by Daniel Black
“We have to organize ourselves,” Jeremiah began again. “We gotta find my grandson, then we gotta keep dem white folks off de rest o’ us. You know they comin’ back.” In his heart, Jeremiah couldn’t figure out why they hadn’t already.
“Yeah, dey comin’, Mi, ’cause you done fooled ’round and killed de sheriff’s brothers,” someone offered in disbelief.
“See, dat’s our problem!” Jeremiah screamed, and pointed in the direction of the voice. “We so scared o’ white folks so bad dat we don’t eva want to make them upset. But they need to know dat we upset! Killin’ our chillen and rapin’ our women don’t make us upset?” Sweat boiled on Jeremiah’s forehead. “Dat’s why dey keep comin’—’cause dey know we ain’t gon do nothin’ ’bout it.”
“And most times we don’t,” Pet added for emphasis.
“Dat’s true,” many agreed.
“But it cain’t stay true all de time. Everybody got they breakin’ point,” Jeremiah explained, “and I reached mine today.” The urgency in his voice elicited only a few amens, so he talked further as he paced the barn floor. “Don’t wait ’til dey come for your chillen befo’ you stand up and fight. Maybe mine don’t mean dat much to you, but if you imagine Clement as yo’ own, then I think you’ll understand what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”
A few more “Amens” came in.
“And then we’ll learn how to protect all colored folks ’cause everybody’s life mean somethin’ to them and they folks. Dat’s why I shot dem white boys dis mornin’—so dey folks could know what colored peoples been feelin’ for two hundred years or mo’. Dat’s de only thing they understand.”
“Why didn’t you try to talk to ’em first, Mi?” someone asked loudly.
“What?” Jeremiah yelled. “We don talked—”
“’Til we blue in de face!” Pet Moore shouted, struggling to stand again. Something about the person’s request to handle things in a more diplomatic manner infuriated Pet. “Shit!” he hollered. “All y’all know I done worked in dat damn sto’ fu forty years, and I can tell you firsthand dat white folks ain’t got no respect for colored folks. Dey ain’t in’ersted in nothin’ you got to say and no opinion in yo’ head. Dey think we spose to be glad to follow them and dat God made it dat way. So talkin’ to them ain’t nothin’ but a waste o’ time.”
“Now dat’s de truf!” many affirmed.
“And anyway,” Pet continued, standing next to Jeremiah like a bridegroom, “what chu gon say if you did talk to ’em? Huh?”
“All right, Docta!” Jeremiah encouraged.
“You gon tell ’em not to come to yo’ house botherin’ yo’ folks no more? And they gon obey you?” Pet laughed in ridicule. “Shit!” he yelled again. “Dey really comin’ for you and your folks now ’cause you think y’all equals and you know dey ain’t gon have that!”
“Sho you right!” Jeremiah said.
“So stop bein’ scared and listen to de man. Hear him all de way out befo you start judgin’ what he sayin’.”
Jeremiah envied Pet’s eloquence and command of the crowd, but with what he was about to say, he welcomed all the help he could get.
“You don’t go to a man lookin’ fu respect if he done already showed you dat he don’t respect you,” Jeremiah explained.
“Uh-huh,” many mumbled.
“And,” Jeremiah emphasized, “you ain’t got to disrespect his folks jes ’cause he disrespect yours. But you gotta show him, somehow, dat yo’ folks mean somethin’ to you, and you ain’t gon continue to stand by and let him destroy them. If you do, what kinda example is you givin’ yo’ chillen? They spose to know how to take care o’ families from watchin’ us do it—not watchin’ us kiss white folks’ asses.”
“Now you talkin’,” Pet said. “Go ’head.”
Jeremiah hesitated, then offered, “So here’s what I’m proposin’ we do.” Most people sat still and peered at the old man until, like Moses on the mount of transfiguration, his face transformed. “Each household needs at least one gun.” This wasn’t far-fetched since most men in rural Money were hunters of one type or another. “And each family needs a hiding place. It’s got to be somewhere you can get to quick.”
“Is we ’bout to go to war?” a voice asked.
“We already at war and don’t know it,” Pet returned sharply. “When yo’ enemy kill yo’ people, you at war. Not knowin’ this is why de enemy is guaranteed to win. He countin’ on us neva knowin’.”
Jeremiah appreciated Pet’s expressed support. He never thought Pet would be so brave, but then again every man has his day, he told himself.
“We jes gotta be ready when they come, and believe me, they comin’,” Jeremiah said.
“Why don’t you fight ’em, Mi, since you de one killed ’em,” a scared mother asked.
Miss Mary stepped forth suddenly, and said, “We got to fight together, sista! He shot dem men for all of us—not jes the Johnson family!” She was preaching a hedge of protection around her husband. Some of the men in the crowd seemed disturbed that a woman had taken the floor, but Miss Mary wasn’t about to relinquish it until she had her say.
“We gotta start thinkin’ collective instead o’ individual. That’s how they get us. When it come time fu us to stand together, we as separate as the fingers on a hand.” Miss Mary held up her right hand and spread the fingers. “You can always destroy a person who stands alone, but a strong group o’ people gon last a long time ’cause they gon take care o’ one another. Dat’s how we gotta be, y’all. We gotta stand together.” She locked all ten fingers together tightly. “I woulda expected yo’ menfolks to do what mine did. And we ain’t gon ask fu no forgiveness ’cause ain’t nothin’ to forgive.”
People weren’t used to Miss Mary upholding the use of violence; that’s why she commanded a listening ear greater than her husband.
“I ain’t sayin’ killin’ is right. But I ain’t sayin’ it’s always wrong neither. What I’m sayin’ is dat when dey kill us, dey think dey doin’ a favor to white people everywhere. So when we stand up, we gotta understand we doin’ de same thang fu colored people. Amen?”
“Amen,” the brave responded.
“I wuz proud of my men dis mornin’. They stood up like men oughta stand, and they kept they family together. These chillen wuz proud, too. We all wuz proud. And you oughta be proud.”
Miss Mary dazzled the crowd with her charm and drama. Jeremiah’s jealousy almost got the best of him when he thought of telling his wife to sit down and shut up, but she evoked from the crowd the enthusiasm needed to get his plan under way, so he remained quiet and grew humility.
“How we gon have any kinda pride in ourselves if every time white folks show up we get scared? That ain’t no way to live!” Miss Mary paced the floor and shook her head. “We got jes as much right to live in peace as they do, and if we have to teach them that, then we’ll do it. But I think y’all agree wit me on that point. Right now, we gotta find my grandbaby and try to make sure these white folks don’t take no mo’ colored chillen.” She calmed and stepped back behind her husband. “Tell us yo’ plan, baby.”
Jeremiah didn’t have time to sulk, so he said, “I want a committee of men willin’ to help me find my grandboy. We gon comb dis county ’til we find where dem white folks took him.”
No one volunteered. Then a few brave soldiers stepped forward. “Good,” Jeremiah said. “We gon start lookin’ soon as dis meetin’ over.”
“I’ll go witcha,” a woman’s voice declared.
Jeremiah hadn’t thought of the possibility of women on the search committee. “Um … well … maybe—”
“I don’t see why not,” Miss Mary affirmed loudly. “Anybody wanna help we’ll take it. Ain’t dat right, sweetie?”
“Uh … yeah. Come on,” Jeremiah yielded reluctantly and decided he’d talk to his wife later. He then said, “We also need some watchmen who’ll spread de word if they see any group of white folks comin’ toward colored people’s place. Yo’ j
ob will be to walk ’round and keep yo’ eyes open.”
“Now I can do that,” several people said.
“Ella Mae, you take de names o’ people and what they gon do so we can keep up with what we decide.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said, and ran into the house to retrieve a notepad and pen. Upon returning, she announced, “I’m ready.”
“All right. Now. I want every man to teach his wife and children twelve or over how to use a gun.”
The crowd mumbled its reservations. Once again, Pet Moore came to the rescue. “Y’all betta teach ’em!” he told the men. “What they gon do if somebody come, and you ain’t home?”
“That’s a good point,” a bass voice murmured.
Pet held his peace and waited for Jeremiah to finish what he had begun, clearly unaware of how he and Miss Mary, throughout the night, were continuously trampling on Jeremiah’s already-wounded ego.
“I cain’t promise none o’ y’all what might happen in de next couple o’ days, but we gotta be prepared for anything. One missin’ child is enough, ain’t it?” Jeremiah asked.
“Amen,” people chimed although Jeremiah couldn’t discern if their affirmation resulted from a newfound sense of unity or from the relief that the missing child wasn’t their own.
“We can’t let them catch us off guard. Soon as we get—”
“Granddaddy!” Ray Ray whispered loudly through a crack in the barn door. “Somebody white’s comin’.”
The crowd froze. Jeremiah motioned for Pet, Tiny, and Enoch to join him at the door. “Enoch, you go in de house and get my gun. Go out de back do’ and wait. If I whistle, you come runnin’ and shootin’. If I don’t, jes be cool.” He took a deep breath. “Pet, you keep de people calm. We don’t want folks to get spooked and panic.”
“Yessir,” he said, and began to pacify the audience with empty assurances.
Jeremiah’s trembling hands exposed the fear he was trying to hide. The only thing he could do was shove them in his pockets like an angry child.
The darkness made it impossible for him to identify the stranger, but, for some reason, he didn’t sense danger. The man was practically in his face before he recognized Edgar Rosenthal.
“Evenin’,” Jeremiah said cordially.
“Jeremiah.” Rosenthal nodded.
Mr. Rosenthal dropped his eyes and bit his lower lip as though already dreading what he was about to say. Jeremiah relaxed his guard and waited.
“I heard about your meeting tonight, Jeremiah, and I’m sure it’s pretty darn rude of me to come, but I need to tell you people something.”
“Mr. Rosenthal, I’ve known you ’bout all my life, I guess, and in all that time, you ain’t neva done me or mine no harm. But you comin’ here tonight looks mighty strange to me,” Jeremiah yielded honestly.
“As well it should, Jeremiah, but I knew this day was coming. I never knew when, and I prayed I’d never see it, but I knew it was coming.”
Jeremiah didn’t know exactly what Rosenthal was talking about, but he believed that if he waited a moment, clarity would arrive.
Rosenthal continued: “Let me get straight to the point.”
Amen, Jeremiah thought.
“I’ve been telling whites around here that coloreds aren’t going to tolerate their own annihilation long.”
“What?” Jeremiah frowned.
“I knew coloreds were going to fight back at some point. It’s the law of nature. Everybody wants to survive. Nobody believed me, but I knew.”
“Okay, you right. But what chu come hyeah fu?” Jeremiah hadn’t wanted to seem rude, but he didn’t know how else to frame his question.
“To tell you that I’m not one of them. I was once, but I’m not now.”
“I don’t understand what you sayin’, Mr. Rosenthal. I don’t mean to be mean, but you jes as white as de other white folks ’round hyeah.”
“That is certainly true, Jeremiah, but I don’t agree with them. Especially on racial matters.”
Pet Moore came to the barn door to make sure everything was all right. “You ain’t gon believe this,” Jeremiah whispered to him. Pet stayed and listened.
“You have every right and reason not to believe me,” Rosenthal said, “but I’m really not like other whites around here. I came to see if I could help.”
“What?” Jeremiah asked boldly. “You help? Us? We don’t need yo’ help, Mr. Rosenthal.”
The white man smiled kindly, and said, “I do understand. I meant no harm and I hope I haven’t offended any of you. That was not my intention in the least.” He turned to leave.
“Jes a minute,” Pet said abruptly. He whispered to Jeremiah, “I think he might be sincere. I don’t know fu sho, but I get a feelin’ he’s tellin’ the truth.”
“So what!” Jeremiah offered through clenched teeth. “We can’t let no white man convince us dat he’s on our side. Is you crazy?”
“I ain’t sayin’ he’s necessarily on our side. What I’m sayin’ is dat I think we oughta hear him out. Everybody oughta hear him so everybody can decide fu theyself.”
Pet’s judgment had been sound thus far, Jeremiah decided, so he resolved to follow him a little further. “Fine. You wanna bring him in and let him talk to de whole crowd?”
“Yeah,” Pet said. “Then we can ask them what they think. That’s good leadership. It keeps you from carryin’ de weight o’ all the decisions.”
“Fine,” Jeremiah said again. The night was turning out to be much more than he had planned or imagined.
When Rosenthal walked through the barn door, the crowd began to murmur. Most of them knew him, in one capacity or another, but none were expecting to see him at the colored people’s meeting.
“What is this?” a bold voice asked.
“Hold on, hold on,” Pet Moore soothed. “Mr. Rosenthal here got somethin’ he wanna say, and I think you wanna hear it.”
“Thank you, Pet, Jeremiah,” he acknowledged humbly. Then he glanced across the crowd and tried to return kindness to skeptical eyes. “I have no business here really—”
“Amen,” Tiny belted.
“Come on, y’all. Ain’t no need to disrespect de man,” Miss Mary admonished.
“I understand your sentiment completely, and it’s quite logical.” Rosenthal clasped his seventy-year-old hands and proceeded. “But had I died tonight, my only regret would have been that I didn’t come here and finally make peace with colored people.”
The crowd relaxed a bit, and Rosenthal seized the moment. He cleared his throat and began, “Fifty years ago, something happened that changed my life forever. I’ve tried to ignore it, even to forget it altogether, but I can’t.”
The crowd’s curiosity was now greater than its suspicion. Many still shifted nervously, but they held their peace and endured Rosenthal’s memory.
“My daddy sent me to Harvard, up in Massachusetts. He had always dreamed of one of his son’s boasting the Harvard diploma and coming back south to ‘civilize these backward-ass whites’ as he always called them. I was the chosen one. I had never been north before, and when I got to Cambridge, I was amazed at the beauty of the place. I suppose I was a bit anxious, too, for I wondered if my academic preparation here in Money was sufficient for eastern college rigor. Well, when classes started, I performed marvelously in everything except literature. I’ve always been a rather straightforward fellow, and when asked to interpret someone else’s meaning in a poem or story, I always wanted to know why people didn’t simply ask the author what he meant.”
Rosenthal got a few unsolicited amens. This settled his nerves and compelled him to proceed. “Well, one day I was sitting on the yard, as we called it, trying desperately to understand what the hell Hamlet was about when a colored fellow approached me and introduced himself.
“‘Good afternoon,’ he said kindly.
“I was a bit disturbed, I must say, about seeing a colored fellow at Harvard. He was dressed as I was, so I could not relegate him to the janitori
al staff. In hindsight, I’m sure I was rude and uninviting, but his persistent kindness peaked my curiosity. So I said, ‘Yes?’
“‘You’re in my lit class,’ he said softly, ‘and I thought you might want to study together for the next exam.’
“My ignorance at the time was far greater than my kindness. I screamed, ‘Hell no!’ I am most ashamed, but it’s important to represent the event as it occurred. Bear with me, and you’ll understand why.”
Some were getting restless, and others wondered how any of this was relevant to the issue at hand.
“The next day in class,” Rosenthal continued as he excavated a handkerchief from his white shirt pocket and wiped the sweat covering his beet-red face, “our professor asked for a volunteer to explain the overall message of Hamlet. Well, of course I dared not raise my hand because I understood exactly nothing about the play and, indeed, I hoped some really brilliant fellow would rise and impart an interpretation that might get me closer to comprehending at least some aspect of the play. That’s when the colored fellow rose and began to speak. Everyone turned around in shock, for simply being at Harvard was his privilege, we thought. Speaking in class was stretching that privilege too far. Not until later did I learn that his hand had been raised the entire time our professor was looking around. And since no white boy volunteered, our professor allowed the colored one to have his say. That was a moment in my life I shall never forget. His eloquence, boldness, and mastery of Elizabethan English dwarfed even the professor’s.
“‘To be or not to be,’ he quoted effortlessly, ‘that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die: to sleep;
No more’ and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream …’
“Then he explained: ‘In this soliloquy, Shakespeare asks listeners to ponder the price of freedom. He warns that it carries an expensive bounty, yet seemingly encourages people to seek it nonetheless. “To be or not to be” is actually a question of what one is willing to sacrifice in order to achieve an abundant life. If one is going to “be,” then one must be prepared to pay dearly for that conscious existence. If one possesses not the courage to “be,” then one must surrender to a premature death of the spirit, which indeed, is worse than death itself. The few whose inner strength demands that they “be”—that they live free—will be remembered as those who took the risk “perchance to dream” …’
