by Wesley Brown
“You sure you’re not jealous?”
“You damn straight I am! And you won’t hear me saying it’s political.”
“What you two running off at the mouth about?” Theo said angrily, as he walked over to us.
“We’re getting freedom high,” Geneva said.
“Don’t get smart with me, Geneva. I told you what I wanted you to do.”
“If asking me didn’t get it, telling me definitely won’t.”
“You just don’t have any understanding. All I’m trying to do is get us to go through some things so we won’t fuck over each other later.”
“Theo, if you want to fuck white girls, go ahead. But don’t tell me who to fuck.”
“You just have no sense of history.”
“And you’ve lost all sense of anything else.”
Theo leaned forward, apparently on the verge of jumping all over Geneva’s case, then eased up, smiled, and walked back over to where the peekaboo girl was sitting. Wetness flickered in Geneva’s eyes.
“Do you wanna dance?” I asked. She didn’t say anything, but turned to me and let me do the rest.
She was numb to the insinuation that dancing close to someone usually produces. So we moved, but it wasn’t dancing.
“Do you believe that history is everything?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“There’s this group called the Five Per-Centers, and they believe only five percent of black people know what’s going on. They don’t believe in history because it’s his-story, meaning white folks. Five Per-Centers believe in my-story, which is a mystery to most of us. According to them, black folks spend too much time listening to the wrong story.”
I didn’t know if I’d gotten her full meaning, but if what was going on around us had anything to do with it, mystery didn’t stand a chance. People had turned into Lazy Susans, revolving to the touch of curious hands, picking for a taste of something choice. Geneva took two fistfuls of my back as if her mystery depended on it.
The Friday night parties continued, but as the profile of events in the country became more vile, it was difficult to keep up the masquerade that freedom highs served a remedial purpose. Demonstrations, beatings, jailings, bombings, and murders glazed our eyes. Eventually, we used freedom highs as a way to bring our gargoyle side out of hiding and avenge ourselves on any bodies of history that were available.
When Malcolm was killed, a memorial service was held in Lewisohn Stadium. I was one of the few hundred shivering people needing to hear someone say something to loosen the full nelson that Malcolm’s death had on us. After the first few speakers, I was still hungry for words that would be around when I needed them. Like those spoken by that dude standing on the milk crate on 125th Street. Words that would linger.
And then Theo spoke. As he worked his face, his scattered beard shifted like an earthquake.
“…Many have asked why Malcolm was killed. The answer to that becomes clear once we understand the things that concerned him in life. He knew that freedom is nothing unless it is dangerous. And it is a source of embarrassment for America that his prescription for a people who have moved from deprivation to realized injustice resides in the Declaration of Independence…”
He was into it, his body doing rope tricks and his hands checking out the air like a lead singer.
“Malcolm was the man we thought we were. He showed us how we are victims of very little law and an excess of order, how law has become congealed injustice, how the existing order only hides the everyday violence against body and spirit, how the machinery of society is greased on the misery of the poor, how powerless conscience appeals to conscienceless power, how moral suasion is bastardized before our eyes, and how everywhere the political structure is fossilized…”
“Wake em up, brother! Wake em up!”
“So having been a witness to this, we should no longer be legally or morally bound to obey laws which we have had no say in shaping and which seek to arrest our struggle… There are those who would counsel us in restraint and in the danger of becoming what we despise. But this is a luxury indulged in by those who do not live the reality of our grievances. I believe Malcolm would agree that you don’t talk to a starving man about indigestion. It’s only after he’s eaten that he concerns himself with the dangers to his health from what or how much he eats!”
“Talk the talk, slaves afraid to live!” Theo had us. And when he pushed, we chimed.
“Those who raise the question of the use of violence seem to forget that the development of American democracy has shown that when its political initiatives fail, the use of violence becomes a logical extension of political policy… But unlike the government, we understand that although violence can be explained, it can never be explained away… And it is the recognition of this distinction that is the difference between a revolutionary who can never be radical, and a radical who can never be revolutionary…
“But Malcolm is dead. And it’s important that we ask ourselves what must command the living. Too often we use coming together like this as a kind of moral lightning rod instead of a looking glass. None of us can afford to take refuge in the role of speaker or spectator. We must cease being mere fans of the activity of life and make engagement the substance out of which our lives are made. If we don’t do this, we are already at the lip of the grave. That’s why this whole proceeding is so inadequate. The words seem to wither away almost as soon as they’ve been said. Because they’re just words…”
We all left the stadium without a word, heeding Theo’s admonition not to give up any rap unless it was followed by some political punch. For the next few days I said very little to anyone. And I wasn’t alone. Theo had also made an undeclared fast on talking. Especially to whites. He began putting signs on bulletin boards saying WHAT’S WHERE TO TALK ABOUT and DON’T SAY IT, DO IT.
Once Theo and I were sitting in the snack bar and Keith came in.
“What’s happening, Theo?” he asked, sitting down.
“Not you.”
“Don’t freeze me out like this, Theo.”
“There ain’t nuthin to freeze cause you ain’t even there.”
“You mean I don’t exist?”
“As far as I’m concerned, you don’t.”
“Look, Theo, I understand things have changed and we can’t hang together like we used to. But you can’t shut me out of history. I’m still part of the struggle.”
“You’re not part of mine.”
“You know what, Theo, you’re still freedom high. But it’s all black now. And that’s cool with me. But what you don’t understand is, I’m struggling for my own freedom, not just yours.”
“Do you know what a penny buys, whitey?”
“What do you mean?
“A penny buys a book of matches, muthafucka. So if you really wanna fight for your freedom, make an investment in a book of matches, set yourself on fire, and jump on President Johnson!”
“I’m not ready for that yet, Theo. And I doubt if you are either. You’re good at delegating people to make sacrifices you’re not willing to make. But your real problem, Theo, is that you’ve never been able to get over the fact that you pushed Geneva and me together before you changed the rules of freedom high. And now that you’ve made the game all black, it fucks you up that she didn’t come back to you but decided to stay with me.”
Theo was on Keith like an ink spot on Manila bond paper. Before some others and I could pull him off, he had sledged Keith’s face into meat sauce. I’d always wondered what had happened to Geneva. I never saw her again after my first freedom high. And Theo never said anything whenever I asked about her.
After the fight with Keith, Theo cultivated an even more sinister “don’t-fuck-with-me-honky-cause-I’m-liable-to-have-a-trick-up-my-sleeve-and-take-your-head” look. And I followed suit.
“The Five Per-Centers are right about honky history,” Theo said. “You got to admit, though, the whiteys got a good starting team, good bench s
trength, and solid team defense. Their problem is, they only play for ideas and not for fun. Ideas are cool, but when you take the fun out of ideas like freedom, justice, and the American Way, something thrilling becomes killing. And if the whiteys have their way, life will eventually be like watching a newsreel… That’s why we need more mystery—so we can fuck with the standard operational procedure. Make them go for the okey doke and jump Proteus on them on general principle. Our rallying cry should be: Wherever We Are Is Already a Minute Ago.”
Theo and I walked around City in hooded black sweat suits, calling ourselves the Blue Monks. Whenever someone white said anything to us, we would either ignore them or create mental brick walls by answering with the names of Thelonious Monk tunes like Little Rootie Tootie, Straight, No Chaser, Well, You Needn’t, Epistrophy, Off Minor, Ruby, My Dear, Crepuscule with Nellie, and ‘Round Midnight.
In our senior year at City it was clear that the draft board would not view our Blue Monk status as meeting the criteria for conscientious objection to the Vietnam war on religious grounds. Theo came up with the idea that we form a group that was less bizarre and more broadly based. We called it the “No Vietnamese Ever Called Me a Nigger” Caucus. There was another group called the “Hell No, We Won’t Go” Brigade, which was made up of whites who counseled students and nonstudents on ways to resist the draft. Theo said what they were doing was irrelevant, since they held on to their student deferments. We agreed to give up our deferments as an act of solidarity with the brothers who didn’t have the opportunity to go to college.
At our first organizational meeting I was surprised to see Geneva standing just inside the door of the lounge. She looked tired, but not from lack of sleep. Lines beneath her eyes like skid marks on asphalt revealed a loss of enthusiasm for playing games of chicken with herself.
“Geneva! How you doing?”
“I’ll live. What about you, Melvin?”
“I’m hanging in.”
“Yeah, I see. When I heard the name of this group, I just knew you and Theo had something to do with it.”
“Have you seen Theo?”
“I saw him, but I’m not freedom high over him anymore.”
“Are you still mad at him for what he did to Keith?”
“I’m over that, too.”
“How are you and Keith doing?”
“We broke up. Theo thinks it was because of him, which isn’t surprising, since he thought he was responsible for bringing Keith and me together in the first place. It never occurred to him that my breakup with Keith might have nothing to do with him.”
“What made you come back?” I asked.
“I wanted to see both of you. You’re an important part of my life. I have to acknowledge it even though I don’t want to repeat it. Especially with Theo. He still doesn’t see me as a person. He’s hung up on some idea he has about me. This time it’s his notion of what a black woman should be… It’s like that with him in everything. Even when his ideas are sound, Theo never tests them against any opposition. He’s only interested in what’s going on in his own head… You don’t see him that way, do you?”
“I see what you’re saying, Geneva, but Theo has a way of making me understand things even if I can’t change them. And this gives me a kind of power that reduces the feeling of being helpless.”
“You’re not helpless, Melvin. Do you remember at that freedom high when you asked me to dance? You were the freest person there. Everyone else was into terrorism!”
“All I did was ask you to dance.”
“But that’s what parties are for!”
“All right, can I have your attention?” It was Theo. The lounge had filled, and as I looked at the scowls of those in attendance, most were up to the level of meanness required to give the meeting credibility as serious business.
“The purpose of this meeting,” Theo began, “is for black and other Third World students here at City to begin to develop a strategy to move from rhetoric to action. You see, it’s not enough to badmouth the system. We must be ready to show by our example that we are prepared to discontinue our participation in its vital functions.”
“Criticism is an autobiography,” Geneva whispered to me.
“So we of the ‘No Vietnamese Ever Called Me a Nigger’ Caucus are asking those of you who want to become members to go to the Registrar’s office and demand that your student classifications not be sent to the draft board. We see this as a first step in a national move by Third World students to force the Selective Service System to draft us. If we are united and armed with the correct political ideology, there is no way that the demagogic politicians and their cut buddies, the avaricious businessmen, can mess with us. And it’s in that spirit that we can tell President Johnson, regarding Vietnam, to pull out like his father should have!”
“Whoooocap!”
“All right!”
“Teach!”
“Wait a minute,” someone way in the back said, “I don’t see what good giving up my student deferment will do. The only thing I see happening is me ending up in the service or in jail.”
“Melvin,” Theo said, “would you update the brother’s consciousness?”
“What we are trying to do,” I said, stepping forward, “is to heighten the contradictions in the society by forcing the government to use repressive measures against us. By ventilating this aspect of government, we can make people see how the government really operates.”
He had now come out into full view. He wasn’t much larger than I was. But there was a menacing look behind his thick-lensed glasses that wasn’t going to be easily intimidated.
“I don’t know about anyone else,” he said, “but I came to college to get some skills. And I’m not hardly going to blow my education on some bullshit!”
“But, brother,” I said, “with a united front we can raise enough hell to end the draft.”
“You can go ahead and raise all the hell you want. I’m going to raise my grade-point average!”
“That’s too bad,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” Theo broke in. “In fact, it’s very instructive for the brother to be talking this way because he represents a failure of analysis, and as a result, doesn’t understand the politics of escalation.”
“And what you don’t understand,” the dude said, “is if you sneeze, you’ll draw a crowd.”
“That’s the only way to raise the level of consciousness of the people,” Theo fired back.
“And lower your damn self into a grave.”
“That’s the price you pay when you choose to be part of the solution rather than part of the problem.”
“I’m the solution to any problems I got.”
“Brothers and sisters, what you see before you is an example of a renegade. He’s worse than an Uncle Tom cause he ain’t acting. He’s Gunga Din, which means he’s exactly what he appears to be. A Tom can be brought home, but a Gunga Din cannot be reformed. And I hope the sisters are listening because you have an important role in making sure the brothers stay righteous.”
I turned to look at Geneva, but she was gone.
“If brothers knew that if they shucked and jived, the sisters wouldn’t get up off any cat food, they would get their shit together in a hurry and be putting messages on community bulletin boards documenting their righteous behavior… So I’m glad the brother has exposed himself as a Gunga Din for everyone to see… Now, I’d like to move on to the business of drawing up a petition to present to the Registrar’s office.”
“Wait a minute, I haven’t finished yet,” the dude said.
“Yes, you have, my man,” Theo said, shooting glances at me and some other cats in the room. We converged on him.
“I’m not goin anywhere. Take your fuckin hands off me… You said the Vietnamese never called you a nigger. Well, I ain’t no Vietnamese, NIGGER!”
Theo streaked in a direct route to where we were struggling with the dude. What followed was the spirited rhubarb atmosphere of a baseball ga
me where enough punches are thrown for everyone to work out his frustrations before calmer heads are allowed to prevail.
As a result of the fighting, the “No Vietnamese Ever Called Me a Nigger” Caucus was banned from campus. We never saw the dude who disrupted the meeting again, confirming our belief that he was an agent. I never saw Geneva after that either. Maybe she was an agent too?
With no organization to galvanize the black students, Theo and I continued to play the dozens with America, hoping it would live up to our unflattering portrait. Upon graduation we escalated our strategy to force the Selective Service System into drafting us by writing a letter to the draft board saying if we weren’t drafted immediately bumblebees in Mississippi would light out from a donkey’s ass and go straight to the brains of the members of the local board, buzz their way in, and bloom. We received our draft notices and tokens in the mail within a matter of weeks, which went a long way toward restoring confidence in our analysis of the system and in our belief that we were a threat to its continued existence.
It was then that the wishbone holding Theo and me together broke under the pressure of what we wanted to come true.
“How long do you think it will take people to understand the significance of our act?” I asked Theo, soon after we’d refused induction.
“I been thinking about that, and I don’t think I’m going to wait around to find out.”
“Why not?”
“The shit is getting serious out here. Didn’t you see in the papers today about Keith?”
“No, what happened?”
“He doused himself with gasoline and was in a crowd of people trying to shake hands with Johnson. A secret serviceman got suspicious and grabbed him. Keith had a lighter or something, because when he was grabbed, he ignited himself and the secret serviceman too. The secret serviceman is in the hospital on the critical list… Keith died from his burns.”
“God damn! You think he did that behind what you told him that time?”
“Maybe. But even before that we used to talk about putting our bodies in The Movement to the point where they could be used as weapons.”
