as if slashing. “They swing them . . . épées. They go . . . fshzzzt! And people fall down.”

  Some of the boys tried to mimic the sound uttered by Gerard.

  “No, it was like Brshzzzzzzzzzt!” said one. Then a dozen voices tried to articulate the sound.

  A little girl’s chin quivered, and her hands clamped over her ears. Her eyes winced shut, and her blond pigtails wagged as she shook her head back and forth.

  “Halt! Halt! Bitte!” she screamed, as tears surged from under her clenched lids.

  “Quiet, class. No more renditions of electric scimitars!” the teacher commanded the boys. They eyed the sobbing girl, and their heads sank.

  Another boy, his blond bangs falling over his eyes, rose from his position with his friends and sat down next to the girl. He wrapped his arm around her and she hugged him tightly. A scar charted a wavering path from the back of his jaw down the side of his throat.

  “You’re a good brother, Dietrich,” Cathy said. “All right. It’s time for Mrs. Edwards to talk to you about the book.” She nodded at Rick upon use of her pseudonym. “So what can we learn from Hansel and Gretel?”

  “To be careful from witches,” offered a girl, her face populated by constellations of freckles.

  “To kill the Hexe,” said Dietrich, his face gr
im.

  “Well,” said Cathy, “thank goodness, there aren’t real witches like this in the world. But there are lots of people who are very bad that would like to hurt you. But you have to be smart and strong—you have to beat them—you have to win, just like Hansel and Gretel did. Do you know how you win? Do you know how you turn the tables on the bad guys?”

  Some of the children shook their heads. Others were motionless and silent as possible so they didn’t miss the imminent transmission of deep knowledge.

  “You survive,” she said simply. “Not all of your mommies and daddies are still here on earth with us—some of them are in heaven with God. But all of your parents, whether they’re here or in heaven, want one thing more than anything else in the whole wide world. They want you to be safe. They want you to grow up to be strong, happy, and healthy.”

  “I’m not happy,” said a boy, his oversized undershirt stretched over his knees, hands clasped near his ankles. “Because I can’t find my mommy or my daddy. I don’t know if they’re in heaven—I can’t find them.”

  The freckled girl stared at the boy, and her bottom lip began to tremble sympathetically. Within seconds the two were staring at each other, crying.

  Then the pigtailed girl’s fair cheeks began to redden. She was fending off another torrent.

  “I know. . .” Cathy smacked her hands together to snap the mood, “who wants to play a game?”

  The little eyes shone like polished precious stones. Heads nodded, and shoulders and arms swung in expenditures of energy.

  “What game should we play?” questioned the teacher.

  “Future Family!” cried the freckled girl.

  “Naw, Future Family’s for girls. Let’s play Save Europe instead,” said a boy.

  “Nein!” shouted the pigtailed girl. “Future Family ist am besten.”

  “Okay, okay,” Cathy intervened, “we’ll play Future Family first, and Save Europe afterward.”