The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Tough

by Neta Jackson

  “The glorious accomplishments of the White Race in pushing back inferior races and building a great nation are now being taught to our children as mistakes and blunders! Think about it, people! Haven’t you learned anything in your science classes about the survival of the fittest? Do you think this university would be standing here if we’d left this country in the hands of the so-called natives?”

  Catcalls and angry comments flew fast and furious now. The same big voice on the wall yelled, “Bigot!” which soon became a chant picked up by others: “Big-ot! Big-ot! Big-ot!” The girl in the yellow dress looked frightened. She took a step closer to the slim young man in the red tie, but he seemed oblivious to her presence.

  I focused on her face. If I looked around at the crowd, my heart would fail me like Simon Peter when he tried to walk on the water but let the waves sink him. Jesus, I prayed silently, she’s caught in a trap. Set her free, Lord.

  “You white men and white women!” yelled the man on the soapbox. “Wake up! While you party and fraternize and whine, ‘Can’t we all just get along?’ the Jews and the mud races are taking over our country! What do you think is going to happen to your rights when the glorious white race is no longer a majority in this nation? Do you think your rights will be—”

  “Big-ot! Big-ot! Big-ot!” The chanting drowned out whatever the man said next. A few of the sentries surrounding the Rock, including the big guy with dreadlocks, stepped off the wall and started pushing their way through the crowd. I caught sight of Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman standing off to the side of the crowd, as if they’d arrived late. Smart. Wished we were standing off to the side instead of smack-dab in the middle with Mark—

  I clutched Denny’s arm. “Denny! Where’s Mark?”

  Mark had disappeared, but a moment later he reappeared next to the White Pride guy, waving his arms for attention. “Let the man speak!” he yelled over the crowd. “People have died for the right of a person to speak freely in this country, no matter how much we disagree. Let him speak!”

  The crowd, startled into submission by seeing one of NU’s African-American professors defending the speaker, quieted to a restless mutter.

  The young man glared at Mark. His voice still carried through the bullhorn. “I don’t need your permission to speak. This is a free country.”

  “That’s right,” Mark tossed back. “I was only offering you the courtesy of my attention. If you’re done, I have a few things to say in reply.”

  Someone yelled, “Dr. Smith! We want Dr. Smith!” Now the crowd took up the new chant, and it became obvious that Mr. Guy-in-the-Tie had lost his platform. He glanced around in frustration and then lowered his bullhorn.

  A student still standing on the wall yelled, “Over here, Dr. Smith!” A path opened through the crowd like the parting of the Red Sea, and Mark stepped up onto the wall. Spontaneous clapping erupted.

  But not everyone was clapping. I noticed several people clustered around the White Pride speaker as if asking him questions, even shaking hands with him. Were they White Pride supporters who’d been planted in the crowd? Or listeners who suddenly found someone who dared to speak their private prejudices and fears?

  Oh God, I groaned. Don’t let the seeds of hatred settle into new hearts today—white or black.

  “Fellow professors and students! Friends and neighbors!” Mark raised an arm for attention. “Some of what you heard today has a kernel of truth. Tolerance as a virtue has been co-opted in today’s society to mean, ‘You have to agree with me.’ But frankly, tolerance is particularly necessary when we don’t agree. The real virtue is the freedom to disagree while respecting each other’s humanity.” Mark grinned. “Admittedly, a good deal of tolerance is needed today to listen to this man speak—”

  Laugher erupted in the crowd.

  “But the man has a point. Every ethnic and racial group should be able to celebrate its heritage and its contributions to our society, including our white brothers and sisters. But don’t be fooled by the half-truths you heard a few minutes ago. The group this man represents, the Coalition for White Pride and Preservation, is not interested in whites celebrating their heritage along with blacks and other minorities. They believe in white superiority; they want to return to white domination. Their creed goes even further! They want to eliminate other races and ethnic groups—and they are prepared to go to any lengths to achieve it!”

  I squirmed, keenly aware at that moment of my own whiteness. I knew Mark wasn’t speaking about whites in general, but did everyone know that?

  “Do your homework, men and women! Don’t let this group fly under the radar until they launch their own version of a racial war. Visit their Web site! Read their books! Learn what this group really—”

  The crowd seemed to be pressing forward, separating me from Denny. A large figure loomed behind Josh, who was standing a few feet in front of me. “So, skinhead,” a deep voice taunted. “You white folks think you gonna eliminate us, do you?”

  I stared in astonishment at the big black guy in dreadlocks, leering behind his shades at Josh’s shaved head. No, no . . .

  Josh turned; his eyes traveled up to the student’s face. “I’m not a skinhead.” The muscles beside his mouth twitched. “Just shaved my head, like Michael Jordan.”

  The big guy belched. “Don’t ‘Michael Jordan’ me, white boy. You look like a skinhead—what’s this?” He yanked at the backpack slung over Josh’s shoulder. The jerk nearly pulled Josh off his feet. The backpack thudded to the ground and spilled its contents out of the broken zipper.

  The White Pride books.

  It happened so fast, the moment seemed frozen in time. Fear flickered in Josh’s eyes. My own stomach lurched into my throat. Oh God! Not those books! A sour frown creased the face beneath the shades, even as Mark Smith’s voice rose and fell from the wall near the Rock.

  “What’s this?” The bully snatched up one of the books with its blood-red title. A string of profanity scorched the air around us. “Got your own racist library, huh, white boy?” He pushed Josh, who stumbled into me, and we both went down. I landed hard; Josh landed on top of me. Grit bit into my palms and knees. The weight of Josh’s body held me down.

  The big voice somewhere over my head yelled, “Get a load of this crap!” I twisted my head and caught a glimpse of books being held aloft.

  “Hey!” I heard Ben Garfield shouting. “Stop it! . . . Denny! Denny! Help me here!”

  Josh was struggling to get up. I felt hands under my shoulders and saw Denny’s grease-stained pant leg bending down near my head. “Jodi! Josh! What happened? Are you OK?” With Denny’s help, I somehow got my feet beneath me, and the three of us struggled upward.

  Voices shouted and bodies jostled all around us, making it hard to keep our footing. Denny held onto my arm like a vise. Suddenly the bullhorn’s metallic voice rose over the din. “You! Nigger! Get your polluted hands off our sacred books!”

  The atmosphere seemed to suck in its breath. Then a roar of rage swept through the crowd, as if someone had opened a dam. Josh got shoved again—but another hand grabbed him, held him upright, and Peter Douglass’s voice hissed, “You guys gotta get out—now!”

  23

  Peter Douglass and Denny practically dragged us through the mayhem, which was undulating like a mess of fish caught in a net. Somehow we broke out of the mass of bodies and kept going, trampling through bushes lining the walks until we’d put a hundred feet between us and the plaza and felt grass beneath our feet.

  We turned back. A small riot was going on. People yelling, shoving, fists flying. The White Pride contingent was holding its own, mostly stiff-arming any students who came near their “leader,” though a couple of the skinhead-types got into it with some Latino students. A campus police car drove straight up one of the walks, siren wailing; another arrived from a different direction. Cops spilled out of the cars; police bullhorns ordered everyone to break it up. People began to run in all directions, like water finding its way ou
t the holes of a sieve.

  “Ben!” I cried. “Where’s Ben Garfield? He was with me! He tried to help me!” Suddenly I panicked, more scared than when Josh and I had fallen in the middle of the crowd. “Oh Jesus! Don’t let anything happen to—”

  “Look. There’s Dr. Smith.” Josh pointed. As the plaza emptied, Mark could be seen talking to one of the campus police, gesturing, looking around, while the other cops snapped handcuffs on the two skinhead guys and four or five students.

  The big bully in dreads was nowhere to be seen.

  “Denny! We’ve got to find Ben! And what happened to Carl? . . . Oh!” From the far side of the Rock, we could see Carl Hickman and Ben Garfield skirting a row of bridalwreath bushes and heading our way. Ben’s hat was askew, and Carl had him firmly by the arm as if to steady him, but otherwise he looked unharmed.

  “Ben!” As the two men joined our little knot on the grass, I threw my arms around Ruth’s husband and started to cry.

  Embarrassed, Ben patted me awkwardly; then he looked Josh up and down. “You two all right?”

  I didn’t know how to answer. As realization sank in that all of us were safe, so did awareness of my hands and knees, which were starting to sting like fiery nettles. And my shoulder . . . that was going to be sore. I nodded and squeaked, “You?”

  “Who, me?” he guffawed. “Not a scratch. Except for the heart attack when Mr. Tough Guy pushed you down. Would’ve tackled the big jerk myself, except Superhero Hickman here whisked me away so fast I have windburn on my schnoz.”

  We couldn’t help but laugh. Ben’s nose was indeed a mottled red, though I doubted it was windburn.

  The plaza around the Rock had almost emptied. The campus police who remained after the arrests were having heated words with the White Pride people. The spokesman in the black tie held his chin up, lips tight, as if refusing to answer or get drawn into a debate, while the young guy in the red tie packed up the bullhorn in its case. Mark stooped and picked up something from the ground, then trotted our way.

  His face was a road map of consternation. “What happened? Are you guys OK? I thought I had everybody’s attention, and then—balloey!” Mark held out Josh’s limp backpack. “What happened to this? Where are the books?”

  Josh shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and hunched his shoulders. “Uh, some brawny dude, one of the NU students, I think, jerked it off my shoulder, the books fell out, and . . .” His shoulders sagged. “Guess the rest is history. I’m really sorry, Dr. Smith.”

  Mark rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Should’ve known. Black kid? Dreads? That’s Matt Jackson. Weightlifter, Wildcats linebacker, third-year student. A fight looking for a place to happen. Should’ve talked with him beforehand, might’ve—”

  He stopped midsentence. A group of White Pride people were coming our way, their mission accomplished. We all fell silent. They passed by silently, as if we were invisible. The young man in the red tie and his girlfriend, I assumed, brought up the rear. I didn’t know where to look; I didn’t want to provoke anything by staring. But as the girl came near, she caught my eye. My heart softened. I wanted to cry out, “What is your name? I want to pray for you!” Our glance held for only a second, and then she looked away.

  The young man in the red tie let go of her hand, deliberately stepped close to Mark, muttered something under his breath, and then hustled after his group.

  We all stared at Mark. “What did he say?” Denny demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  “Mark!”

  Mark’s mouth twisted slightly. “He said, ‘We know where you live.’ ”

  BY THE TIME WE PULLED INTO THE GARAGE, I was a wreck. All the things that happened at the Rock, that could’ve happened, slid into my imagination like a mudslide loosened by the respite of the ride home. Even Denny was tight-lipped. I could see it in his eyes, mentally kicking himself that he didn’t protect his wife and son. Josh brushed off any concerns, even though he had a bump above one eye where he hit the plaza bricks. “Hey, I fell on top of mom. Soft landing,” he joked. But he went into his room and shut the door, and we didn’t see him again for a couple of hours.

  Amanda was talking on the phone—surprise, surprise—but actually hung up when we came in the house. “Hey. How’d it go?” she chirped.

  I left Amanda to Denny and went into our bedroom, crawled under our wedding-ring quilt, and had a good bawl. Not sure what I was crying about. Delayed reaction to being scared out of my wits. Anger. Confusion. All of the above.

  I heard the door open. “Jodi?” Denny’s voice. “You OK?”

  I poked my head out from under the quilt. “Yeah.” I grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and blew my nose. “Just a little shaken.”

  “Um, it’s almost seven. Mind if I order a pizza?”

  “Whatever. Sure, fine.”

  The door closed.

  He obviously didn’t want to talk about it right now. Maybe I could talk to Avis. Or Florida. Both their husbands had been there. They’d surely heard all about the rally by now. They’d understand. I found the bedroom extension on the floor under Denny’s dirty sweats, punched the On button, and actually got a dial tone instead of Amanda. “The age of miracles has not passed,” I muttered and punched in Avis’s number.

  No answer. I dialed Florida.

  “Jodi? Girl, Carl and Peter just been tellin’ Avis and me what happened at that rally—”

  “Avis?”

  “Yeah. She’s here. Avis! It’s Jodi. Get on the other phone.”

  Avis picked up. For some reason I started to blubber and found myself replaying the whole no-good, terrible, rotten day. Thinking God wanted me to go to the rally. Sloshing coffee all over Denny’s pants. Being late to school. Denny’s flat tire and the grease stain on his other pants. The rally, the bullhorn, the bully, the spilled books . . .

  “I am so mad at Josh for buying those stupid books in the first place. And I’m mad at Mark for giving them back to him at the rally, for heaven’s sake!” I rushed on, spilling out my anger at the NU student who mistook Josh for a skinhead white supremacist and pushed him around. “We ended up being in danger, not from the hate group, but from the students we came to support! Didn’t even give Josh a chance to—”

  “Girl!” Florida interrupted my volcanic flow. “That’s what them hate groups do. Get folks all riled up, try to divide people, then sit back and watch the fireworks. I mean, you can pretty much guarantee a race riot if some white guy starts calling blacks and Latinos ‘inferior’ and ‘mud races’—even the N-word, you said. On their own college campus!”

  “Jodi?” Avis’s voice sounded tinny on the extension. “What did you mean, God wanted you to go to the rally?”

  “Not so sure now,” I sniffled. “In the middle of the night, I thought He was telling me to go, you know, to pray. But—”

  “Did you pray at the rally?”

  “Well, yeah, sorta. There was this girl with the White Pride group, couldn’t have been more than eighteen or nineteen. She looked scared, as if she didn’t really want to be there. So I started praying for her. But, well, next thing I knew I was on the ground about to get stepped on.”

  “Jodi.” Avis’s voice got stronger. “Don’t you see? God did send you to the rally to pray for that girl! But of course Satan didn’t like it. Everything that happened today—from spilling your coffee to the flat tire to the football player mistaking Josh for a skinhead—was part of the spiritual battle going on. Even the books last night—and I’m not blaming Josh; he had good intentions—got us distracted from the business of prayer.”

  “You sayin’ it now, Avis,” Florida chimed in. “That devil, he one tricky dude. He got all sorts of distractions to keep us from doin’ business in the spirit realm.”

  “I just want to encourage you, Jodi.” Avis’s words reached out to me like a warm hug. “You were obedient, and God is going to bless your prayer for that girl. I’m glad you and Josh weren’t seriously hurt, though I know it had to be fr
ightening. I think—when is our next Yada Yada meeting? We need to do some serious study about preparing ourselves for spiritual warfare. This is just the beginning.”

  I lay on the bed after we hung up, thinking about what Avis said. If I was obedient and had done what God wanted me to do, then maybe I was focusing too much on the negative stuff. After all, there were many things we could praise God for. Neither Josh nor I had actually gotten hurt. Just a scrape or two. Ben Garfield was OK. Mark had stood up to the White Pride guy in a classy way. He’d showed their rhetoric for what it was: lies and more lies. Peter Douglass and Carl Hickman had looked out for us, and Ben Garfield had come to our rescue . . .

  I sat up. Wow. In the middle of a hate rally that nearly turned into a race riot, God had knit together the hearts of friends. Jew. Gentile. Black. White. Just like Peter Douglass had said last night at the Sisulu-Smiths: “This isn’t about race or color—not in God’s eyes.” It made me feel—

  Hungry.

  Ravenous.

  I jumped off the bed and flung open the door. “Hey, Denny! Has that pizza arrived yet?”

  JOSH CAME OUT OF HIS ROOM long enough to help himself to his share of the large Gino’s pizza—half spicy sausage, half pepperoni, mushrooms, extra cheese. “Uh, can I use the car tonight?” He jangled his keys in one hand, and held a slice of pizza in the other.

  “Where are you going?” I frowned at the bruise over his eye.

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Just feel jumpy. Want to get out for a while.”

  I knew Denny didn’t like “destination unknown” any more than I did. But he growled, “OK.” Tonight wasn’t the night to get tight about the rules. Except—

  “Wait a minute, Josh.” I ran to get the alarm clock I’d bought after Avis told me about setting an alarm for curfew. “Shut this off when you get in tonight,” I told him. “You don’t have to knock on our door.”

  His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And if it rings before I get in?”

  “Grounded!” Amanda crowed. She was enjoying this.