Reaching the Highest Height

What pushes you? Is it just gravity, that mystical force which set the universe in place? Maybe its the wind, it blows you to and fro.  Perhaps,  its some other describable external force such as a parent, friend, or rival.  Yet, what about places where these forces cannot reach? Better yet, when you are at a place in life where nothing can hold you down and no one can look down  upon you, then what keeps you motivated to keep striving?

For example, when Einstein made discoveries in quantum physics and photo electric effect what drove him to theorize that it was all relative.  Indeed, Einstein's life would have viewed his life a failure if he could not figure that very conundrum; it drove him.  The beautitudes of Matthew lists attributes of man that are and remain blessings: meekness, merciful,  poor in spirit, those who mourn etc.

The beatitudes never say, "blessed is the man who, even amongst his success, sees unending failure" or "blessed is the man who remains thirsty like a parched beast in the scorching desert even though his life has been more bountiful than the waters of the Niagara."  Truth be told, it is probably a curse; the curse of non-complacency.  The curse that is defined as never ever being happy with any of your accomplishments or, alternatively, immediately setting new goals once an accomplishment has been reached such that you don't have the time to revel in the aforesaid accomplishment.  In other words, the antithesis of satisfaction a life where sad will be your faction unless you keep putting your goals in action.

You may call these individuals gluttons for success.  Individuals who push the boundary. Individuals who have a malfunction because they simply do not "stop."  Stop, you already have your degree.  Stop, you already have a degree upon a degree.  Stop, you already passed your test.  Stop, you already have a job.  Stop, you already have a great job.  We work hard to reach a point of success, so "stop" because you have already reached it.  Please stop, because the roses are in full bloom, and smell so wonderful.

For those cursed with the inability to ever be satisfied, driven to be the best, burning with a zeal to reach an artificial peak of their own creation, these pleads of "stop" fall on deaf ears.  Some may not understand it, but it is what it is.  While some find joy in games, partying, television, or relaxation, others find it in being better than everyone else or, at the very least, being better than they were the day, minute, or even second before.  A never ending process.

A process is defined as a series of actions or steps taken to achieve an end.  I must confess, I am one of those that does not see an end in sight.  Reach a goal, and then reach a higher goal, and before you know it, you'll reach a place that not even you could have dreamed of.

                                                                     

Building Stronger Communities

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. So, let my words be a colorful brushstroke that paints canvasses across a clear calm night.

I can see her gripping her legs tightly as she sways back and forth in the corner.   Her hair violently blows as the wind slowly creeps through the tattered broken windows and envelops her.

All she can do is bob back and forth and back and forth to try to keep her body warm. She’s trying, but failing….She’s all alone in this old wooden home, and just like no one can hear its creaks, its rustles, its shuffles as the old curtains clash against one another, and its drips as water drops from the hole in the ceiling and overflows from the bucket below, no one can hear her sniffles, no one can hear her cries reverberating around the old home, and no one can see that she’s black like you and I. 

The only difference is, like Toni Morrison, she had the bluest of eyes.  Her blue tears flow like a raging tsunami after an earthquake, like an avalanche on steep mountainous cliff, soon she’ll drown and the only thing left of her will be her young fingers extending. Reaching for something it doesn’t know. Reaching for something it isn’t certain of. Reaching for us to set her free.

Cause that poor little girl on the floor by the door, who needed more, was a metaphor.   A metaphor for underfunded school s with bars over their cracked windows reading from history books made before 9-11….but it don’t matter to 911 cause they love crack, life is a like a baseball game, 3 strikes and you’re out,  and more black men are out in prison today than were slaves in 1850.

But, here we are as black lawyers and leaders today.  The cream of the crop, on a mountain top so high that not even Pegasus can reach us.  Sitting above the clouds, we watch the rain as it falls on the potholed streets in Compton, slides down the graffitied walls in Inglewood, and washes away on the Watts blocks.

They say life is like a box of chocolate. Well, I want chocolate to get out of the box.

But we’re in a box somewhere far in the docks bolted with 3 locks under a bunch of rocks; stagnant through all these talks. 

Luckily, I have the key to set us free, we need to build a stronger community.

So, when I hear someone say they’re bored(board) with law, I say they forgot two words: Brown and Education.

When I hear someone says transformative law fails in civil society, I say be uncivil and follow martial (Marshall) law…Thurgood.

Cause there can be good when we put our minds to it, there are 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in an hour but it does not even take a second to decide to make a change.

And even though this is the Black Law Student Association Solidarity Dinner, change does not have to be black or white, cause the man who wrote “Black or white” also wrote "We are the world, we are the children, we are the ones who make a brighter day, so let's start giving" and we give when we don't bury our talents, but instead use our talents to build a better world.  

So, let’s not go through the motions when we write motions, write motions with emotion, so that our motions can be poetry in motion, with the motion to move this community and this world forward.

Going backwards is a con, the pro is bono. Pro bono work that can change lives of mothers, fathers, children, of all colors and creeds, from calorific California to rocky Colorado, from  cold complex Connecticut to calm coniferous Kentucky, from every star-crossed state capital to every  encapsulated corner of the once 13 colonies now known as the United States of America.

And please, let’s continue to be a source of force, a recourse of resource, in other words, a workhorse, for future lawyers so that 1L, 2L, 3L, and maybe for some of y’all 4L does not have to rhyme or be synonymous at all with hell.

And  lets strive to be positive because even though Newton’s 3^rd law of physic says what goes up must come down, if we don’t get down on ourselves, but instead remain positive individually and collectively, our positivity will  never come down, and we can take our legal profession and legal field to heights that it can only dream of.

We are at the mountain top! And the dream of a preacher still lives on. It’s beautiful dream.  It’s a special dream. It’s an American dream.  It’s a dream that requires all of you and me, to set our people free by please please please building a stronger community.

In Defense of Trayvon Martin’s Killer: The Deadliness of Skittles

The police are and remain more than justified in not arresting the 28 year old man, George Zimmerman, after he shot and killed the 17 year old boy, Trayvon Martin.  In fact, I believe the police should be applauded for their efforts in not arresting a grown man who shot and killed a child with a .44 caliber gun when all the child had on him was some skittles and iced tea.  Now, I know some may think that there is disconnect between someone having skittles, and another person having a gun, but I am here to assure all that it connects perfectly.  A disconnect is only in the mind of fools, and I’m glad there is not a single fool in that Sanford police department. 

First of all, I get angry at people who try to downplay the significance of these skittles. Little David meek and mild vanquished a 20 foot tall behemoth, Goliath, with nothing but a few measly pebbles.  George Zimmerman is not Goliath, therefore it logically falls that skittles are more than a deadly weapon to him.  Have you ever been hit in the head with a skittle? Have you ever tasted that rainbow? I assure you that it is quite deadly.  Zimmerman’s  .44 caliber gun was necessary to thwart the danger of those wretched skittles.  To buttress this point, I’ll give an example of the violent disposition of colorful skittles. If I, unfortunately, was positioned to fight another man to the death, and we were given a list of weapons to choose from such as a rifle, a battle axe,  a bag of skittles, a dagger,  a chainsaw, a sword, a grenade, and a machine gun, then I’m sure both of us, without hesitation, would first reach for those skittles.  In fact, fearing the dangerousness of the aforesaid skittles, I assume that we would probably pre-negotiate that neither of us could use those ferocious skittles in battle. Skittles are manufactured by the Wrigley Jr. Company;  I have already sent numerous letters to the Wrigley Jr. Company  insisting that they put a disclaimer on skittles.  I won’t be satisfied until every pack of skittles has the disclaimer, “Sweet and Lethal.”  Skittles should really be named Deadly Colorful Black Mamba candy, but for now I’ll settle for at least a disclaimer.

Second of all, my anger intensifies when people try to claim that Trayvon was not suspicious.  He was beyond extremely suspicious.  He was walking around wearing a hoodie for Christ’s sake.  In this day and age, where people have motorcycles, cars, and trucks, there is and remains nothing more suspicious than a person who chooses to walk. Think about it, if someone had the option to drive a vehicle, isn’t it suspicious that he would choose to walk instead.  Further, even if they lack the means to drive, there are bikes, scooters, and skate boards available. My heart always skips at least two beats when I see someone walking on the street. Man was simply not meant to walk that is the very reason we have cars in modern day and rode horses in ye olden day.  Further, Trayvon wore a hoodie. Even though it was winter and even though it was after sunset and even though the air was chilly, Trayvon should have known that a hoodie raises ones suspicion, and rightfully so.  So, the follow up question to the fact that a hoodie is suspicious is, “Well, then what should he have worn instead of a hoodie?” The answer to this is quite obvious.  He should have worn no shirt.  Indeed, he should have embraced the frigid sunset air and smiled a warm smile as he welcomed the goose bumps along his thin body.  It is more reasonable to suffer the rancor of hypothermia than to ever be suspicious.  I am seeking a prohibition on all jacket hoodies, I hope that others join my petition to ban hoodies. Hoodies are simply too precarious in making a person look suspicious.  George Zimmerman’s suspicion was justified; other reasonable minds would have behaved similarly.  If I saw a person with a hood on who was engaged in the activity of, god forbid, walking, then I must confess that I would probably have thrown some skittles at him or her.

Third of all, I propose that those who call George Zimmerman a racist be banned from speaking.  I think that it is ludicrous and disturbing the peace that many insipid insidious insects have labeled Zimmerman a racist.  I only call them insects because I don’t know them all by name, and because they truly bug me.  Zimmerman is not a racist. Zimmerman’s father, who of course has no interest in trying to paint his gun toting son in a good light, said that his son had some black friends.  Even though not a single one of these black friends has come to Zimmerman’s defense, I’ll take the obviously unbiased words of Zimmerman’s father over any the silly racist speculation spewed by those slithering insects.  Obviously, if a person has even one friend of the opposite race, then it is impossible for such person to be racist or prejudicial in the slightest.  This is why not one single slave owner in the post civil war South or white supporter of Jim Crow or white supporter of South African apartheid ever had one black friend, or, better yet, a third party who claims that such person had a friend after such person was labeled a racist. Zimmerman wasn’t a racist; he just saw a black person who happened to be acting suspiciously by having the audacity to walk on his feet while contemporaneously wearing a hoodie. Yes, America is a free country, but that doesn’t give a person, even a black person, the right to engage in such unquestionably suspicious behavior.  It isn’t like Florida, or the Southern United States for that matter, has a history of racial injustice.  For example, the 12 year old Floridian black child given life imprisonment without the possibility of parole for killing his cousin while performing wrestling moves on her completely deserved to rot in prison for the rest of his life.  Moreover, the case of Casey Anthony would have come out the same way regardless if Ms. Anthony had been white or, god forbid, black.  Further, the police love black people, black men especially, that is why police officers stop black drivers all the time.  It’s because they love them.  That is why police officers arrest black men at disproportionate rates. It’s because they love them.  That is why black men make up a disproportionate amount of the jail system.  It’s because police love them so much, and desperately want to keep them around.  I, for one, can only hope that a police officer will stop me while I’m driving, claim that my taillight is busted even though it is complexly fine, and then subsequently  ask me if I’m on drugs or if I stole my own car.  Such action shows true love.  Since Zimmerman was the self appointed neighborhood watchman, which is not a cop but in my eyes is close such that I should even respect Zimmerman’s view of what articulable reasonable suspicion means, I think it is safe to assume that he loved black men just as much as police officers do.

Zimmerman truly is an honorable man, and he should be commended instead of abhorred for standing up and trying to protect his neighbors from the deadly skittle carrying nightwalker.  How could you arrest a guy like him? He graduated from college and took a criminal law class. He selflessly appointed himself as the head of the neighborhood watch. He is and remains undoubtedly an upstanding citizen. This is evidenced by his 2005 arrest for suspicion of battery on a law officer. It is also evidenced by complaints made by one resident to the Sanford police about Zimmerman approaching him and even coming to his home. Moreover, it is evidenced by the numerous complaints made by several residents of George Zimmerman and his “tactics” in his neighborhood watch role.  As the story unfolds, it becomes more and more apparent that Zimmerman was not simply a loose cannon.  To the contrary, Trayvon was the loose cannon for, as previously mentioned, wearing a jacket and hoodie while carrying skittles.    Indeed, Trayvon is lucky that Zimmerman did not know he had those skittles “sweet and lethal” on him. 

Although it is clear that Zimmerman was not a racist, seeing a black man with skittles strikes fear even in those with the most unwavering of hearts.  With crips wearing blue, bloods wearing red, black disciples wearing blue, and orange gangs wearing orange, an abundance of clarity arises manifesting that skittles can be nothing less but vitriol filled black gangster candy.  Skittles are so very precarious because, since there are so many colors, one does not know which color to associate to the black insubordinate who dares to eat such candy.  Trayvon must have been in a dangerous gang that associated itself with the colors: green, orange, red, yellow, or purple.  Moreover, since there has been no specification on the kinds of skittles, one cannot even assume that Trayvon was carrying the original skittles, he may have been carrying sour skittles, tropical skittles, or even chocolate mix skittles.  With each different kind of skittles pack that Trayvon may have carried, the color that he and his gang associated as gang bangers grows exponentially.  Trayvon also carried a can of Arizona Iced tea. It is not coincidental that the rapper Ice-T made the song cop killa.  I do not want to speculate as to what activity Trayvon planned to engage himself into that night, but all logical signs point to the fact that he was up to no good: he was walking, he was wearing a hoodie, he was black, he had skittles in his pocket, and he was carrying some “cop killa” ice tea.

Since Trayvon clearly was dangerous, it is unconscionable to think that Zimmerman did anything but engage in self defense.  Trayvon Martin stood 6 foot 3 and weighed a whopping 140 pounds.  To better put it, he stood as tall as rapper Snoop Doggy Dogg but weighed at least 30 pounds less than Snoop Doggy Dogg, and we all know how big and buff Snoop Doggy Dogg is.  Undeniably, the 17 year still-developing-boy Trayvon must have been a pillar of strength and mightiness.  Zimmerman who only happened to be a grown man at 28 and who only happened to outweigh Trayvon by 100 pounds, give or take, could not have possibly outdueled a barely-past-prepubescent Trayvon in a match of fists. Killing Trayvon by shooting him in the chest was the only rational and reasonable thing for Zimmerman to do.  In a battle, one is allowed to fight back with reasonable force.  Obviously, the emaciated punches of the barely post prepubescent 17 year old Trayvon were more than formidable; they were as deadly as his skittles.  Zimmerman, obviously, and I repeat, obviously, had no other option as a 28 year old man, but to shoot 17 year old Trayvon Martin dead.  The only possible way to defend himself was to kill Trayvon Martin.  Luckily, gun laws in Florida are so relaxed that a law abiding citizen like Zimmerman can easily acquire a pistol.  I urge others to acquire pistols as well because if someone punches a person and then may reasonably slap or punch such person again, then the person that has been punched has the right to shoot the puncher in the chest in the name of self defense.  If the person who punches is a black man with skittles and iced tea, then, luckily, I believe under Florida Law that the black man is not even required to throw the first punch before the aforesaid person has a right to shoot that boy dead.

Further, it is clear that Trayvon initiated the whole confrontation.  When Zimmerman called the police to report about Trayvons’s suspicious and, likely, criminal activity, the police told Zimmerman not to follow Trayvon. Indeed, when Zimmerman reported to the police that he as the self-appointed neighborhood watchman was going to accost Trayvon Martin, the 911 dispatcher said, “we don’t need you do that.” Thus, if Zimmerman disobeys direct police orders, and confronts a dangerous 17 year old emaciated 140 pound black kid who has equipped himself with skittles and “cop killa” ice tea, then any subsequent confrontation must be self defense.  Foolish people say that a person should not be able to claim self-defense when such person was the one who initiated the confrontation in which he had to defend himself, and when such person disobeyed direct police orders not to initiate such a confrontation.  I, for one, am very thankful that none of the police officers in that Sanford police department are complete and utter fools.  To the contrary, their wisdom permeates higher than Solomon’s.   This is so transparently a case of self defense that standard procedures like alcohol and drug testing of the shooter did not and does not have to be taken.  The only thing that needs to be taken is triumphant killer’s words, and they are undoubtedly truthful.  So, all the neighbors and other firsthand witnesses speaking against Zimmerman clearly are the ones lying or mistaken.

As Zimmerman said, it was Trayvon who started the fight and it was Zimmerman that was begging for his life.  This makes perfect sense.  Of course that high pitched child like sounding desperate wailing could only come from a 28 year old fully developed grown man who outweighed his  17 year old emaciated attacker by 100 pounds and who reasonably feared for his life even though he carried a .44 caliber gun.  For this reason, the blood curdling screaming stopped as soon as the gun shot fired.  It only makes sense that the person begging for his life also happens to be the one who is carrying the gun just like it only makes sense that the blood-curdlings screams for help would immediately cease after the shot that rang through the treacherous heavens fired.   It only makes sense that the gun toting 28 year old man that disobeyed police orders feared for his life, and not the skinny 17 year old high school boy who was confronted by a stranger as he was walking home from buying candy.  This is so clear, apparent, and undeniable that undoubtedly the Sanford police could not at all arrest George Zimmerman.

I am thankful to live in a nation where a 17 year old skinny black child walking back from the candy store can be shot dead by an assailant who disobeyed direct police orders, and that this assailant can then be given the benefit of the doubt that such actions were in self defense. Trayvon Martin clearly engaged in shady behavior by wearing a hoodie, walking, being black, and carrying lethal skittles and “cop killa” ice tea.  When someone obviously suspicious like Trayvon gets himself killed by engaging in suspicious behavior, I appreciate cops that don’t even arrest lawful assailants like Zimmerman.  Zimmerman clearly was acting in self defense, and the brilliant ingenious cops of Sanford rightfully believed him. There is a silly petition going on to have poor George Zimmerman arrested for killing this deadly-skittle-carrying-skinny- 17- year- old- black-gangsta-bandit.  The petition is irrational and unsound.  Instead, as mentioned earlier, I propose a petition to ban all jacket hoodies.  Please sign my petition so that another poor soul like Zimmerman won’t have to face this horrible ordeal of people at least wanting him to be arrested when he too takes the law in his own hand and decides to confront and kill a black 17 year old child under the guise of self defense.  If this petition is successful, then the next petition will be a ban on walking after sunset.  If that ban is too vague, then it can be changed to a ban of walking while black after sunset.

Sincerely,

Supporter for George Zimmerman

PETITION FOR THE BANNING OF HOODIES:  100,000 Signatures needed!

___________________________________

Confessions of a Prisoner

I’m so lonely.

My loneliness is lonely

My loneliness left me

It found someone.

Now, not even my loneliness can keep me.

Empty. 

Twas the Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas, and all through the old house.

Not a single creature was stirring, not even a cooking mouse.

Bubbling Eyes closed warmly, not a single lip asleep with frown

Because gay hearts knew jolly ole Saint Nick was coming to town

Little Kwery sat, arms crossed, angry on the hardwood floor

Kwery was seated, legs crossed, firmly blocking the front door

Eyes wide open, he slept for days to be awake on this Christmas eve

An ornamented tree (stood) in the corner, but Kwery still did not believe

                                                                                       

He was far past the terrible two’s, now a bright and bold eight

Now, he was 2 cubed, his horror had been over 4 times as great

He kept a glass of milk to his left, and a plate of cookies to his right

Angry at Santa, but if Santa came, he still deserved at least a bite

Yet, he didn’t believe in that man, that Santa Claus never ever came

Year after year, Kwery’s hopes would rise, but it always ended the same

No chocolate candy in the red stockings, no glistening presents under the tree

No gift cards on the table, Kwery would whimper “Santa doesn’t care about me.”

His friends would play with bicycles, action figures, videogames, cars,

Elmo dolls, footballs, toy guns,  and even space ships equipped with stars

But  Kwery would play with nothing nothing, not a single gift had he received

So he became starkly convinced over the years that he had just been deceived

Santa Clause wasn’t a jolly old man, instead he was an ugly gluttonous fool

A cantankerous old man that refused to live by the timeless golden rule

Treat others how you want to be treated, so for EVERY kid he should be giver

For if Kwery had magical elves and reindeer, then he would ALWAYS deliver!

So, Kwery sat on that wooden floor, and refused for a second to close his eyes

Because his daddy had promised him that that this night Santa would surprise

Kwery’s dad worked as a janitor through college, and he now was an engineer
Kwery remembered his father's promise that “Christmas will be different this year”

Kwery was unsure how his father had anything to do with Santa Clause giving gifts

Or how his dad having a job had anything to do with the years Santa had missed

So Little Kwery sat, arms crossed, indignant for hours waiting for Santa to emerge

And he would brave the whole night, a feat that takes an 8 year old great courage

And when the clock struck 12, and Kwery’s heart began to beat with doubt

He saw a figure with a large beard and red cloth and a red hat slowly come out

The figure didn’t come from the chimney; he didn’t come from the front door,

He didn’t come from the window, Kwery looked to see if he came from the floor.

To Kwery’s best memory and recollection the figure came from the room of his dad

Well, as long as it really was Santa Clause; Kwery guessed that that wasn’t that bad

The man had red clothes like Santa, a beard, gray hair, and he was fat like Santa too

And when he said, “HO HO HO!, ”as he handed  Kwery a gift, Kwery knew it had to be true

A sparkling smile spread wide across Kwery’s face, and he giggled in blissful uninhibited glee

And he merrily placed the gift Santa Clause gave him under the ornamented Christmas tree

Then he gave Santa a hug, the cookies, the milk, and apologized for doubting him at all

But as Santa left, Kwery couldn't help but notice Santa and his dad were equally as tall

They had the same eyes, same skin color, and same walk with how the right foot would lead

And when he hugged him, he noticed they had the same warmth, feel, and umber smell indeed

 Then Kwery no longer felt sad about years of no gifts as he heard bells from his dad’s room jingle

For how could he ever have been jealous of the other children when his own daddy was Khris Kringle.

 MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL & TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT! 

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.