by Randy Alcorn
“Ironic, isn’t it, Great-Grandpa?”
“What’s that, child?”
“It seems to me,” Dani said, “that maybe the greatest proof of slavery’s immorality was the mixed blood of blacks and whites. If these were animals or subhuman, they couldn’t breed together. You can only have children with your own kind, and though there are many kinds of animals, there’s only one kind of human. The fact that blacks bore the children of whites proved they were the same kind. And therefore equal.”
Dani watched the scene change. Slave women exchanged knowing glances, and excitement filled the air. What was this? They were going down to the creek to fetch water. They gathered by some sassafras trees and strung soaking wet quilts from the limbs. She watched as they filled the water pots two-thirds full, then got on their knees in a circle, each head hovering over its own water pot. Were they sick? What was happening? Dani didn’t know. She looked at Zeke, who watched intently.
Suddenly they opened their mouths and in beautiful melody and harmony began to sing a song Dani had never heard. “I’m comin’ home, sweet Jesus, comin’ home sweet Lord…”
They repeated the words, each line louder than the previous, most of the sound absorbed into the water. The song built on itself, grew off itself like cells dividing. It was music of the soul, something deep and penetrating, something that touched deep sorrow and joy. She heard in the voices of these slaves the sacred roots of rhythm and blues, the music her father had played on that old scratchy phonograph.
“God gave Noah the rainbow sign, no more water, the fire next time.”
“Steal away, steal away, steal away home—I ain’t got long to stay here.”
Dani listened to the haunting echoes of the songs as they bounced muted off water and blankets. She saw the unrestrained joy of the singers, watched as their bodies swayed and once in a while one’s head lifted and the full sound of unbridled worship broke out just for a moment before she would quickly lower her head again and project her voice into the pot of water one inch away.
“What wondrous memories, my child.” Dani looked beside her and saw Great-Grandma Nancy. “I watched you on earth,” Nancy said to Dani, “and sometimes I longed for you to know your spiritual heritage. Now you’re watchin’ me on earth. See that little girl singin’ into that pot with her mama?” Dani saw her. “That’s me, chile. We hung those wet quilts and sung into those pots to deaden the sounds of praise, so the massas couldn’t hear us, but the Master could. They didn’t want us to sing, no ma’am, for singin’ the songs of Elyon was lightin’ candles in the darkness, and when there was enough light it scairt the darkness away. The massas could takes away a lot, but they couldn’t takes away our music. Singin’ reminded us and them that we was people. Animals don’t worship and they don’t sing. They couldn’t take away our music and they couldn’t take away our Jesus. Like Paul and Silas singin’ at midnight in prison, we sang. O sweet Jesus, did we sing.” The tears ran down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away.
“I’ve listened through the portal to slaves whispering their songs,” Dani said.
“Yes’m, we did that too, but we tired of singin’ so soft. Sometimes the song burns through every inch of your bones, and it has to come out like smoke has to rise from fire. Sometimes you couldn’t hold it back. Sometimes everything in us cried out to sing the unchained praises of Elyon, even if it meant a whippin’. The quilts and the waterpots allowed us to sing unchained. We longed for the day we could sing the songs of praise without ever holdin’ back, without them wet quilts and waterpots, bless ’em. That day come all right. The day the midwives delivered me into the new world.”
Nancy put her arms around Dani and Zeke. The three began to sing. “God of our weary years, God of our silent tears…” They sang softly at first, but the volume rose with the momentum of the song. Then they sang, “I’m comin’ home, sweet Jesus, comin’ home sweet Lord. I’m comin’ home, sweet Jesus, comin’ home sweet Lord…” Zeke pulled out his harmonica and made music with it he could never have made on earth. He beckoned to his good friend Finney to join Nancy in a celebration dance.
The song spread as people from far and wide gathered around them, people of every color, circling Nancy and Finney and now Dani, following their lead. They turned toward the throne where the Carpenter listened in rapt attention to their voices. It was just as it had happened on earth, but this time the voices were no longer absorbed into wet quilts and water pots. Now they flooded the far reaches of heaven itself, absorbed into the fabric of Elyon’s country. Songs were the molecules of heaven. The one who sat on the throne smiled his pleasure, just as he had when the songs were sung into water pots and quilts so long ago in that other world.
“Clarence? Winston. Get to my office.”
Working with Winston for two columns a week had been a challenge for Clarence. Jake had warned Clarence what a sourpuss Winston could be, but he’d understated it. The man’s wrinkled face looked as if it had been left in the dryer too long.
“Sit down.”
Clarence sat.
“I’ve seen a lot of changes in my thirty years at the Trib,” Winston said.
“And I’ll bet you were against every one of them,” Clarence said.
Winston raised his eyebrows. “Actually, I was against most of them, and with good reason. Anyway, I still don’t know about you doing two general columns and one sports. Seems unnatural. Like we should fish or cut bait.”
“I’m willing to go all the way as a general columnist. Whatever you and Jess and Raylon think is okay with me.”
“I’ve heard talk they might put you back in sports,” Winston said.
“Why?”
“You’re the most popular sports columnist we’ve ever had.”
“And some people don’t like my general columns, is that it?”
“Yeah, that’s true, I don’t deny it. And something would be wrong if everybody did like them. I’m not telling you anything official. God knows I don’t have any control over this paper, I’m just an editor.” He sounded for all the world like Eeyore, Winnie the Pooh’s melancholic donkey friend.
“Should I talk to Jess?”
“Your choice. If I were you, I’d focus on my general columns. Just make ’em good enough, keep carving out a loyal audience, and they won’t dare throw you back to sports.”
“Thanks, Winston.” Clarence walked out wondering if “good enough” meant content, style, or a certain ideology. Something else bothered him. He’d seen Winston gruff and irritated at everyone he worked with, seen him yell at most of them. With Clarence he’d been a little surly at worst. But Winston had never once yelled at him, and he couldn’t help but think other reporters had to notice this. Clarence didn’t feel treated the same way as the other columnists, all of whom were white. It told him he wasn’t on the same plane with the others, and that bothered him. But what really bothered him was the idea of losing his general column. Raylon would make the ultimate call on that one.
Clarence went back to his cubicle. He picked up the phone twice but put it down each time. He drummed his fingers on the desk. Finally, he picked up the phone again and dialed.
“Councilman Norcoast’s office,” Sheila said. “How may I help you?”
“Clarence Abernathy from the Trib. Is Mister Norcoast available?”
“He’s very busy today.”
Yeah, and the rest of us are eating bonbons and playing solitaire.
“But hold on. I’ll see if I can interrupt him.”
Clarence waited for a minute.
“Clarence! How’s your family?” The campaign voice was unmistakable.
“We’re surviving.”
“Glad to hear it. What can I do for you?”
“I hear you’re a tennis player,” Clarence said.
“Yeah. Love to play. You too?”
“Oh, I’ve played a bit. Not much lately.” Actually, Clarence had played twice already this week and three times a week all summer.
&
nbsp; “How about coming over to Westside Racquet Club and playing me? I’ll buy you dinner afterward. They have a great restaurant. What do you say?”
Clarence thought about Raylon. “Sure, why not?”
“How about Tuesday afternoon? Four o’clock too early?”
“No. Perfect.” Clarence jotted down on his to-do list, “Prep for tennis against Norcoast.”
Clarence and Jake walked out the Trib’s front door, pulling their coats in at the neck as the rain trickled down. They headed to their favorite nearby hangout, the Main Street Deli, two blocks down and across the street. They staked out a table and hung their coats over the chairs. Jake was about to get in line at the counter when he caught the expression on Clarence’s face and decided to sit down.
“How are you, Clabern?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Dani and Felicia?”
He nodded. “It’s all so… senseless.”
“Yeah. I’ve been feeling that with Carly.”
“How is she?”
“Taking it one day at a time. Physically, she’s not good. Getting weaker. They say the cancer shows it’s full-blown AIDS now.”
“I’m sorry, Jake.”
“These aren’t pleasant times for either of us, are they buddy? Well, God’s still on the throne. It’s all under his control. If I didn’t believe that, I’d go nuts.”
Maybe I’ll go nuts then.
“How’s your grandson, Jake?”
“Finney? He’s just fine. Here’s the latest picture.” Jake pulled a photo out of his wallet, and Clarence studied it with genuine admiration.
“Skin’s a little light, but he’s still a beauty.” Clarence smiled. “You must be really proud of him, Gramps. How’s Janet?”
“Good. We’re still communicating, still dating, talking through the past. Rebuilding. We’ve even talked about…getting married again. I don’t know.”
“Geneva told me that might be in the works. She and Janet are always chatterin’, you know.” Clarence paused for a moment, looking uncertain whether he should say something. Finally it came out. “Do you ever get tired, Jake? Just tired of life?”
“Sometimes. But…what exactly do you mean, Clabern?”
“It’s like I told you before. Sometimes I just get tired of being black.”
“But it’s fine to be black. That’s the way God made you.”
“Yeah, I know. And it’s easy to say that…when you’re white. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not ashamed to be black. It’s just that it’s so draining.”
“What do you mean? Tell me—I really want to understand.”
Clarence sighed, weighing how much he should say. Finally, he jumped in. “Growing up, I thought about my skin color every time I saw a white person. Every time I watched Sky King and The Lone Ranger, looked at all the billboards, paged through Life and Look and Saturday Evening Post and Boy’s Life. Everybody was white. Everybody. The politicians, the astronauts, everybody but the janitor, the street sweeper, and some of the athletes. If I was away from home and forgot about my skin color for a few minutes, when it was time to find a restroom I remembered.”
“But it’s different now. Isn’t it?”
“What? Mississippi?” Clarence laughed half-heartedly, running his index finger beneath his right ear. “No more colored restrooms, if that’s what you mean. Racism wears different clothes now. It’s less overt, more subtle, more disguised. But laws change more quickly than hearts do. Thing is, you know how I’ve said I want people to be colorblind? Well, it’s not realistic. They’re not. I’m not. Things constantly remind me of my color. I can’t get away from it. It haunts me, dogs me, forces me to spend so much time and energy.” He sighed. “Anyway, no use talkin’ about it. Doesn’t change anything. Let’s order. There’s already a line.”
They walked up to the line, six people ahead of them. After a minute of silence, Jake said, “Okay, Clabern. I’m not dropping the subject this time. What reminds you of your skin color right now?”
Clarence moaned, pretending he didn’t want to talk about it. He looked around the room. “How many people in this place?”
“I don’t know, three dozen? Maybe forty?”
“How many blacks?”
“Counting you? Three.”
“There’s the first reason. When you’re in the majority, you don’t have to think of your skin color. When you’re in the minority, you do.”
“Okay, but I see what, two or three Latinos? And that guy looks American Indian. And there’s maybe four Asians—Japanese or Korean or Chinese. Are they thinking about their race?”
“Probably. I don’t know. Now the Hispanics, maybe their great-grandfather’s land was stolen by the U.S. Or maybe they just came to America in the last twenty years, and hey, it’s a lot better than Mexico, even if you can’t buy a decent tortilla here. But you don’t have a lot of Latinos who were forced to live in this country at gunpoint. They could cross the border if they wanted to. The Asians, they came to succeed in business. They can get a loan from the bank; they’re considered good credit risks. And above all, they’re here because they want to be.”
“You’re not?”
“I want to be here, Jake. But is that why I’m here? No. I’m here because some of your ancestors decided to put chains on some of my ancestors, kidnap them, throw them on a slave ship, and bring them over here for cheap labor.”
Jake looked startled, wondering if this was the payback for wanting to listen.
Clarence held up his hands. “I’m not as bitter as I sound. And I don’t hold it against you personally, bro. You didn’t put chains on my ancestors, march them to those ships, starve and humiliate and rape them, steal their families and their culture from them, beat them down until they’d submit to white dominion. You didn’t put my ancestors on that ship. And you didn’t preach from a Christian pulpit that black men had no souls. I know that. But it still hurts; it hurts more than I can ever tell you.
“So I’m just saying, the Asians here may be a little self-conscious, but it’s different. The Hispanics are feeling out of place, but it’s different too. The American Indian, well, he may feel the most like I do right now. This whole land used to be his, although as bad as it is to have your land stolen, I think it’s even worse to have your body stolen. But one thing’s for sure. Of the thirty white people in this room, none of them are thinking about being white. They don’t have to.”
“Okay,” Jake said. “That makes sense. And you’re saying always having to think about race wears you out.”
“Well, sure, but that’s not all. You get the looks. People treat you different. Like a couple months ago when we went to the car dealers and those two salesmen came up to you and I got boxed out of the conversation like I didn’t exist. As if black men don’t buy cars, they just steal them.”
“I didn’t realize what was happening until you pointed it out. I’m sorry for that.”
“I know. And I didn’t blame you. I wouldn’t expect you to notice. I mean, it isn’t happening to you. I probably wouldn’t notice either if it was happening to someone else.”
Jake looked at the five people standing in front of them. “Man, this line’s taking forever.”
“The girl who’s taking orders. Recognize her?” Clarence asked.
“She’s been here almost every day since Marcia quit two weeks ago. Don’t really know her yet.”
“How would you describe her? Friendly?”
“Super friendly. Why?”
“Okay, Mr. Veteran Journalist, let’s do a little research here. Watch how she relates to the two guys in front of us.”
“Okay.” Jake watched and listened.
“Will that be all, sir?” she asked. “Thank you. Hope you enjoy it.” The customer said something to her, and she laughed delightfully. The man in front of Clarence and Jake stepped forward.
“Yes, sir? Managing to keep dry today? What can I do for you?” Same enthusiasm. She rang up the order, took his money
, and said “Thank you, sir. Have a great day.”
“Watch closely,” Clarence whispered to Jake as he stepped forward.
The girl looked down as if she were reading something off the register. “Can I help you?” she asked Clarence. Jake noticed the warmth and enthusiasm were gone. So was the “sir.”
Clarence ordered. They didn’t engage in small talk. She handed him his change, saying nothing. Clarence stepped away, and she looked at Jake.
“Afternoon! How can I help you, sir? Can I talk you into our special? Turkey on rye with cream cheese.”
Jake looked stunned.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“No. I don’t think I am. My friend who was in front of me. Why did you talk to him like that?”
“Like what?”
“You were…different with him.”
“Different? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” She looked around as if fearing a supervisor would overhear this.
“Drop it, Jake,” Clarence said.
“No, I won’t.” He looked at her. “My friend here—”
“I said drop it.”
Jake set his jaw and ordered the special, even though he hated cream cheese.
They got to the table and put down their plastic number. It reminded Clarence of the evidence markers on Dani’s porch.
“Clabern, why did you tell me to drop it?”
“I was just making a point, not trying to solve the world’s problems. It sounded like oversensitivity. She probably doesn’t even know she’s doing it. Just the way she was raised, I guess.”
“But she did treat you different.”
“Of course she did. This is the third time I’ve been here since she started working. It was just like this the other two times.”
“Well, I don’t appreciate how she acted. It isn’t right.”
