Mathias and the City of Laniece

The trumpets blared like a galactic symphony as the crowd gathered to hear the syllables and diction of the annual spelling bee. On this simmering, sunny day when the temperatures extended into the nineties, thousands of people from the town of Laniece eagerly stood, dripping with sweat and perspiration, to hear children of all ages try to spell as though they were scurrying children eagerly waiting for a gift from St. Nicholas. As many of the town individuals listened to the horns that signaled the spelling bee would soon commence, one man stayed at home. This man sat on the left side of his black couch in the left corner of the room on the left side of his tattered mansion. The man’s name was Mathias, and his furrowed forehead, drooping glasses, and hair so disheveled that it looked like it had not seen a brush or comb in years belied the assumption that he was up to something. As he sat in the left corner, the darkness swallowed him. The only light was from his pearly white teeth and they seemed to glow in the shadows. They glowed in the shadows because they were smiling. They were smiling because after months of diligence, during which his frame had become ghostlike, pale and thin, Mathias had completed his life’s work. He was smiling because Mathias was going to destroy Laniece.

            Mathias had lived in Laniece his whole life. As a boy, Mathias participated in a spelling bee and was asked to spell Laniece. He spelled it with the utmost calmness and confidence a smile spreading across his face when he had finished, but, to Mathias’s horror, he had misspelled the name. The crowd at the spelling bee was aghast; one lady fell out of her chair and one man nearly choked on the food he was eating. The judge blankly stared at Mathias, gave the correct spelling, and told Mathias that the prizes of candy and toys would be denied to him. Mathias’s face turned pale and from that day his hatred of Laniece began to grow and fester. He hated its tranquility and how the sun seemed to smile on it. He hated its clean streets and exuberant people. He hated the white picket fences and the white houses. He hated that there was rarely a fight or news to be heard. He hated that kids could play in the streets all night, and wives and husbands seldom quarreled. He most of all hated that Laniece was spelled with an “i” instead of two “ee”s.

            As he stood up, his bones creaked like a door that hadn’t been opened in years, and he slowly dragged himself up the winding staircase and pushed his wood double doors open to enter out into the sun. An aroma that to most would have been beautiful, but to Mathias was despicable filled the air. He walked over to his black garden hose, and let it run on it max power. Mathias had planned this day of destruction for, seemingly, decades and now it was to be the dawn of his decadence. The sun beat on his wiry frame, and Mathias embraced the beating by wearing all black from his black pointed shoes to black sunglasses. His desire to destroy Laniece was burning brighter than his searing skin. He reached in his pocket to begin Plan One of his master operation. The streets were newly clean, the cement smooth and paved with barely a crack along its sidewalk structure. To the left of the sidewalk, the grass was trim and the smell of evergreen consumed the air. With a sense of exhilaration, Mathias reached his wiry hands into his pocket, grabbed something, and, holding it in-between his clenched fist, raised his hand into the air. He stood in this position for what must have been a long time because a couple on the other side of the street stopped and stared at him. While that couple was stopping and staring at him, a woman who had placed her freshly baked apple pie out the window to cool down also stood and watched. Lastly, a toddler scurrying across the sidewalk on his scooter stopped just steps in front of Mathias and gazed up at his clenched fist in amazement. Mathias had his audience, and, with the smile of his pearly whites, opened his hand.

            It dropped slowly. The wind seemed to catch it and carry it. It turned circles in the air. It landed with grace and elegance on the sidewalk. Mathias kept his hands open and flexed up, his smile extending so far across his face that it looked as though his lips were trying to decapitate his head. The toddler jumped back in shock, and Mathias knew the other gatherers were just as astonished. The couple quickly walked away from him occasionally looking back to make sure that their eyes did not deceive them, and the women with the pie scampered back inside leaving the pie to the bluebirds and squirrels that were around. As the object lay on the floor, the toddler dug deep in his childlike vernacular to utter the phrase: “don’t you know it’s wrong to litter?!” 

            “Yes, I do…I doo…..I doooo.” His words echoed cantankerously as he raced away past the boy. His heart beat as fast as a humming bird’s wings. He felt like he was floating.  Mathias had done the unthinkable. He had crudely dirtied the immaculate street with a gum wrapper that had been in his pocket. With that little move, the streets of Laniece had been tainted; its destruction was inevitable.

Mathias, still in high spirits, set out on his next mission. He peered around looking, his neck turning like an owl causing his leathery skin to wrinkle. He spotted a crowd of people, and he began to walk their way. He tried to approach them quietly, but the hard soles of his black shoes betrayed him, and one of the women turned around to speak to him as he stridently streaked their way.

“What are you doing my good sir?” she asked inquisitively. Her face contorted in confusion. Mathias’s face contorted as well. He pursed his lips together and his head shook as he readied himself. He knew this part of his plan would be very trying and exhausting. A member of the crowd, a young petite lady with a white dress, hid behind an older gentleman cowering in fear as she and the rest of the crowd stared at Mathias. Mathias could not see their stares; his focus remained on the second part of his plan. His cheeks puffed and his face began to turn red as he heavily pushed the words from his orifice.

            “You ole rotten scallywag! Of course I’m not fine!” he exclaimed exhaustedly. The words took all the energy from him; he took in a large gasp of air.

            “Sir, are you okay?” one of the gentlemen in the crowd said, “You are quite red, and you were standing in the oddest of positions for such a long time. I’m….”

            “Of course I’m fine you mucus less snail! You’re all a bunch of fools.” He smiled as he saw one of the people walk away; their feelings must have been hurt. “Curses to all of you and curses upon curses to this cursed city!”

            Before any of their aloof and bewildered faces could say anything more, Mathias spit on the floor in front of them and, once again, scampered off. Mathias stopped his running as he entered an alley. He felt a homely tranquility as he entered the dark shadows by a garbage post.  Mathias enjoyed the darkness, and even the smell of garbage was much more pleasing than evergreen. Ever since he had misspelled Laniece, the shadows had been a comfort. A comfort to hide from the oppressive people who tried to teach him the correct spelling and wondered how he could have spelled the beloved city’s name wrong. He reached into his mouth and felt a chip on his tooth which occurred as he dashed away from the crowd. A sharp pain shot through his body causing him to wreath in agony, his arms flailing and feet kicking; the chipping of the tooth put a lot of pressure on his gums. All the pain was worth it. Like an infectious disease, Mathias had ruined the crowd’s day with his foul words. The members in the crowd would spread this infectious disease by ruining the days of others. The city of Laniece would soon be plagued by cantankerousness.  A joyous tear trickled from his left eye and onto his black shirt. Mathias pulled out a napkin from his pocket to wipe away the tear. He held out his hand again to litter the napkin on the floor, but decided that he had already done enough harm in the hours he had been out. He placed the napkin back in his pocket, and headed back out into the sunny streets of Laniece.

            As he exited the shadows, Laniece already began to feel different. The city was quiet from people going to the spelling bee, but Mathias could tell his plan was working. Filled with a sense of accomplishment, he set out to fully fulfill his formula and see the effects come into fruition. The next part of his plan was a bit more daring, but Mathias was determined to do it. He gazed up at the street; McMillan drive was the busiest street in all of Laniece. Mathias had carefully parked his car there in the wee hours of the night only days earlier. Cars zoomed by. Red cars, blue cars, white cars, SUVs’ of all colors, trucks, motorcycles, bicycles, tricycles, and even unicycles whizzed by. Mathias looked up at the sky and smiled his chipped smile. He walked over to his black dusty sedan with sagging tires, and opened the car door.  The interior looked like a dungeon, but the cooking leather seats made it seem more like a dark oven as Mathias sat down. He turned the car on, signaled his left blinker, and drove onto McMillan Drive. He drove slowly, the kind of slowness that one hates on a bustling highway. Glancing through his cracked rearview mirror, he could see the automobiles behind him accumulate like fleas on a helpless dog. The drivers behind him were at his whim, their honks like water to one who has trekked tumultuous miles; Mathias was parched.

            “What the….excuse me old man go faster please. I’m in a rush to the spelling bee,” one of the drivers yelled. Instead of going faster, Mathias brought his car to a screeching halt and put it in park. He parked his car in the middle of the busiest intersection in all of Laniece. Cars from all directions seemed to swarm his car like hyenas. As a result, he buried himself in his car, and turned the cassette tape to the max; Beethoven’s 5^th symphony. The path to destruction was not to be easy. The light turned green on all angles, but nobody could go. The city of Laniece was in disarray. Honks so profusely filled the air, that not even the arias of Beethoven could mask them. His eyes closed, and he took in a deep breath. He let go of the steering wheel, folded his hands on his lap, and leaned back on his seat.

            “Sir, you are causing vehicles to not be able to move as fast as they would like to. In all my years I have never seen such a thing. Vehicles not being able to go as fast as they would like and people being delayed from their destination” a man holding a flashlight aimed at Mathias with a badge on his chest shouted.

            “I’m well aware of the traffic I am causing. I shall not move my car,” Mathias said with the indignant voice of a bedraggled mind. The policeman tried to get Mathias to move from his car, but Mathias would not. The traffic he had caused was the culmination of his destruction of Laniece, and he sat his black shoes, black pants, black shirt, and chipped teeth in that car like an emperor who had vanquished all his opposition. The police officer was not sure what to do with Mathias. In all his years, no one had ever caused what Mathias called traffic. Onlookers watched, one of them, a lady who had been in the crowd that Mathias verbally assaulted told the officer to be careful because she believed Mathias to be deranged because he had called her and the crowd scallywags and had been foul mouthed. Onlookers from across the street, the couple from earlier who had witnessed Mathias littering, attested to his dirtying of the street with a gum wrapper. The honks from the car horns ceased as news began to spread down the line of vehicles of what deeds Mathias had done. The gasps that filled the air were louder than all the honks of horns.

            “Sir,” the policeman said hesitantly. “I believe I need to take you into…custody.” The words awkwardly rolled off his tongue. In the one hundred plus year history of Laniece no policeman had ever taken someone into custody. The policeman’s name was Robert the IV. He was the fourth successive Robert to be a policeman following in the footsteps of his pappy, grand pappy, and great grand pappy. He was also the sole officer of Laniece. Laniece was a beautiful city from the grand oak tree in central city surrounded by marble step ways, to the museum with dinosaur fossils, to the zoo only a few blocks from museum with lions, tigers, bears, and orangutans. The theater was only a few blocks from the zoo which was only a few blocks from central hall with its large marble white pillars; central hall was to be the scene of the spelling bee. Laniece and its inhabitants, until Mathias’s actions today, had never inhaled the toxins of littering, bad-mouthing, or traffic.  

            “How does one take a person into custody?” Mathias asked the police officer who seemed just as confused as Mathias.

            “I’m not quite sure, sir. Let me take you to the spelling bee and we’ll figure out what to do after.”

            Mathias’s heart jumped, and he glanced at his watch. It had been fifty-four years three hundred sixty two day seventeen hours fifteen minutes forty five seconds and three milliseconds since he had misspelled the name of the city that he hated so much. The policeman, Robert, opened the passenger door for Mathias and Mathias entered. Before they departed, the policeman reminded Mathias to buckle his seatbelt, an act Mathias had become accustomed to not doing in defiance. The radio was silent and Mathias could sense the policeman’s nervousness by the sweat coming down his forehead. Mathias turned on the radio, and leaned back in his seat. He had caused such a stir in Laniece today. The people of Laniece were in disarray over the deeds he had done, and before his garden hose would drown them all away, he would enter central hall where his hatred had begun. Onlookers stared as the police car drove the strange man, who had caused such a great deal of traffic, away. They then went their own routes as a tow company towed Mathias’s car away.

            Mathias sat in the back of the police car as it zoomed down the street. The seat was surprisingly comfortable. Yet, its comfort belied the fact that he was going to a very uncomfortable place. Sweat seeped down his skin as thoughts of his boyish past crept into his mind like a cat pouncing on a mouse. He had been so confident when he had spelled Laniece. As a boy he had always been so kind to Laniece. He had painted its picket fences white. He had cut the grass for it to make it clean and smell like evergreen. He had passed out the daily newspaper on his bike for the city. And, how did the city repay him. It repaid him by allowing him to misspell its name, embarrassingly lose the spelling bee, and the prize he desired so much. 

            The officer peered back at Mathias with a blank stare, and motioned for Mathias to get out of the car. Mathias, weakly, stepped out of the car; his foot nearly collapsing on the first step. He was at central hall. The police officer told him that he didn’t know what to do with him, but he didn’t want to miss or let Mathias miss the annual spelling bee.

            The simmering sunny day had transformed into a cool calm night.  Central hall was lively as the individuals who were in the storm of traffic rushed in as the trumpet horns sounded. The spelling bee was to begin. Mathias stood like a rock amongst a herd of wildebeests as the citizens of Laniece poured into central hall. Mathias’s heart beat faster and faster as he heard the intercom tell the action that was taking place on stage.

            “Spell Laniece.” The spelling bee at Laniece was a one word spelling bee. The participants would all be asked to spell one word, and the word was always ‘Laniece.’ Mathias walked up the red carpeted stairs and across the long hallway to the main entrance room of the central hall. There were twenty-five participants on stage. The spelling bee consisted of just one round and one word. If the contestants got it right, which they always did, then the crowd would applaud them and they would win the prize of a year’s worth chocolate candy and any toy that they desired. In the history of Laniece, Mathias was the only contestant to ever misspell Laniece. There were banners across the city and in Central hall of Laniece and he had still misspelled it. He had practiced spelling Laniece forward and backwards for four days and he had still misspelled it. His mom was named after Laniece and he had written the name on her vanilla cake only days prior and he had still misspelled it. Mathias clenched his hand into a fist.

            “Laniece….L-A-N-I-E-C-E” one of the girls on the stage said as the crowd uproariously cheered.

            “Correct, one of the judges said. Next.”

            Mathias watched as each participant said the correct name of the city to the crowd’s delight. The crowd’s cheers seemed to push his old body to the stage. He began his methodical descent down the stairs and up to the stage. The audience watched him move by. By this time, the whole city knew the horrendous deeds that he had done. The only sound that could be heard was his pants sloshing against one another as Mathias approached the stage. The spotlight was on him as he stepped up on the wooden stage. The audience was silent. The children on the stage stood with their knees shaking. One of the boys peed in his pants and ran off the stage. Mathias readied his vocal chords.

            “Laniece…..L-A-N.” Mathias stopped. He had a hunch to use two e’s next, but knew where that hunch had gotten him to last time. The audience kept their stare on him. Mathias closed his weary eyes allowing the wrinkles on his forehead to briefly smoothen, and he slicked back his disheveled hair in attempts to remember. He looked years younger. So much younger that there were whispers in the crowd that he was the infamous contestant to misspell Laniece never to be heard from again almost 60 years earlier. “I-E-C-E” Mathias finished the word and waited.

            The audience clapped, perhaps, one or two at first and then and then hundreds of claps resonated in the auditorium. The light shined heavily on Mathias and he embraced it like napalm. Mathias was volatile; a sense he had not felt since he was a boy. He had correctly spelled Laniece as the audience blankly stared at the man who had littered, was foul mouthed, and caused traffic. A year supply of chocolate and any toy he desired would now be available to an old man whose desire for such things passed long ago. Mathias took off his black shoes and walked over to Robert who was sitting in the front row. The crowd kept on clapping and cheering. Mathias raised his decrepit skinny hand in the air and waved to the crowd. After all he had done, the audience still cheered.

            “What’s your name old man,” Robert asked.

            “My name is Mathias”

            “His name is Mathias!” Robert bellowed as the crowd cheered ever louder and chanted his name from the toddler who saw him littering to the lady with the pie in the window to the woman in the crowd who had hid behind the gentleman in the crowd. They all cheered Mathias. The cheers gave Mathias’s stiff joints fluidity and he walked upwards and out of the building with a childlike quickness. Robert followed Mathias out Central hall, and he entered Robert’s car off the red carpet like a celebrity.

            Robert then entered into the police car, and Mathias pointed him driven the direction of his house his black glasses adding to his celebrity look. He told the car to stop at an area marked with caution tape; the scene of the littering. To the officer’s amazement, Mathias stepped out of the car and picked up the gum wrapper. He then asked the officer to tell the city and its people that he was sorry, and that he would walk the rest of the way home. As Mathias walked down the familiar road home, he glanced at the water hose. It was still on, but instead of the Noah like flood that he projected in its stead were a muddy grass lawn and a stream extending into the sewer. Mathias turned off the hose and plodded his way into house and was greeted by the familiar aroma of cobwebs and old furniture. He sat on the right side of the first couch he saw in his house, and turned on the fire lamp. The house needed cleaning to match the other houses of the street. It had been fifty-four years three hundred sixty two day nineteen hours eleven minutes eight seconds and twenty milliseconds since he hated Laniece. Now, that hatred was a mere flicker and evergreen of air was appealing once more. The city of Laniece lived on and Mathias was living in it.

Mom, why do they look at me differently?

Is it my eyes, mom is that why they look at me differently than others?

I try to blend in, I try not to look at them but they gaze at me differently.

She purses her lips quiet.

Is it the clothes I wear, I appreciate everything you buy me mom, but

Maybe if you would buy me better clothes they wouldn’t look at me that way.

Her fingers tremble so she stops chopping the apple with the butter knife.

Mom, maybe it’s the way I smell, I bathe every day and every night

I scrub myself until my skin nearly bleeds.  Mom answer me!

She leans over the kitchen counter looks up to the sky and sighs.

Mom mom! Maybe it’s the way I breathe. I have asthma.

Other kids have asthma too, but perhaps mine is different.

She reaches for a paper towel as she sniffles.

Maybe it’s the things I say. Maybe I say stupid things mom.

He tugs her dress. Is that why they look at me differently. Is it?!

No, that can’t be it, I don’t say anything to them anymore mom.

I keep my mouth completely quiet I don’t say a word. Mom! Mom!

She turns from him and buries her face in the paper towel.

Is it because they know that I still wet the bed? Did you tell them mom?

Mom!! Why would you tell them something like that! Mom, look at me!

She blows her nose, grabs another paper towel and takes a deep breath

Why are you crying mom?  They look at me the same way they look at you!

Do they look at me because of you, mom?!  Mom! It’s you isn’t it!

She takes away the paper towel, and lets the tears drip down her eyes.

It’s you mom! Why did you do this to me mom! WHY?!! I thought it was me…

Do you know how they stare at me? It’s like I’m not human mom? Why?!

She rests her right hand on his small shoulders; her arms trembling.

Don’t touch me mom?! I can’t stand the way they look at me mom.

Why mom! What did you do? What is it mom? Why did you do this to me!!

He buries his face in her bosom as he desperately pounds on her chest.

Oh my dear son she says.  I never wanted you to experience their eyes.

I’ve experienced those eyes my whole life.  And… it is my fault son.

She pulls him closer as he tries to push her off.

Please don’t fight me son!  I’m sorry! Dear god I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have let you been born into this.

I shouldn’t have let you go through the pain I went through because of their stares.

He cries out his tears into her chest as she holds him tighter.

I’m so sorry son.  One day we will die. They can’t stare at us when we are dead.

She squeezes him as his eyes close and the breath slowly leaves his lungs

They stare at us because of our skin she whispers in his ear.

They stare at us because of our ugly cursed black skin.

Please Rose, Bloom

Please rose, bloom.

But the rose lies there withering in the orchard.

The sun beams bright on it

And the gentle rains nourish it

But its stem hunches in decadence

As though a windy darkness

Covers all of the light.

I water the rose and tender its soil

But it just continues to wither.

I watch its luster leaves shrivel.

I watch its smooth lavender petals

fade into brittle spotty auburn

Tears of petals lie scattered on the ground

My rose is dying.

Please rose, bloom.

I beg u, don’t leave me.

Stop crying away your beautiful petals.

The petals blow in the directions of my window sill.

I keep an empty vase inside my window.

The vase is for a blossom not yet seen.

I hope to one day find such flower and delicately place it inside.

The rose sits in the orchard.

Although it blows toward the window sill, I do not let it in.

It is not the flower for my vase.

Please rose, bloom. 

I buy it special fertilizer

And whisper gentle music to help it grow.

I spend all day watching over it

And all night thinking of ways to make it better.

But, nothing I do works.

It still withers and cries petals towards my window sill.

I cannot let it in my vase.

I love the rose dearly

I want to keep it in the orchard.

But it continues to die.

No matter what I do,

All it wants is to be in the vase of my window sill.
And that's what's killing it. 

The rose is now almost dead.

I love the rose too much to let it die.

There is nothing more that I can do.

My presence coupled with my empty vase

has led to its brittle lusterless withering.

I must leave the rose alone.

Good-bye my sweet rose.

I will never forget you.

Publish Post

Love Lost: Looking for a love to take my breath away

You ever lost something, so you spent all day looking for it

And  then you couldn’t even find it in the day time, so you’re up all night searching every place you had gone to

Prying your fingers through every nook and cranny, ever couch cushion, every drawer, every pocket, every place, everywhere trying to find it

And then you couldn’t find it at night time, so you can barely sleep in the wee hours  of the morning

mind racing cold sweats mixed with heat flashes tossing and turning wondering where you could have left it, and then you close your eyes and its right there like you always had it, and it feels so real

But then you open your eyes and its not there, you just had a dream

And then you wonder if it was all a dream..like an inception wondering if you ever had it

Maybe you never had it
See, I can’t find love

I really have looked everywhere for it

And at times I feel like I found it

But then I didn’t

I think love is the greatest treasure in all the land
I would cross the seven seas

Through a tumultuous freeze

Then trudge through snow above my knees

On over 10 odysseys

THROUGH AIR SO THIN I CAN HARDLY BREATHE!

To find a love that would take my last bits of breath away

A pirate in search of love except my name won’t be Captain Ahab, Captain  Morgan, or Captain Sparrow

My name will be Captain Hook

Because 1) once I get a hold of love I will never ever let it go and

2) Once Peter green with envy pipes

Me and my love would waltz like Disney and live happily ever after

And the only way you would know about it is cause Tinkerbell told you

And at that moment  you would know that it was just a fairy tale

As a little boy, lying in bed, I was told not to believe in fairy tales

Such a belief is toothless, like pulling teeth piece by piece and placing them under a pillow

There’s not even a dime of truth under it

So, maybe its just me

Maybe love is running away from me

Maybe that’s why when I think I’ve found it it

It runs away, and the girl who I thought had it

Scoffs me off like the perfect college loan; no interest

Or maybe love just purposely hides from me,

So the girl that has it is someone I don’t know or would never expect

Not even in my wildest dreams

And no matter how many books I read, degrees I get, I can’t outsmart love

No matter how much I spend on movies, dinner, chocolates, and flowers, I can’t buy love

No matter how many pushups, pull-ups, plyometrics, and pilates I do, I never look sexy enough for love

And no matter how kind, courteous, caring, considerate, and compassionate I am, I’m never a good enough person for love

So, I give up…..love you win

You’re so lost that I don’t even know if you’re there anymore

But if you are there, then  you win

YOU WIN

I can’t look for you anymore because deep down you have to want to be found

You have to want to love me

So, I’m going to wait, and I know you’ll be the good thing that comes to me

And when you come I promise that it will be the happiest day of your life

Because our love (together) will create a new verb that words can’t describe

That even the angels and spirits in heaven

 When they see us, will TELL GOD

THAT THEY ARE JEALOUS OF OUR LOVE

The Injustice of Justice: The dense fog surrounding Troy Davis

I still remember September 21st, 2011. Sometimes an event happens that leaves a lingering feeling. Yet, unlike feelings of happiness or sadness or pain or triumph, it lacks a finite categorical description. Thus, one feels a strong feeling, but does not know what such feeling means or what to make of such a feeling. For some, days, months, or years may pass and such a feeling may not leave. Its uncertainty nags like a dark cloudy day interspersed with rays of sunshine. These moments are, from time to time, strongest when the nation stands polarized on a single event. Two sanctimonious sides galloping towards one another like a medieval joust, but the terrain is covered in fog, dense dense fog. Then one realizes that beyond that, circumventing the dense fog, lays a raging pool of vitriol hatred and pacifistic confusion. Yet, the two sides remain galloping forward as the grooves of their horses cause the sand to escape the ground and swirl into the fog creating a sandstorm. They cannot see, nevertheless their speed only increases. Finally, the lance reaches through the dense fog. The lance is sturdy, powerful, and thirsty for blood. And, although its target lies there with dark opaque eyes hiding a more opaque face and his whispers of liberty crescendo, his being and words are covered by the opaqueness of the fog. The jouster reaches its target, and the lance licks its lip from the sweet blood that he has thirsted for over twenty years as though it were divine nectar. Then, the fog disappeared; likewise, the pool of vitriol hatred and confusion disappears as well. The jousters left not a footprint in the sand, and the lance’s only trace is the body of its victim. Indeed, the sand daily buries the body more and more. Soon, there will be no trace of the body at all. Troy Davis was executed September 21st, 2011 for his conviction in a 1989 murder. His last words were, "I'm not the one who personally killed your son, your father, your brother." He breathed his last breath at 11:07, and they declared him dead at 11:08. I tried to see past the dense dense fog, the pool of hate and confusion, and the sand storm. I’m not sure what to feel. I’m not sure how to feel.

Amidst the fog, I heard that there was reasonable doubt as to the murder of which you were convicted. Indeed, of the 9 witnesses that testified against you in your 1989 trial, a trial lacking direct evidence such as DNA or a murder weapon or video, seven recanted his or her testimony. Further, some of those whom recanted against you signed affidavits, sworn statements purporting to the veracity of their statement of recantation. Thus, with callow chants from out the fog screams ring out. REASONABLE DOUBT! REASONABLE DOUBT! The words perforate through the fog and tenaciously attempt to build a resistance against the jouster. Yet, it is an old folk tale that one should not attempt to build on sand. Reasonable doubt is a standard that applies only before a conviction. Every man that takes trial in a criminal court must have his or her guilt proven beyond a reasonable doubt. Indeed, this is the very foundation of the adversarial system that has existed in America for over 200 years and, further, a vestige of the Common Law. However, the reasonable doubt standard does not apply after a person is convicted. Thus, if a person has been found guilty by a full-fledged trial, then the reasonable doubt standard no longer applies. Therefore, one cannot simply wave a magic lasso that holds the words “reasonable doubt” after a person has already been convicted. While I agree that 7 out of 9 witnesses recanting testimony raises major red flags, bellowing “reasonable doubt” is erroneous. Once a person has been convicted, they are no longer presumed innocent; reasonable doubt applies only to those presumed innocent. It is the burden of the prosecution before conviction, not some mantra after a conviction when a witness changes up his or her story. The burdens and standards change drastically after one has been convicted. Thus, it is a gross mischaracterization and misunderstanding to say the conviction is wrong because reasonable doubt exists. With that said, 7 of 9 witnesses recanting should definitely mean something.

More noise rips from out of the fog. The noise fights amongst its posse like a radio surfing the waves of different frequencies. It is full of static. The noise says that clemency should be granted. The noise says life imprisonment should be given instead of the death penalty due to the recantation. The noise says the death penalty racially prejudices minorities unfairly. The noise says the original trial was unfair such as to suggest that death penalty should not be given. Sometimes noise can drown out simple truth. Even if the noise may be true, sometimes there is no reason to be so noisy. The issue is neither clemency, life imprisonment, nor the death penalty being unfair. The issue is guilt versus innocence. The 7 of 9 witnesses recanting did not point to putting Troy in prison for life rather than putting him to death, it pointed to not putting Troy in prison at all. Is it merciful to put someone in prison for murder if they are innocent of the murder? Is it morally right to give someone life imprisonment for a murder instead of death when 7 of 9 witnesses recant saying that Mr.-soon-to-be-in-prison-for-life did not commit the murder? Lastly, is it necessary to say that the death penalty is unjustly racially distributed when the concern should be whether, after the recantation of nearly all the witnesses, a murder conviction [the precursor to the death penalty] should still be warranted at all? I think that it is not necessary. As stated before, noise being right does not mean that the noise is necessary as to the case at hand. I believe it morally wrong to have life imprisonment given to an innocent person, and I think that’s all that matters.

The last bit of noise from the dense fog is intriguing. As stated before, the noise said that the original trial was unfair such as to suggest that death penalty should not be given. Once again, the concern should first be put on the murder conviction and not the death penalty. A conviction of first degree murder in this instance was a necessary condition for the death penalty to be given. Therefore, it should be the proper focus. In most states, first degree murder is the unlawful killing of another person committed in willful and/or premeditative manner with malice aforethought [indeed, malice aforethought may be seen through willfulness and premeditation]. So, was the testimony of 9 witnesses given under oath stating Troy Davis as guilty in a fully adversarial trial sufficient to prove guilt? Well, one cannot look at hindsight to answer such a question, one must look at the time of the trial when no hint that there would ever be a recantation existed. So, the proper question would be, ‘if one was a juror relying on 9 witnesses who gave testimony under oath purporting to a suspect’s guilt and there was no reason to expect that the jurors would lie under oath or later recant testimony, would such testimony be sufficient as evidence in a murder trial?’ If the answer to that question is no, then the problem is not the recantation of witnesses, it is the belief that witness testimony, in and of itself, is not reliable or, at the very least, not reliable as the primary form of evidence in a criminal case. The original trial was fair in the sense that the jurors properly relied on the  testimony given to convict Troy Davis of murder. If the same trial occurred today or a similar trial, it is likely that a murder conviction would, once again, be given. The issue is not whether the original trial was unfair, the issue is what should happen after a person is convicted in a fair trial when the witnesses whom were relied on as evidence for the conviction later recant their testimony. Perhaps the answer is never to rely primarily on witnesses for this very reason, but such an answer 1) exceeds the scope of the case and 2) will likely lead to a parade of horribles since it is rather unreasonable to always expect to find a gun or DNA evidence at a murder scene. Indeed, as the late Michael Jackson would say, such a supposition would be the antithesis of a smooth criminal.

Thunder and conflagration can be heard within the fog. Lightning normally precedes thunder, but here there is no lightning at all. Eureka! Out the fog and bathed in vitriol hatred chants ring and marching can be heard. Fists of fury dance with raging tongues across the sandy fog. They chant, ‘Kill him! Kill him! He’s had his chance for appeal, all the courts rejected it. Kill him. Kill him. Kill the cop killer! The courts all rejected his appeal. Kill him. Kill him!’ Their words sound like a brooding dark symphony played with a heavy tuba that scintillates to the ominous beat of the bass drum and the eerie high strings of a violin. Their words makes me shudder. Life is so precious; I could never be so bloodthirsty. When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Well, this is not Rome. Therefore, one should not treat death as though he were watching a gladiator spectacle. If I were Caesar, I would give such a view a thumbs down. If ever one’s life had to be taken, I would hope that it was beyond certain that such person, to the very least, committed the crime alleged (indeed, I am not a proponent of the death penalty at all). Yet, how can there exist such zest for blood when 7 of 9 witnesses recant testimony; not one, not two, not three, but seven. Indeed, that would make me, at the very least, want to get to the bottom of why they recanted their testimony. I, more or less a pacifist, am opposed to an eye-for-an-eye, but, the recantation makes me question whether an eye was even taken at all. As stated before, how can one be so bloodthirsty in such a scenario? I agree that the loss of an innocent life is a terrible thing. Further, I agree that the death of the undercover cop was a tragedy. Moreover, I feel for his family to the extent that I know that it must have been of great sorrow. Nevertheless, I lack confidence in the killing of a man if 7 of 9 witnesses recanted their testimony of him.

Eureka! Eureka! Callooh Calllay! Cannons and thunder! The vitriol chants, once again ring, ‘The fact that the courts did not take his appeal is proof of guilt! Kill him Kill him! He had over 20 years to get it changed! Kill him kill him! The courts knew about the recanted testimony! Kill him kill him! They did nothing because it doesn’t change the fact that he’s guilty! Kill him kill him!’ I shudder once again at such bloodthirsty statements, goose bumps spread across my body. To these wreathing blood thirsty chanters, the court denying appeal combined with the plus 20 years of opportunity to do so equaled vindication to take Troy’s life. First of all, one does not always need to look at the court to see that something may truly be wrong. If, for example, the court said that black people were property and could never be citizens, does that mean the court is right? Indeed, the Supreme Court said that very exact thing in the case Dredd Scott. Yet, today, we view that decision as clearly wrong. One should not need a court to guide ones moral framework on every matter if at all. If a person is convicted based on the testimony of only witnesses, and, after conviction, the vast majority of the witnesses against him, for a variety of reasons, recant their testimony of him, then does it seem morally tantamount to put that man to death just as if the recantation had never happened at all? Now, it is true that recantations can be for a variety of reasons and these recantations came after these witnesses had already testified under oath. Nevertheless, shouldn’t the recanted statement at least be examined as to why it was recanted? Secondly, as illustrated by Dredd Scott, courts have and do make mistakes. The mistakes continued: Plessy , Ozawa, Korematsu, Bowers v. Hardwick, Buck v. Bell, the Slaughterhouse cases, Bush v. Gore, etc. Further, all the cases that I’ve mentioned are from the United States Supreme Court. If the United States Supreme Court makes mistakes, then I give even less credence to the state courts and appellate process of way-south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line Georgia. It is already undoubtedly true that Georgia has had a history of racial injustice. Thus, if one places his or her infallible certainty on the appellate court process, then one must also realize that these courts, themselves, are not infallible nor always certain and do make mistakes. It took over 50 years for the United States Supreme Court to recognize the error it made in Plessy v. Ferguson. It was just as much a mistake 50 years later as it was the day it was adjudicated. The passage of time does not add vindication to decisions that themselves are erroneous. The Courts failing to grant Troy Davis’ appeal does not mean that the courts were correct in doing so.

The fog grew densest at its epicenter and the horse galloping created a sandstorm maelstrom as the lance reached for its target. Right before the galloping horse reached it last stride and right before the jouster extended his arm and right before the salivating lance finally reached its target, I saw an imperial court standing high above the fog as though they were the Grecian gods of mount Olympus. There were nine of them. With nine huffs, and nine puffs, they could have blown the fog away, but they did not. Exhibiting traces of callous indifference, they did and, moreover, said nothing at all. Like the gentle nymph that knows the meaning of life but remains quiet and does not share, the nine of this imperial court, with all the power to, said nothing. Of everything involving Troy Davis, I was most uncertain as to why the Supreme Court of the United States of America denied his last dying appeal of stay. Of everything involving Troy Davis, their action, or, better yet, lack thereof, left me with the strangest and most lingering of feelings. Why did the Supreme Court deny the appeal? Further, why did it not give its justification for doing so? The question ran through my mind for days. More amazingly, it seemed to never tire as it ran and ran. While some may say it is just another apocalyptic sign of the reality of Black America, I remained curious. Yes, I agree that racism still exists today, but this was more than just that. This was the life of another person after 7 of 9 witnesses recanted. Thus, why would the Supreme Court, the champion of liberty, deny the appeal? Perhaps, as briefly noted earlier, the Supreme Court saw that this case threatened the evidentiary justification of witness testimony. If witness testimony taken as evidence for conviction can be simply undone by recantation, then that would open up the possibility of numerous past, present, and future cases to, too, be undone. Witness testimony would then come to mean a banality of sorts. Perhaps, the Supreme Court felt that it needed to put its authoritative stamp behind the testimony of witnesses. Thus, the veracity of witness testimony as evidence for a murder conviction remains untainted even if it is later recanted. Perhaps by taking such action the Court hoped to strengthen witness testimony while contemporaneously preventing potential collusion to recant. Yet, a variety of other possible reasons exist too.

 Above all, I wish I knew why the Supreme Court ruled the way it did. It’s supposed to be the champion of liberty in the land of the free, and the home of the brave. Still, seven of nine witnesses recanted testimony. Troy Davis is dead now and the witnesses against him said he was not the killer. He is dead. Life is so precious, and his is now gone even though 7 of 9 of the witnesses against him recanted their testimony. It just seems so very very wrong to me; leaving a lingering feeling that I cannot make out. Troy Davis, I do not know if you were truly guilty or innocent, but, at least, I would have liked to have known why your witnesses recanted and the basis of the recantation as it pertained to your innocence. I feel the absence of such, which is what occurred, was a denial of liberty. Patrick Henry’s famous quote during the founding of America was, “Give me liberty, or give me death!” As Troy Davis lies dead, I do not think that this was what Patrick Henry had in mind.

The fog is now gone, so is the jouster, so is the lance, so is the thunder, vitriol hatred, and confusion, and the body is slowly being lost to the sands of time. Troy Davis and the cold imperial court are but an ever fading memory. A lingering feeling that I cannot describe persists in me. I still reminisce of the fog, the dense dense fog that surrounded Troy Davis.  The dense dense fog that left justice to injustice. 

Conscious Stream of Appreciation

Conscious Stream of Appreciation

Humanity is so wondrous and amazing.  At times, I catch myself mesmerized by things I once thought so trite.  For example, the ability of my fingers to flutter at not even a moment’s thought is fascinating to me at this very moment.  Likewise, the ability I have to inhale air into my lungs which fuels the life of my body, too, is amazing.  However, both these activities are more than simply amazing, they are also something that is not guaranteed.  I have full faculties intact in terms of my nervous system and sensory organs, but it is not as if that had to be the case. 

 Yet, I, and I assume others like myself, seldom pause to reflect on this amazing fact.  There are countless people in the world who cannot even move their eyelids and thereby, in a state of complete paralysis, remain blind to the world.  Yet, perhaps, it is I, and I assume many others, who are the ones actually blind to the world. As stated before, humanity is wondrous and amazing from head to toe, from poetry to prose, from luminous paintings to lucid sculptures, from hardworking business men to giddy indolent childish boys.  Yet, the one thing that amazes even me is our ability to complain and, thereby, not  truly appreciate what we have. 

Now, that is not to say that all complaining is bad.  For I believe, if there is no complaint, then there can be no advancement.  In order to advance, humanity must look back at what it does have and thereafter decide to want something beyond the current circumstance.  I suppose that somewhere in the infancy of our species to modern times that in-between what one had and what one wanted there likely was a complaint immersed in the middle. We as a species had to complain about being nomadic hunter-gathers in order to become semi-sedentary horticulturalists. We as a species had to complain about the toil of dragging wild game, heavy branches, and even ourselves through the coarse grounds, in order to inspire the ingenuity to create the lever, the pulley, and the wheel.  We as a species had to complain about individualized labor inefficiencies in order to create a compartmentalized efficacious society. Thus, perhaps 1) complaint simply is and always has been a human trait or 2) there is some sort of genetic evolutionary benefit to complaint that developed and still survives in our species today. 

With that said, I think, no I insist, that even amongst our complaints, we as a species must also be appreciative.   The truth is that most people, especially those in America, are extremely blessed.  Therefore, I find no fault with complaints about a fairly weak 5.2 earthquake in Virginia, and I find no fault with complaints about an Atlantic hurricane that extended along the east coast delaying flights from New York to the District of Columbia.  I, however, do find fault when those same people puff up their cheeks like Chicken Little and unyieldingly declare that “the world is coming to an end” or that such event is “a sign of the end times.”  Now, I am truly sorry that the earthquake in Virginia caused some people to stumble, cars to fumble, and a few buildings to crumble, but I do not mumble when I say that it did not cause one single death as to humans.   Furthermore, I am truly sorry that Hurricane Irene caused a few billion in damages and the loss of 45 American lives. Yet, one must put into context and take some sort of consideration of what transpired in Haiti, Japan, and Indonesia when viewing these events. 

How arrogant and insipidly foolish does it become to think that civilization as we know it is ending because of a little 5.2 earthquake in Virginia that killed not a single person when over 16,000 died in Japan,  over 100,000 died in Haiti, and over 200,000 in the Indonesia and its bordering countries from much larger and much more devastating earthquakes.  How arrogant and naïve it is to base the existence and continuance of the entire world, consisting of 196 countries,  off of one country, the United States of America.

          Now, I am not claiming that all complaints are that wild and outlandish as to involve the actual upheaval and destruction of world as we know it, but I am asking that we bring our complaints down to earth.  For example, I hear people complain about the recession.  Now, I believe the complaint is incredibly reasonable, but at least appreciate that this is a country where there exists actually hope to climb out of the slump and, even with the slump, the standard of living is still better than 99 percent of all other countries.   When I think of the burden I, and many others carry, I realize it pales in comparison to the burden faced by many others in this country whose burden, likewise, pales in comparison to many others in this world.

Yet, isn’t it such a striking dichotomy, and I base this off of life experiences, that the ones with the least amount seem to be amongst the most appreciative.  I’ve seen, personally, those with hardly any clothes to wear, without electricity, without clean water, without infrastructure, without access to proper medical care,  without the things that I have and have had my whole life, be more content and more appreciative of life than I am. Amongst whatever little things they have and the numerous things that they do not, they remained thankful and full of praise.  Further, I have seen documentaries, read news stories, and kept my ears open to the stories of countless others who remained incalcitrantly full of a high spirited positive outlook on life when it seemed like, based on their life, that they should be the first ones wreathing in dirt filled bitterness and insatiably full of grievances.  

I, for one, am beyond humbled by the example of life that they showed me.  Whenever I feel sad, lonely, stressed, or am experiencing other forms of discontent, I remind myself of the optimistic life that they live. If even one of them could remain appreciative when iniquity seemed to be the one and only thing that correlated with their existence, then why can’t I remain appreciative too when I face so much less. 

 As stated before, humanity is wondrous and amazing. Moreover, we as individuals only have once chance to experience the wonders and amazement of humanity on this planet.  Therefore, I urge that in our relatively short time on this planet that we recognize this, turn from our complaining ways, and become ambassadors and diplomats of the beauty of life by remaining appreciative in the good as well as the bad times.  Thus, although I advise you to take time and smell the roses, more importantly, I advise you to appreciate the wonderful fact that you even can. 

Black History Month: The Darkness Beneath Those Mountainous Clouds

Black History Month: The Darkness beneath those Mountainous Clouds

An arm slowly reached from the right side of the bed, and with a delicate flick of the wrist, turned off the alarm clock on the adjacent desk.  The time read 7:30 a.m.  when the siren ceased. The hand then coiled back in like a serpent, grabbed the blanket, pulled the blanket over its head, and went back to sleep.  The hand belonged to Malcolm Booker. Booker was 17 years old and, on the first day of February, he was not getting out of his bed.

                “Malcolm! Will you get your black ass, up boy. You got class today.” Malcolm’s body jolted from the scream and he sullenly stared at his mom. She had just come back from her night shift at the hospital and was still in uniform, although her eyes appeared tired, her voice perforated through the room. It was stern. It was upset. It was a voice that would not take no for an answer. However, Malcolm, as he began to pull the blanket over his body again, insisted on putting it to the test.

“Mom, I’m tired, won’t you just let me get a little extra sleep. It’s just one day, and I feel sick.” The words came out of Malcolm slowly, and he placed his hands on his head to emphasize his ill feelings.

“Boy, don’t lie to me. It is 7:45! School starts in 45 minutes. Get up, and get your behind to school young man!”  Her voice was even sterner. Indignation was not an answer.

Malcolm opened his mouth to say yes, but before the words could leave his tongue, his mom had slammed the room door and the only sound that could be heard in the room was her footsteps heavily plodding on the wooden floor as she walked away. Malcolm took a deep breath. He did not want to go to school. As he got out of bed, he put on the radio. The radio station man was loud and cheering. The voice on the radio boomed with elation that today was the beginning of Black History month.

Malcolm did not smile upon hearing this. He did not frown either. His eyes remained tired and although he attempted to cover his mouth, a yawn escaped. He reached down at a wrinkled black shirt and pair of blue jeans that were lying on the floor. These would be his clothes for today. He put them on quickly, school would start soon. He was going to be late.

As he walked through the hall, he saw his mom asleep on the green couch in the living room facing towards the television. The tv was off, of course. His mom couldn’t afford to pay the television bills. The only entertainment in the living room was the drippings that came from the ceiling and plopped into the rusty tin bucket on the floor below.  His mom lay there asleep, the bags under her eyes more profuse and a noticeably stream of gray swimming down her hair. She worked so hard. She worked so hard and they could barely afford to get by.  She worked so hard and on the table by her Malcolm noticed a crumpled paper with what faintly looked like ‘Last Notice: Rent-Past-Due’ poking out. Malcolm grabbed the last piece of bread, peeled green off its side, and exited the door.

The air outside was chilly. Clouds covered the night sky like aerial mountains that were moments away from shedding tears on the cracked sidewalks and pot-holed streets below; the only vegetation were the weeds  that grew out of the cement.  Malcolm’s school was only a couple of blocks away.  However, those blocks were plagued with gangs.  A few of Malcolm’s friends had been beaten up.  Malcolm never went that way. If he did go that way, he would arrive at school 5 minutes early and not the 15 minutes late that he knew he would arrive.  Malcolm looked up to the sky, a tinge of sunlight extended in the horizon through the mountainous clouds. It was far from him, like it always was, and he could not feel it.  February 1^st was just a day like all others.

Malcolm trekked through the streets. He was passing through the alleys, and heard a questioning voice echoing from the shadows.

“You got some, homie?”

“Naa, not today dude. You still owe me from last time.” Malcolm said as he kept walking. The voice from the shadows eerily bellowed, “C’mon, I need some...”  Malcolm kept walking as he heard scratching echo from out of the alley. “Please! Please!” the voice became more and more shrill. Malcolm put on his head phones and kept walking.

  “Crack heads”, he sighed. “I need find another way to school” he muttered under his breath. 

Malcolm arrived outside gates of his high school.  There were bars on the windows, and the school was completely enclosed within a thick gate with the central door locked behind a chain of bars.  The security guard let him inside the bars, and then locked the chains behind him. The security guard never said hello. Malcolm was unsure if he even looked at him, or, instead like a 6’4 automaton, was just going through the motions. The security guard lifted up a cigarette to his face, placed it on his big lips, and lit it with a lighter. He exhaled as the wind caused the smoke to slowly envelope him.

 “What the fuck you lookin at nigga?”  the security guard barked as he took in another breath of his cigarette.

“Nu—nu—nothing,” Malcom, stammered. He pulled his bag pack above his shoulders and began walking towards the cylindrical cement stairs that led into the school. As he stepped onto the stairs, he looked back at the security guard.  As the smoke from his cigarette cleared and as he pulled the cigarette from his mouth down to his blue pants, Malcolm could see his sullen face. His furrowed forehead seemed to match the mountainous cloud.  The nappiness of his hair extended from the top of his head and was sprouting across his cheeks, chin, and mouth of his face as though he were trying hiding himself in a forest. He stared up as though in hope that the tears from the sky would water his face and finally allow him to disappear under the forest.  This was not the life he had wanted. He probably had imagined something better for his life than this. Something better than smoking cigarettes on a cold February 1^st  day.   “Today’s just another day,” Malcolm said to himself as he walked through the door of the school. He was 20 minutes late.

Malcolm walked through the hallway. The ceiling lights arranged in a row in the hallway flickered on and off leaving the hallway dimly lit. The school was one story high.  The white paint was chipping across the walls, and the east most corner of the hall was blocked off with yellow caution tape. Apparently, it was a fire hazard. Malcolm could hear his own footsteps as he walked across the gravel floor.  A ‘Warning: Wet Floor’ sign sat by the wall outside his classroom. Malcolm shook his head. The floor wasn’t wet today. The floor hadn’t been wet since it rained 2 weeks ago. The floor was marked with the now dried footsteps of the over 2,000 students who attended the school. Yet, this yellow sign, like always, lay there. It was just another day.

 Before Malcolm opened the door to enter his classroom he noticed something old that had not been there before.  It was posted sloppily across the brick wall. It looked like it had been pulled out from the depths of the school attic.  It was losing coloration as patches of spotted yellow spread across it whiteness.  It was torn on the top of its right corner. It’s words difficult to read due to dulling discoloration and years of unfolding and refolding.  It read “Happy Black History Month Students.” Malcolm opened the door and entered the classroom.

The teacher glanced at him as he entered. She was holding up a picture of someone. As Malcolm moved towards the back of his desk, the picture became less and less visible until it was just a blur of colors that he could barely see in front of the head in front of him.  This class was too crowded.

“Does anyone know who this?” the teacher implored.  The class was silent.  “Anyone?”

“We can’t see it. Why don’t you pass it around” a voice exclaimed.

“Ok, I will.” She passed the picture to a boy in the front desk. The boy, doodling on a piece of paper, just as quickly passed it to the desk behind. “That picture is of Thurgood Marshall.  He was the lawyer in Brown v. Board of Education. Does anyone know what that case held, and why it’s such a special case for us?” The teacher asked. A black hand raised in the air to answer the question. “Yes, Jazzmine, who is he?” the teacher asked with a smile.

“That case umm held that separate is not equal and that we can’t be segregated in schools and stuff” Jazzmine replied.

“That is correct Jazzmine, and on this month we must celebrate black leaders like Mr. Marshall who made such a difference for us.” the teacher smiled. A few other black faces smiled.  Most of the black faces looked bored. The room was only full of black faces. Malcolm glanced at the picture of Thurgood Marshall, and then passed it to the black girl in front of him. He looked around the room, and then out the cracked window and the bars that covered it. Today was just another day.

                As the bell rang for the period to be over, Malcolm finished texting on his phone, and walked out into the hall.  The hallway amidst its dim lights seemed even dimmer as the darkness of the students encroached as they exited their classes. Malcolm grasped his bag and headed for his next class.

“Yo what up bruh?, a voice jovially stated. Malcolm turned around to see his friend Andre.

“What up Dre” Malcolm responded as they exchanged handshakes. “I’m just heading to my locker”

“Did you see that new bitch, Tamara, she’s hella fine my dude,” Andre exclaimed.

“No, I didn’t see her,” Malcolm coldly said.  The dullness of Andre’s words pushed Malcolm’s feet faster and faster as he moved towards his locker.

“Well, I’m gonna take her down first, you can hop on that train after I do,” Andre yelled down the hallway as Malcolm continued to walk away. “Damn, my nigga, why you walking so fast?”

Andre’s words did not reach Malcolm’s ears.  At best, they reached Malcolm’s feet.  If so, perhaps Malcolm’s quick footsteps away were attempts to stomp away every vestige of Andre’s words.

                Malcolm turned left down the hallway corridor, and walked to his bottom on the right corner buried in the shadows.  He turned his locker combination, 6-18-27, and put his books away except one.  In the middle of his Economics book he surreptitiously placed a bag of white powder and then pushed the book into the depths of his locker. The blue rusted paint peeled away as Malcolm closed his locker door.  His locker once again, remained in the shadows, its contents too.  February 1^st was just another day.

                Malcolm began to walk away to his next class.  The black faces in the hallways became a blur as he walked.  Malcolm walked into his classroom and sat down. Some of his classmates said hello to him and some waved.  Others did nothing at all.  Most of them seemed content to be in a History class.  Most of them were eager to learn.  Malcolm pulled out the one ragged thick book from his backpack; its last page read, ‘Y2K is a crisis without precedent in human history.’  All of them were using an outdated textbook. 

“Class, turn to page 222 in your books, today we are going to talk about Malcolm X” Mr. Freeman declared.  Mr. Freeman was an old-school teacher.  He wore a large thick afro sprinkled with gray, and always kept on a thin pair of bifocals which leaned down his wide noise.  His head was forever furrowed and two bags were plopped under his eyes.  Beneath his eyes, nose, and lips, Mr. Freeman wore a black plaid shirt and black pants and a faded pair of black sneakers.  A student in the back, with page 222 proudly open, raised his hand.  “Yes, Mr. Mathias, what do you have to tell the class.”

“Well, there is only a couple sentences about him, but it says he was an Muslim African-American leader and that he was murdered in 1965” Mathias shyly exclaimed.   Mathias was wrong.  There were exactly 3 sentences about Malcolm X in this book.  Martin Luther King Jr. had 5 sentences in the book which left him tied with Benedict Arnold. Ronald Reagan had 88 sentences. 

“That’s right Mathias,” Mr. Freeman sighed. “Unfortunately, these textbooks don’t tell you much, but that’s why I’m here.” Mr. Freeman’s voice began to rise as pride began to fill it. “Now, Malcolm was a real radical brotha, he said that the oppressor would never let the oppressed people truly be free.” Mr. Freeman pulled out an old book, adjusted his bifocals with his right hand, and began reading aloud to the class, “ Now, brotha Malcolm said, ‘We have to keep in mind at all times that we are not fighting for integration, nor are we fighting for separation. We are fighting for recognition...for the right to live as free humans in this society.’”

Malcolm eyes began to drift away as the teacher’s words crossed his path.  The words were heavy. Malcolm looked around the room.  Some students were engaged, and some were not.  The kid in the back wasn’t engaged at all; his head lay flat on the desk and his eyes closed.  Perhaps, Malcolm X’s words made him want to dream.  Perhaps, the words simply bored him to sleep. Perhaps the words had no effect at all.  Malcolm didn’t know either way, so he turned his gaze to the clock hanging above the blackboard. The hands of the clock spun like they always did.  Whether it was January, February, or March, April, May, or any other month, the hands of this gray round old decrepit clock were always the same.  Sometimes, he wished that that the hands would turn into something else, anything else.  If they turned into something else, at least it wouldn’t just be the same.   If they turned into something else, he would know what the time is, but, at least, maybe he would not know what to expect.   Malcolm put away his outdated textbook, looked at the sea of black students in his class including the kid sleeping, and then fixed his gaze on the barred window full of soot and bathed in oxidized paint chips.  Mountainous clouds still extended in the horizon with a bead of light extending far in the distance.  Even the light seemed to be trying to escape this place.  February 1^st was just another day.

When the bell finally rang for class, Malcolm quickly got up from his seat and headed for the door.  Mr. Freeman gave him a head nod, but Malcolm’s head was too focused towards the door to notice.  It was lunch time, but Malcolm had seen the light, and like the light was making his escape.  He was going home.

“Where you goin?” a loud voice bellowed as Malcolm reached the outer school gates.  Malcolm turned around to see the security guard hovering over him.

“I’m going home, I’m not feeling very well,” Malcolm sheepishly uttered.

“You look fine to me,” the security guard calmly said as he unlocked the gate. “No, need to lie.  Shit, I don’t want to be in this motherfucker either. ”

“Yeah,” Malcolm muttered as he exited the gates, put his hands in his pocket, lowered his head and began to walk away.  He looked back at the security guard, who was now haplessly sitting on the ground, and then continued to walk away towards his home.  The wind seemed to push him toward his home and the whispering of the leaves lulled his body into complacence.  He didn’t notice the pouty mountainous clouds.  Nor did he notice the gray cement speckled with dying weeds.  Nor did he notice that the gray cement path on which he was walking was led straight to the alley shadows.  Nor did he notice he heavy maniacal breathing of a shrill voice in those shadows.  Nor did he notice the hand in the shadows firmly gripping a 12 inch long dagger.  Nor, most importantly of all, did he notice that he left his Economics book in his locker. 

Malcolm Booker was 17 years old when he died.   He was killed in broad daylight on a February 1^st afternoon. There was no suspect.  There was no witness. There was hardly an investigation. The autopsy report read that he was stabbed 18 times: 6 times in the neck, 6 times in the stomach, and 6 times in the heart. His death would have made the news if it was not for Lindsay Lohan’s drunken night in Hollywood, the 38 percent chance of rain in Los Angeles, and the lost puppy in Malibu. February 1^st was just another day, and the rest of the month promised to be just the same.  

THE END