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

Soliloquy of the Eternal Negro

Take a look into my eyes,

Take a deep deep look,

A look so deep that the gaze causes you to drown away into my thoughts

I am much older than Katrina, and I am much older than riots in 1992 and 1965,

I am much older than eyes that closed that allowed a preacher to dream,

And I am much older than Malcolm Little when he knelt before Elijah Mohammad,

I’m so old that I can remember the Great Migration to the North, and, honestly, I was old then too

Because even though I was free to leave the South and go north, I vividly remember 1865 when I became free, period.

That was the day when I looked at my calloused hands blistered with the hulls of the cotton which I picked for centuries,

And, I clenched my fist and let the blood drip from my palms to unpicked cotton below and cried to God that I would Never Ever be a slave again!

To this day, I’ll never know if he heard me;

I’ll never even know if he was my God, or just the oppressors who I once called “Massah”

Honestly, I don’t remember who my God was, I don’t even remember my name, or where I came from

I lost that all when they chained me to that damned ship and brought me here

For 3 months I lay in whirling darkness, envying the humanity given to rats and roaches

Fearing them too, as they gnawed at the dead and ate our handcuffed emaciated flesh

I lost my sons and daughters, my nieces and nephews, my mother and father and friends in that hell

Those who didn’t die were thrown overboard to lessen the load of the ship

Thrown overboard like dirty rags, thrown overboard like helpless dirty rags

Their screams still haunt me so much that my eyes forever became cold

You see, beneath this nappy hair, big lips, and dark skin, I am over 400 years old

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  Black don’t crack.

We do, you don’t believe me? Take a look at the whip marks on my back.

Then take a look at the bone protruding from my ankle where they chained me,

Take a look at my limping knee where over 30 times they clubbed me

Or pass me a tissue, and I’ll cough up the blood from generations of beatings

I crack.  I bruise. I cry. I feel pain.  And, at times I’ve wished I was dead

I’m human.  It still brings me to tears to say that.

Nothing about my life has been humane.

I remember 1776 like it was just yesterday. 

I fought in that war; I fought for the freedom of the United States.

I fought because the truth was “self evident” that all men are created equal.

Little did I know, I was only 3/5ths of that man.

I gave my life to fight for the freedom for what?

At the end, I was more of a slave then I was before.

When that revolutionary war ended, I basked in the glorious sun and extended my arm in hope of being called equal

But, in my extended hand they placed a shovel and told me to dig

The once glorious sun then beat on me causing beads of sweat to drop from my body like daggers,

Its beating only matched when they mercilessly whipped me for digging the coarse tundra too slowly

And they called me a word that to this very day sends shudders from my spine down to the earth below so much so that I lose my balance and can hardly stand when I hear it.

Nigger.

Weeping as the dripping sweat caused my fresh foot long wounds to burn

And blood-curdingly screaming, I gripped the ragged shovel as they poured salt on my wounds

I cried, “Why must I dig massah! MASSAH! Why!”

“To bury your hopes and dreams, nigger.” He replied with a menacing cackle,

“To bury your hopes and dreams.”

I hadn’t dreamed since the slave ship, and I lost hope after that day too.

Whatever hope I had left boomed from my bowels like a benediction,

 The hope that that Sweet Chariot would swing low and carry me home.

Or the hope to “Keep my hand on the plow”

Amidst my hollow hymns, I fathered thousands of children.

Some were my own blood, and they hated me for being cursed with my hands

Others were the seeds of my daughter’s rape; they hated me because they had the hands of my Massah

Cursing me, spitting at me, throwing rocks at me because they hated the fact

That one drop of “me” made them ME!

And that no matter how much perm, presses, peroxide or bleach they pampered on themselves

That even after the Civil War; they would never be able to escape ME!

I’ve been free for over 150 years now. 

Ha, some freedom if you ask me.

They promised me 40 acres and a mule,

But instead they gave me black codes, Plessy, and Jim Crow.

Before they cut off my tongue in slavery when I tried to read like them,

Now they cut off the funding for my school so I’ll never read like them.

I finally got my sons and daughters to rally with me like panthers

We united to lift ourselves from the pits of despair

Rallying behind Huey Newton and Bobby Seale

We wore black to symbolize our new-found pride in black.

And, it ended blackly, as they sent discord to rip through our chords

Once proud black, now stained with crippled blue and bloody red

And crack rock contraband sprinkled in the middle

So that my sons face life imprisonment

So, their sons and daughters don’t know them

And, once again, they don’t know me.

I fought in wars and was put in the front line to die

Considered “expendable”, my operation was suicide

I’ve fought in every war and every major battle for this nation

I fought as a slave, I fought as a segregated man, and I still fight

Instead of segregation, now I fight because socioeconomics leaves me at the bottom

I tried to climb up the totem pole.

I climbed day and night for over 20 years.

As I climbed, my slave clothes were replaced with business suits.

And when I slept, the wind whispered into my ears to be like them.

When I got to the top of the pole, so high above the clouds that I could hardly stand

I looked down through binoculars to my daughters and sons hungry jaws

They were eager to climb up like I had

I threw down a rope, to try to pull up my daughters and sons

The rope was torn to shreds; they called my action too affirmative

The pole was then covered in slime pasted in crack rock.

My daughters and sons try to climb, but they didn’t get high up the pole

They only got high, so the earth shook beneath them and they fell further into a pit.

Now, I struggle to even get them back to where they were before.

I’ve lived for over 400 years and I’ve seen it all.

I’ve drowned in my own thoughts, and brought myself back to life.

My dreams have been shattered like porcelain dropped from a tower

And my hope has been chopped up like thousands of fiery spores blowing ashes away in the wind

Yet, I continue to breathe in the air through my lungs and move forward.

From slavery, to black codes, from segregation, to Jim Crow,

From black panthers to crips, from being shipped in chains to being slashed by whips

Through it all, I rise.  Like the sun after dusk, I rise.

Like a single blossom, bathed in the waters of spring, I rise.

And like the clenched fist I throw up in the air, bearing the hope of my generation,

I WILL RISE.

I WILL RISE!