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Human Wrongs
by Stan Thomas
5.0 stars – 4 Reviews
Kindle Price: $2.99
Text-to-Speech and Lending: Enabled
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Here’s the set-up:
When a black law professor agrees to defend a racist killer, the stakes are much higher than a mere guilty verdict…
Born black and poor, society was against Mitchell Dove. This is how he describes where he was raised: “Oakland, California has never been what you’d call a garden spot. Yes, it is across the bay from one of the world’s most beautiful cities but, if San Francisco is Cinderella, Oakland is her ugly stepsister. I know. I was born there in 1963 to Otis and Gladys Dove. So were my sisters, Tamara and Whitney, and the neighborhood where we grew up was the wart on the ugly stepsister’s nose.”
Against all odds Mitchell ascends to the presidency of WorldSpan Oil, the largest Oil and mineral company on the planet. There is just one problem… Mitchell Dove is an outsider in more ways than one.
When Dove is murdered and dismembered in New Orleans in March 2000, his vicious killing tears open far-too-recent wounds and sends a shock wave throughout Black communities across the United States. Phil Dennison, a black law professor at Loyola University, agrees to defend the white man on trial for killing Dove, and quickly becomes a target of scorn in his own community. Even federal prosecutor Alicia Bloom, his fiancé, thinks he’s crazy but he can’t divulge his true intentions until the right time. When he finally does reveal his plan Alicia’s opinion changes… her man’s not crazy, he’s freaking insane.
And here, for your reading pleasure, is our free excerpt:
Human Wrongs
Chapter 1
December 1999
YOU’RE OUT OF YOUR MIND if you think a black man can run a three hundred billion dollar oil company.” The whispered parting shot at the conclusion of a contentious Board of Directors meeting played repeatedly across Randall Whittenmeyer’s mind as he stood at the window of his forty-ninth-story office suite. New Orleans lay spread out beneath him like a giant electronic circuit board. At seven o’clock in the evening the Mississippi River appeared as a sparkling green ribbon, barge traffic moving commodities both inland and seaward along the storied waterway. He felt akin to those vessels moving upstream, against the current. Company president Ted Garvey was retiring and, as CEO, Whittenmeyer would cast the deciding vote in the selection of the next president of WorldSpan Oil & Mineral Resources Inc.
The search committee had decided to break with tradition and opt for youth and, with much heated debate, had whittled the list from six to two young company executives, one of which was African American. That he had convinced the board to even consider the man for the job was a minor miracle regardless of motive.
The ten other board members were equally split. Five — two of whom had clay feet — backed Mitchell Dove from West Coast Operations, and five staunchly preferred John Holloway from Corporate. Tomorrow Whittenmeyer would break the tie. He lit a cigarette, blew two smoke rings, and watched them crash against the glass.
You’re out of your mind if you think a black man can run a three hundred billion dollar oil company.
He had been the main arm-twister for the black executive from California and now he was teetering. If he voted his conscience his remaining years with WorldSpan would be turbulent ones. Did he have the balls? Only two years remained on his employment contract. Why bother? Just lay low, maintain the status quo, redeem his stock options and retire to Aruba or St. Thomas or Cleveland. Pass the buck to his successor. That would be the easy way; stick his head in the sand. Mentally ticking off five major companies currently involved in costly discriminatory practice litigation, he knew that except for the efforts of some heavyweight lobbyists in Washington D.C., his company too would be in the crosshairs of a federal investigation.
Scratching a suddenly itchy scalp through his thick silver hair, Whittenmeyer returned to the large desk and flipped open the background dossier compiled on Mitchell Dove: thirty-seven-year-old graduate of the prestigious Colorado School of Mines. Not just a graduate of CSM, but valedictorian of his class. He ran an index finger down to mid-page. Hired by: Richard Thomas, 1987. He picked up the phone and dialed his home phone number in Kuwait City.
“Richard, Randall Whittenmeyer.”
Muffled conversation, then an audible intake of breath on the far end of the line. “What’s up, Randall? You do know it’s 3:45 a.m. in Kuwait, don’t you?”
“Yes, I’m aware of the time, and I’m sorry to have to bother you at home at this hour, but the list of candidates to succeed Ted has been pared to two and I need your assistance.”
“Don’t wanna bother Jenny. Hold on while I get to the extension in the den.” A couple of minutes later Richard picked up. “Go ahead.”
“I’m calling for personal information on Mitchell Dove. I’m about to wade through another volume of background information. I have your written assessments but they fall short of capturing the essence of the man. You hired him in ’87 and he’s been promoted four times, the last being to VP of Exploration for Alaska and the West Coast. I have a question that you might consider crass, but I have to ask it. Were those upgrades earned?”
Silence.
“Are you insinu —”
“Damn it, Richard, I’m not suggesting anything. Tomorrow I’m the tiebreaker in a vote that will decide the fortunes of WorldSpan for years to come. I will not cast that vote lightly.”
“Sorry, Randall. Being where I am insulates me from the clamor. I know the pressure must be intense. To answer your question, Mitchell went the extra mile in earning his promotions. He had to.”
“How well do you know his family?”
“Very well. His parents are the salt of the earth. Wish mine had been as competent. I heartily endorse Mitchell, if that’s what you’re after.”
“Thanks… wait, one more question. Has Dove been involved in any… questionable activities that you’re aware of?”
“None, unless you call preaching education to youth groups questionable. I’m sure you’re aware of his humanitarian awards.”
“Yes, I am, but those were bestowed on him for working with his own people. I’m trying to get a feel for his worldview.”
“Just say it, Randall. You’re asking if he’s radical.”
“Well, is he? The last thing this company needs is a Louis Farrakhan disciple for its president.”
“We’re pretty close. I think I’d know if he were a member of the Black Muslims or Panthers or some such group. If you want another source, a few years ago after he was promoted to VP, Mitchell wrote a book for his father — kind of an autobiography/tribute personal thing. He gave me a copy. I’ll overnight it to you. It’s amazing.”
“Too late, can’t put off my decision again. Sorry about the questions, but I had to ask. Now smooth your feathers and go back to bed.” He replaced the phone, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling as if willing it to display Mitchell Dove’s personal history.
“How the hell did a black kid from the ghetto get to be top student at CSM, then VP at the world’s largest oil company? Who are you, Mitchell Dove?” He opened the dossier compiled on the candidate and began reading.
Two hours later Whittenmeyer turned the last page. The file covered the usual. Financial standing: top-notch, Education background: superb, Criminal history: none, Civic activities: impressive, Employment history: excellent. The summary was extensive, but Whittenmeyer wished he had a crystal ball to allow him to view Mitchell’s home life and the influences that molded him. How did he feel about Caucasians at his core? Could he manage seventy-five thousand workers, seventy-one thousand of whom were white? Eyes throbbing from reading the ten-point print, he stood, stretched, looked at his wristwatch: nine. After a restroom break, he’d wade through Holloway’s file.
Face still flushed from a cold splashing, the CEO emerged from the restroom, refreshed his coffee cup in the breakroom, and returned to his desk. He opened Holloway’s dossier and reached for the phone. The line activated on the second ring.
“Gerald, Randall Whittenmeyer. How’s retirement treating you?”
“Hello, Randall. Doing a lot of fishing and eating, and my wife’s on my ass to cut down on both. What’s up?”
“Monday’s the day, Gerald, as I’m sure you’re aware, and I’m fishing for info on John Holloway.”
“You don’t have his background dossier?”
“As a matter of fact it’s right in front of me but you know how backgrounds are, boring as hell and don’t give a real feel as to how the person really is. Help me fill in the blanks with Holloway. This is a momentous decision and I want to get it right. You’ve been a mentor and fan of John’s throughout his career. Tell me about him and his family.”
“You didn’t ask about his family during his interview?”
“The board has held the search close to the vest in an effort to avoid outside pressures. I didn’t interview either of the final candidates. An hour of self-promotion from each of them would not be helpful. I’m looking at deeds, not words.”
“Holloway works at Corporate. It’s pure folly to think he doesn’t know he’s on the short list, and if you really and truly want what’s in the best interest of the company, you’ll select him. The man has the vision, intelligence, and required tenacity to take WorldSpan to new heights. He’s a people person from the word go; donated to every charity under the sun, black and white. As for his folks, you couldn’t find a better set of parents.”
After listening to a twenty-minute homage to the Holloway family, he wished Gerald a happy retirement then hung up. Hargrove’s accolades were effusive. More so than Richard Thomas’s were for Mitchell Dove. Despite the glowing tribute, something about Holloway ignited a mental tic in him. What would a crystal ball reveal about John Holloway? He began perusing the information provided him on the second candidate.
Another two hours of trying to read between the lines passed before Whittenmeyer closed the file. He rose from his chair, tried to relieve the tension in his neck by rolling his head from side to side, then returned to the window and fired up another cigarette. The night was crystal clear, lit by a bright pink Harvest moon. New Orleans, fully electrified, shimmered and winked. His eyes shifted toward the Gulf of Mexico. WorldSpan had called this city home for close to a hundred years — long before black gold was discovered out there, long before Blacks had a voice anywhere. He was determined that the company last another hundred years, but additional centuries would not be accomplished without fundamental change. Of that, he was certain.
Which one was best suited to implement that change? Did the man at the top of Operations have to be an African American, or would a progressive young white man muzzle the PC attack dogs and community organizers? His mind murmur concerning Holloway had quieted. Two days ago he was filled with certainty but now, at the eleventh hour, he had begun to equivocate. Both candidates owned dazzling work and educational credentials, and it sounded as if both had great families. Skin color appeared to be the only differentiating factor between the two men. He returned to his desk, crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. Intangibles would decide it, which meant in the end he would go with his gut. He looked at his watch: eleven. Time to go home. He would get little, if any, sleep tonight.
***
LISA CANTRELL checked her watch for the umpteenth time in a span of twenty minutes then scanned the dining room. She had never seen Palo’s this empty, although it was late. A waiter standing at attention by a large faux ficus plant at the entrance hurried over. Unabashedly admiring the striking African American woman since she arrived, guilt more than duty stirred him to hasten to her side the moment their eyes met.
“Yes, Madame? Ready to order? An appetizer perhaps, until your companion arrives?”
“No, thank you. I’ll just wait.”
“I can get you nothing at all?”
Lisa smiled. “Not unless you’re holding my date hostage.”
Not knowing whether to frown or smile, the Frenchman did a half and half with a full twist. “A glass of wine maybe?”
“A glass of Zinfandel would be nice.”
“Yes, Madame…. White or red?”
“White, please; Rombauer El Dorado. ‘97 if you have it.”
“Ah… indeed we do!” the waiter replied, seemingly surprised by Lisa’s discriminating palate. “‘97 El Dorado… perfect choice, Madame.”
Mitchell had promised her he wouldn’t be late, but then again how many times had she heard that since they met on that fateful flight from Saudi Arabia? She remembered the many moods he had displayed. One pass up the aisle, a furtive glance revealed a frown on his face. The next a slight smile, which Lisa determined was prompted by thoughts of a girlfriend or wife. On still another trip he wore a studious expression. At times she caught herself staring at him, admiring the way the smooth chocolate skin of his face stretched tautly over finely chiseled bone. She briefly wondered if he might be a model, but decided there was much more to him. This was a man of substance.
By the time the jet lined up in the landing queue above New York City, Lisa had determined Mitchell was a romantically committed wealthy stockbroker/investor with a sterling pedigree from an upper crust southern family — conclusions arrived at after hours of in-depth verbal exchanges such as: drink, sir? chicken or ravioli, sir, and, to your rear on the right, sir.
Her wine arrived at the same time Lisa saw Mitchell enter the restaurant. The waiter withdrew and she watched her man walk toward her, dressed impeccably as usual. Six-four, GQ hair cut, in Armani today: black suit, crisp white shirt, gray pocket kerchief, burgundy and gray tie. His long, purposeful stride communicated confidence and authority to anyone watching him. Ten feet from the table, he smiled, and Lisa melted.
He bent, kissed her. “Sorry, baby. Couldn’t get away.”
“It’s okay, sweetie. I’m hooked up with the most handsome, sexy, intelligent, well-dressed, six-figure-salary-making executive in the country. I think I can suffer this one fault. Goes with the territory.”
He laughed out loud, and Lisa’s tummy tingled. “How long have you been here?”
“Twenty-five, thirty minutes… gave me time to thank God for putting you on my flight, and for giving me the nerve to approach you before you disembarked.”
“Seems like last week.”
“Three-and-a-half-years ago, today.”
The waiter approached and took their orders.
“I have to go to New Orleans next Monday,” Mitchell said over his Filet Mignon.
“Kind of spur of the moment, isn’t it? When’s the last time you had to travel to the corporate office?”
“Oh… I don’t know… a while. Meetings are usually conducted via video. Something’s up, I can smell it. Rumor around the San Jose office says the board has pegged an outsider to run operations after Garvey retires. Someone young and progressive they say, but I won’t hang my hat on that one.”
“Any idea who it is?” Lisa asked.
“Haven’t a clue. All I know is that the specter of an EEOC investigation has our board of directors spooked. I’m sure the recording of racial slurs in Texaco’s boardroom a while back has something to do with it. The government crashed over them like a tsunami. When it all shook out that nasty little affair cost them well over two hundred million dollars, not to mention the devastating publicity. Big Oil is still feeling the aftershocks.”
Lisa drank the last of her wine then signaled the orbiting waiter for another. “Think WorldSpan deserves EEOC scrutiny too?”
“Yes,” Mitchell answered. “The whole industry does. Talk about a good ‘ol boy network, the oil industry invented the term. Would you do me a favor and check on my parents while I’m gone? Dad’s been having terrible headaches lately. Mom says they’re migraines.”
“Of course I will.”
After dinner the waiter poured coffee and Lisa asked, “Where do you see us this time next year, Mitchell?”
His brows knitted up. “San Jose?”
“I mean our relationship. Where will we be?”
Mitchell sipped his coffee, then shrugged.
“I need to know how you see the future, Mitchell. Our future. Together,” Lisa said, frustration nipping at her patience.
He turned over a soup bowl and began circling his hands over it. “The Grand Swami sees great things in your future, Madame. Swami says shut up and drink your coffee.”
Fuming, Lisa drank from her coffee cup and gagged, something in the back of her mouth. She leaned forward and disgorged the biggest diamond she’d ever seen onto the white tablecloth. Tears sprang from her eyes. “How?”
Swiping a tear of his own from his high cheekbone, Mitchell said, “The waiter… didn’t mean for you to choke on it.” Then he stood, circled the table, picked up the ring, and sank to his knees beside her. “Will you make me the happiest man in the world? Will you marry me?”
Lisa, sobbing, gurgled, “Yes, oh yes, I will!”
***
MONDAY MORNING John Robert Holloway stepped from the elevator onto the forty-seventh floor and entered the bathroom to check his appearance, almost giddy with excitement. He jubilantly kicked the trashcan then shadow boxed, moving in a tight circle. “Finally!” he yelled. No more ass kissing, and no more compromising.
He had worked hard for this promotion and reaping his just rewards — not another executive in the company could meet his measure. Managers and VPs from throughout the company had flown in to witness his ascension. Thirty-seven now, his target age of forty-five to enter politics progressed right on schedule. After seven, eight years of running the world’s largest oil and mineral company, he would be more than ready to impact the country.
John approached a mirror — not a hair out of place and not one red vein showing in the whites of his blue eyes. “President Holloway,” he said, liking the way his lips sculpted the words. Giving himself a final once-over, he brushed a white speck from his shoulder, and then graced a gargantuan room decorated in rich mahogany, silk, and crystal with an air of supreme confidence. The conference table, shining beneath two monstrous chandeliers like a sheet of ice in the sun, seemed to stretch for one hundred feet or more and all but one chair was occupied. At the least a hundred thousand dollars worth of suits sat around the table.
Nodding at co-workers and acquaintances as he made his way to the lone open seat, John pulled the high-backed chair out and sat across from Mitchell Dove without making eye contact, and a few seconds later all eyes shifted to the company’s president as he took to the podium. Randall Whittenmeyer introduced the current operations king, the lights were dimmed, and Ted Garvey commenced a presentation of his own accomplishments. After an hour of numbers and maps and self-aggrandizement, he finished and the lights were raised.
Lifting his hands to quell the applause, Randall Whittenmeyer approached the podium. “As most of you already know through the grapevine, Ted is retiring January first. It has been a great and prosperous ride, and I’m sure you’ll join me in saying thank you for a job well done.”
The executives stood and applauded and when they had settled back into their chairs, Whittenmeyer continued. “Times have changed. It is time for new blood to take this company into the new millennium. The search committee, of which I was a part, has searched high and low, inside as well as outside the company. We feel time has come for WorldSpan to move in a new direction; to project a different image. The committee has selected and the Board approved, a surprisingly mature-for-his-age replacement with sterling credentials, unwavering loyalty, and impeccable integrity.”
John’s broad chest expanded. He wished his dad could be here to share this glorious moment.
“After months of hair-pulling deliberations and heated discussions, we have come to a consensus based solely on the candidate’s work habits, accomplishments, and civic image. As the appointed spokesperson for the committee and for WorldSpan — as an aside, news releases are being distributed as we speak — I am pleased to announce Mitchell Dove, from West Coast Operations, has been selected to assume the position of President of WorldSpan Oil & Mineral.
“Besides being a competent, innovative, forward-thinking company asset for close to fifteen years, Mitchell has selflessly involved himself with various groups for troubled youth. He’s spoken at dozens of elementary and high schools, espousing the value of a good moral foundation and college education. Among numerous other awards, last year the President of the United States bestowed the American Humanitarian Award on Mr. Dove. Although very young, I believe he will serve WorldSpan stockholders superbly.”
Quiet uneasiness filled the room, then a smattering of applause initiated by Whittenmeyer. Sounds of incredulity quickly replaced the clapping. John glared at Mitchell. Attempting to compose himself, Mitchell rose from his seat and approached the podium.
“I’m at a loss for words,” he said. “Never in my wildest dreams as a kid in the graffiti-marred, gang and drug-infested neighborhood in which I grew up, could I ever have imagined… first, I want to thank the CEO of my life and garbage man extraordinaire: my father, Otis Dove. You may not see him, but he is here with me. If not for him, I would probably be one of society’s worst nightmares. I am evidence of the power of a father’s loving presence and influence in his children’s lives. Thank you, Dad. Second, I want to thank the search committee for their attention to accomplishments and deeds alone, so that I was off the bench and in the ballgame. And third, on to the new millennium and new diversity.” He scanned the room and locked with John Holloway’s vacant eyes.
John stared back at the beaming new president, not really seeing him. Unprepared for defeat, his mind had gone stupid.
Chapter 2
YOU’VE HAD TWO DAYS to construct your case for Affirmative Action. Now I want the ten of you to group in the back of the room and condense it into two sentences,” Professor Dennison announced.
“You’ve gotta be kidding. We have half a ream of paper here,” said the lead student attorney.
“That much BS would put a jury to sleep. You now have nine minutes. Condense it.”
The students migrated to the left rear corner of the room.
“Anti-AA, I need you to do the same. You have ten minutes. Remember, two sentences.”
The second group congregated in the right rear corner.
The professor extracted a paperback from his book bag and began thumbing through its pages, earmarking certain passages. Each assemblage erupted in arguments as members offered opinions. “Keep it to a dull roar, please, I can’t hear myself think,” he said, a slight smile tugging at his mouth. Teaching at the college level was truly his life’s calling. He loved watching students engaged in thoughtful, impassioned expression. Fresh out of college he had joined the District Attorney’s office as a fuzz-faced ADA assistant district attorney but was never comfortable in that position, partly because he suspected that his father had influenced his appointment, although he denied it.
After two years with the DA’s office, he switched sides and became a defense attorney with Lowenstein, Brittain, & Stout, New Orleans’ largest law firm. Again, he lasted two years. Drifting, he placed his law license on hold, went back to school, attained his teaching credential, and here he was at Loyola University in his dream job.
“We’re finished, Professor.”
“Us too,” the opposing group’s spokesman said.
“All right, take your seats and choose a team member to make your statement. Pro-AA first.”
Marci Denton approached the lectern and Professor Dennison took a seat in the front row.
“Affirmative Action is the effect, parent-instilled racial intolerance is the cause,” she said. “We can’t do away with the former until we, as a society, address the latter.”
“Good. Brief, to the point, and powerful. Next.”
Jason Winchell took to the lectern. “Discrimination victims have switched colors, from black to white. Two wrongs don’t make a right.” Jason returned to his seat and the professor to the lectern.
“All right. Be prepared to support and argue your positions on debate day. Remember, brevity is best. Now, moving on, for the next couple of days we’re going to shift gears — do something different. Earlier this month an African American man was selected as the new president of WorldSpan Oil. How many of you have heard of WorldSpan? It’s headquartered here in New Orleans.”
Most of the students raised their hands.
“Good,” Professor Dennison said. “Who can tell me the man’s name?”
Phil acknowledged Marcus, a lanky black kid. “Name’s Mitch Dove.”
“Close. His first name’s Mitchell.”
“Same-o, same-o,” Marcus muttered as he sank back into his seat.
“Who can tell me why his selection is significant?”
Phil pointed to a young man in the front row.
“Because he’s the first black man to become president of a major company.”
“Not quite.”
“He’s the first brother to run a major oil company,” another student blurted.
“That’s right, and I don’t know about you, but I’m curious as to how he came to be considered for the presidency of a company in an overwhelmingly white industry. So I started doing some research, and…” Professor Dennison turned and grabbed the paperback he’d been thumbing through from the lectern. “In my quest for information on him, I discovered Mr. Dove has written a book titled, Listen With Your Heart. It’s autobiographic and written as a tribute to his father. For the next couple of weeks, in honor of his promotion, we will be reading excerpts aloud in class starting today. If you feel like you might want to read the entire book, you’ll have to order it through the Internet. See me after class for the Web address. Let’s see… Robert Crandall, you’re the first reader. Approach the lectern, please.”
The student approached, Dennison handed him the book then took a seat in the audience.
Robert opened the paperback to the first marked excerpt and began reading:
“Oakland, California has never been what you’d call a garden spot. Yes, it is across the bay from one of the world’s most beautiful cities but, if San Francisco is Cinderella, Oakland is her ugly stepsister. I know. I was born there in 1963 to Otis and Gladys Dove. So were my sisters, Tamara and Whitney, and the neighborhood where we grew up was the wart on the ugly stepsister’s nose.”
“My parents were proud, honest, poor, and very religious. We attended Good Shepherd Baptist Church, and of all the Sunday school teachers I’ve had in my life, Mrs. Watson’s the one I’ll never forget. She was larger than life and infused right down to her toes with the Holy Spirit. Her personality resided precisely between sternness and hilarity, could scold or belly laugh on a dime. I remember my first day in her class as if it were yesterday. I was transfixed on an image of Jesus in a frame on the wall. Everybody around me was black except for Jesus and I wanted to know why. I raised my hand and asked, ‘Mrs. Watson, was Jesus white?’”
“I must have caught her off guard because for a minute she had that do-I-really-want-to-go-there look in her eyes, but to her credit she answered me. She said, ‘I don’t believe he was black or white, Mitchell.’”
“I asked, ‘Well, what color was he?’ At the time I was thinking he could be just about any color he wanted to be.”
“She said she believed his skin was a swarthy tone seeing as how he was born in the Middle East, and Middle-Eastern people have that type of complexion. Then I asked what color swarthy was and could my mama buy me a swarthy shirt. Mrs. Watson placed a hand on each of her generous hips and shot me a look as if I’d just asked the dumbest question she’d ever heard. But then, just as fast, her face transformed into a smile — as if she suddenly remembered she was talking to a six-year-old — and she explained that swarthy was a brown color that only pertained to skin tone and no, my mother could not buy me a swarthy shirt.”
“‘Then Jesus was closer to black than white, right?’ I asked.”
“She said, ‘I think swarthy is a combination of all skin colors. Just the right tone God meant his Son to be. But much more important than his color, you must remember Jesus means love. When we think of Jesus we do not think of skin color, we think of love, understanding, and redemption. And the same is true with him. When he looks at his children, which all humans are, he doesn’t notice skin color.’”
“Mrs. Watson was ready to put the conversation to rest, but I had one more question. I asked, ‘Why is Jesus white in that picture on the wall?’ And she answered, ‘Little Mitchell Micah Dove… (she addressed us by our full names when she was irritated) if you had to guess, who would you say painted that picture?’”
“Without hesitation I said, ‘A white person painted it, Mrs. Watson.’”
“I was only six at the time, but to learn that Jesus’ face is a mosaic of every ethnicity and that I am not excluded, left an impression on my soul that drives me to this day.”
“Stop right there, Robert,” the professor said. “Cindy, what’d you learn about Mr. Dove from this first excerpt?”
A short blonde in the back row stood up. “That the whole religion scene was ‘Da Bomb’ in his life and he learned about the concept of inclusion at Sunday school.”
“Correct… I think. Come on up and read the next passage.”
“I had been suspended from school. That day still pictures vividly in my mind. A mixed-race group of friends and I were horsing around with a soccer ball during recess. I stole the ball and shot down the field toward the goal, intent on scoring. Ten yards from the net, a big white kid ran across the field from nowhere and knocked me off my feet. Lying on the ground, groaning from aching ribs, I looked up into the snarling face of what looked like a giant. The sun, positioned behind the kid’s red head, created the illusion of fire.
“’You think you’re hot shit, don’t you, nigger?’ he said.”
“With considerable effort I picked myself up, tired of turning the other cheek. Especially to Derek Bork. This made the third time. ‘Why don’t you leave us real people alone? Go hang out with your small-minded pals and watch the grass grow.’”
“Derek telegraphed his punch with a grunt and I ducked under it. Much quicker than the slow-moving bully, I meted out turn-the-other-cheek frustrations on him until the playground monitor broke up the fight and escorted us to the principal’s office.
“Head down, shoulders slumped, I trudged along the sidewalk past run down, graffiti-marred, low-income shacks toward my house. The principal’s office had called my mother to pick me up but she didn’t have a car or, for that matter, a driver’s license. Even though it was just a few blocks, it was the longest walk of my young life. Suspended for a day, I was in real trouble. Dad would be crushed.
“I crept onto our ramshackle house’s front porch and carefully creaked open the tattered screen door. So much for sneaking in. Mother stood in the center of the living room pointing like a traffic cop toward my bedroom. Under the sternest glare I’d ever received, I slinked down the hallway to my temporary sanctuary and dove into my schoolwork. I couldn’t read, my mind too filled with dread, but I figured my nose stuck in a book presented a helpful image. In a way, I wished Dad would resort to violence instead of tongue-lashing me in his inimitable manner. He entered the house a little after five-thirty and conversed with Mother. Then silence, and in this particular instance it was not golden. This was eye-of-the-storm quiet, a mere interlude before the winds of fury would start to blow. A few minutes later the bedroom door inched open and my stomach flipped. Whew… my sister, Tamara. She stuck her head in and announced dinner was ready.”
“I listened to the small talk during dinner, waiting for the hammer. Dad bit into a chicken leg, chewing slowly, waiting until he swallowed to speak. ‘How was your day at school, Whitney?’”
“I squirmed in my seat.”
“Whitney, mouth full of cornbread, said, ‘Jush —.’”
“‘Honey, you know better than to speak with a full mouth,’ Dad said.”
“Whitney nodded, swallowed, then said, ‘Sorry, Daddy. I had a real good day at school.’”
“‘Go on, tell your mama and me what made it real good.’”
“‘Well… I got an A on a quiz about the flag.’”
“Dad, a big smile splitting his face, put his fork down and clapped and everybody followed suit.”
‘Now,’ he said, shifting his eyes to Tamara. ‘What about you, lovebug?’”
“Tamara shrugged.”
“Dad shrugged back. ‘What’s this mean?’”
“Tears welled in her eyes. ‘I got a C plus on my quiz, Daddy. I’m sorry.’”
“‘Did you give your best effort?’”
“‘Yes, Daddy.’”
“Dad clapped. ‘Then it’s my fault. Next time you’ll be better prepared.’”
“Here it comes, I thought.”
“‘Mama,’ he said, ‘nobody fries chicken like you. Not the Colonel, not Popeye, and not that old Mrs. Winner. If I had the money to open a restaurant, we’d make millions.’”
“Flustered, Mother said, ‘Oh, Daddy, you just go on and eat before it gets cold.’”
“Now, here it comes.”
“Dad finished with his main course, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and waited while Mother dished out peach cobbler to his kids. In pure agony, I focused on a tiny morsel of cornbread he’d missed at the corner of his mouth. She beckoned, and he passed his plate.”
“‘You need to do something about the hinge on the fence gate. The thing’s about to fall off,’ Mother said, filling the plate with piping hot cobbler.”
“Dad nodded. ‘I know, baby. I’ll get to it after I tune up the Chevy. Been meaning to fix the front door too. Never seems to be enough time.’”
“I pushed my dessert around my plate, my appetite but a memory.”
“‘You gonna eat that, boy, or play hockey with it?’ Dad asked.”
“I took a bite, swallowing hard, while Tamara and Whitney shot furtive looks and knowing little smiles at me. Nothing wrong with their appetites. They were eating this up.”
“Finally Dad fixed his big brown eyes on me. ‘Son, join me out on the porch after dinner.’”
“‘Yes, sir.’ Thunder and lightning on the front porch.”
Dad opened the door and I slipped past him, intending to sit in Mother’s rocking chair.”
“‘No, son,’ he said, ‘sit beside me on the stoop. I want you to hear what I have to say.’”
“‘Yes, sir.’”
“‘Do you listen to me when I speak to you?’”
“‘Yes, sir.’”
“‘I don’t just mean listen with your ears, I mean listen with your heart. Do you do that?’”
“‘I think so.’ My heart could hear?”
“‘Do you know what I mean?’”
“‘Not exactly.’”
“‘First, listen to what I say and let it sink in. Then, strongly consider the meaning. Don’t just let the words flit in one ear and out the other. Live with them and the emotions they evoke.’ He paused for a moment, big hands interlocked, soft brown eyes set on me like spotlights. ‘When I was a young boy in Mississippi, our family was dirt poor. Daddy was a farmer. Scratched at a small piece of hand-me-down, hardscrabble land for days and years on end. Wasn’t worth much, but to him it was a chunk of gold. My great grandfather received the parcel from his owner. Daddy couldn’t read or write, barely could count. During bad growing years, we all suffered because he couldn’t do anything else. Without an education, he was unarmed. Back then, Blacks in the South weren’t offered much, but those given menial jobs could at least read and do arithmetic.’ He paused again, eyes far off.”
“‘Go on, Dad.’”
“‘I never told you how your granddaddy died, Mitchell. I just told you he passed on, and that’s not true. He killed himself… put a gun to his head out in the barn and pulled the trigger. Bullet went clean through his skull and killed our plow mule too.’”
“I gulped. ‘Why’d he do it?’”
“‘We were having another bad growing year. Mama was sick all year too, and Daddy couldn’t buy medicine. Didn’t have money. Here’s a proud man, can’t take care of his bride or his children. On top of all that, he had the burden of bigotry on his back. His dignity was depleted and he couldn’t take it.’ Tears, gleaming like diamonds on black satin, trekked down his ample cheeks.”
“‘Are you okay?’ I asked.”
“‘I’m fine, son. I loved and respected my daddy. He was a good man and father, but just unprepared to live in this world.’”
“‘What happened after Grandpa died?’”
“’I had to drop out of tenth grade. Daddy was determined that I get a good education, but someone had to take care of Mama and my sisters. I worked the farm and studied on my own at night. Read dictionaries cover to cover. Somehow, by God’s grace, we made it. Never got a diploma, but I read real well and use good grammar. The point, Mitchell, is your granddaddy agonized over not being able to be self-sufficient. Felt like less of a man because he didn’t have the tools to provide for his own. He preached endlessly about the importance of being well educated, just as I preach to you. His suicide ended his life, his sermons on education, his dreams for me, and my dream of a better life.’” He paused, looked at me. ’”What are you doing?’”
“’Just looking at the stars, thinking about Grandpa,’” I said. “’Go on, I’m listening.’”
“’The day you were born, I looked to the sky much like you’re doing now, and made a promise to God in heaven that I would do everything in my power to see that you graduate from college… look at me son, this is very important.’”
“My eyes locked with his.”
“He said, ‘I will do nothing to impede and everything to help but you have to want it bad, son. Striking back hurts no one but you. Even though you didn’t pick the fight, you were punished. Life isn’t fair and that’s just the way it is. Nowhere in your records will it say ‘Mitchell was suspended but it wasn’t his fault.’ Promise me you will stay focused on what’s important.’”
“‘I promise. I’ll do my best, sir.’”
“Dad placed a hand on my knee. ‘From now on, you and me are gonna meet on this porch a couple times a week. How’s that sound?’”
“‘Why?’’ I asked.”
“‘Just to talk. Get things off our chests. Men need to do that now and then.’”
“Men. My chest expanded. ‘Sounds good to me, sir.’”
“Dad gazed up at the stars. ‘Did you know one of the most powerful men to ever live was also one of the kindest and most enlightened? He had the power to turn thousands upon thousands of people against his enemies and destroy America’s great cities but chose a different path.’”
“‘Who was that, sir?’”
“‘Dr. Martin Luther King. He had a dream… so do I, and you should have a dream too.’”
“I wanted to say something but couldn’t find any words, so I just moved to his lap and hugged him.”
“The end,” the student pronounced, then closed the book and returned to her seat.
Continued….
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