REPARATION ANXIETY
By
James W. Lewis
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PUBLISHED BY:
James W. Lewis at Smashwords
Reparation Anxiety
Copyright © 2010 by James W. Lewis
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REPARATION ANXIETY
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“Who’s that getting all loud in here?” Malcolm murmured as he opened the front door to his house, his book bag slipping off his shoulder.
The moment his face came to view, Malcolm’s father smiled and waved from his favorite La-Z-Boy, a cold one in the cup holder of the chair’s arm. ESPN reporters jabbered back and forth about the upcoming Lakers game from a 45-inch wall-mounted flat screen.
His dad said, “hey, son. How was basketball practice?”
“Hey, Dad,” Malcolm replied, glancing at two unfamiliar faces sitting on a couch across from his father, both holding cold ones, too. “It was cool. Coach trying to kill us as always.”
“As he should. You don’t get anywhere without hard work.”
Malcolm set his bag on the first step on the staircase, still trying to figure out the two men occupying space in the same room, smiling at him.
“Man, you got big!” the man wearing a blue NIKE sweat suit said, gear that could’ve come from Malcolm’s closet. “I remember when you were ‘bout where my knee is!”
“Riiiight,” Malcolm replied. Who are these people?
Dad read his mind. “Son, these are my two friends from boot camp. The ones I told you about a few weeks ago. They finally got off deployment.”
Malcolm thought for a second, then nodded. “Ooooh, okay. Boot camp. That was when you were in Great Lakes ninety years ago, right?”
“Hey, hey,” his father said, shooting him a stern eye and finger at him. “Don’t try to be a comedian in front of grown folks, dissing your Pops, now.”
“Just messin’, Dad.”
The dark-skinned gentlemen with Will Smith ears extended his hand. “Hey, young buck. You were about two when I last saw you. I’m Craig.”
“No, you’re not,” his father said, muting the TV. “You’re Mr. Lewis. Until he turns eighteen, he doesn’t call any adult by their first name. He’s got a year to go. Kids nowadays need to respect us ‘elders’.”
“Oh,” Mr. Lewis said, staring back at Malcolm’s father. “I like that. Still got that military style, I see.”
Malcolm, accustomed to that “law of the land” since the diaper days--one of a million in the house--paid Mr. Lewis’s surprise no mind. He shook his hand, matching vice-grip with vice-grip. He said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lewis. Sorry, I don’t remember you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. You were too young.”
“And I’m Mr. Durrell,” Friend #2 said, leaning over Mr. Lewis to shake Malcolm’s hand. “You look just like your father when he was in boot camp.”
“You two are still in the Navy, right?”
They both nodded. Mr. Lewis said, “Your father was the only smart one getting out after ten years.” He slapped Mr. Durrell’s arm. “Man, I can’t believe it’s been over twenty for us. I’m sure your father doesn’t miss those long ship deployments.”
“Sure don’t,” Malcolm’s father said.
“Was that what you were yelling about? Him getting out?”
“Yelling, son? Nobody was yelling.”
Malcolm sat on the staircase. “I heard a little ruckus going on before I walked in.”
“Oh, no no,” Mr. Lewis said, setting his bottle on a cub holder. “I forgot how loud we get. Your father and I were going back and forth about whether or not black folks should receive reparations. We just watched a segment on CNN about it before switching to ESPN.”
“Ooooooooh,” Malcolm replied. “Weird topic to get into before the ball game.”
“Stan...your father and Mr. Lewis have been doing this for years, Malcolm,” Mr. Durrell said. “Random arguments spring up out of no where.”
“Have you discussed the topic in History class at all, son?”
There he go. Dad was slick. Malcolm knew that ploy.
But Malcolm appreciated his dad’s open door policy to hard-topic discussion. He’d involved Malcolm in current events since childhood--after making him watch the news everyday, of course. Dad had always fed Malcolm a line to reel in Malcolm’s opinions and thoughts on various discussions, especially those involving the black community. Eventually, the quest to find answers took root since he didn’t like anyone winning an argument against him, even his father. Malcolm would fire questions at his father and late mother that ended up in wee-hour debates. Knowing what went on in the world--present and the past--placed his brain on afterburner, devouring books and news magazines. Malcolm knew exactly what Mr. Durrell was talking about--those “random arguments” as he put it.
“Actually,” Malcolm said, “we talked about reparations last week during our discussion on Civil Rights.” Of course, his father knew that.
But playing dumb, his father said, “Really?” He took his feet off the ottoman and pushed it next to his La-Z-Boy. “Sit down and tell us about it. We got about thirty minutes before the game starts.”
After removing his shoes--no shoes on the carpet, another law--Malcolm did what his father told him. “All right, Craig, ask my son what you asked me.”
“Oh, boy,” Mr. Lewis, “I’m not trying to get into it with your son. You and I have had way too many heated debates over the years.”
Mr. Wilson smiled. “My boy can handle himself.”
“Chip off the old block, huh?” Mr. Lewis stared for a second, then turned to Malcolm. “All right, all right. Wouldn’t mind hearing his opinion, anyway, since they talked about it school. So, do you think black people should get reparations?”
“Um,” Malcolm uttered, then said, “define reparations.”
“Huh?” Mr. Lewis replied, snapping his head back. “You...do know what it is, right? I thought you talked about it in school?”
“Uh, yeah, Mr. Lewis, but it has different meanings to different people. Do you mean individual pay outs? An apology? Money to rebuild broken communities? Is it just from slavery or segregation? Um, trust funds from the government--what?”
No response, at least not initially. It appeared Mr. Lewis didn’t know how.
Malcolm Jr. held back a grin. Typical discombobulated look--Malcolm knew it well. As with most people blinded by dark shades of assumption, he knew Mr. Lewis didn’t expect a highbrow rapid-fire response from a well-read seventeen-year-old.
“Oh, okay,” Mr. Lewis said, apparently impressed. “I see you know what you’re talking about. Steve...I mean...Mr. Durrell and I believe the government should give money to blacks for unpaid slave labor.”
“Unpaid labor, huh?” Malcolm replied, nodding. “Got ‘cha. Define black people, please.”
“What?” Mr. Durrell cried.
Laughter erupted around young Malcolm. Mr. Lewis and Mr. Durrell tag-teamed their massive crack-up, nearly buckling off the couch. Dad chuckled at his friends, but his stone-faced son didn’t budge.
Mr. Lewis caught on to the only blank stare in the room, so he said, “You know...uh, uh, black people!”
“So...you and Mr. Durrell are black.”
“To the bone, young man.” Mr. Durrell nodded.
“I’m black. My dad’s black.”
“We’re all black.”
“Okay.” Time to set him up. “Tiger Woods? The President?”
“Tiger is black now,” said his dad, “with all that mess he’s going through.” They all laughed.
Mr. Lewis tilted his head, glancing at the ceiling. “Well, Tiger--”
“Tiger is all mixed up,” Mr. Durrell interrupted. “Literally. He’s what...black, Asian and white? And you know, you can probably make the point about Barack, too. He’s not really ‘black, black’ according to some people.”
“And that’s my point, he’s bi-racial,” Malcolm said. “Half cup milk, other half chocolate syrup.”
“But mix them together you still get chocolate milk.” Mr. Lewis pointed at Malcolm, winking at him.
“Good one,” young Malcolm replied. He set an elbow on the arm of the La-Z-Boy, stretched out his legs under the dining room table and crossed his feet. “Still, in order to grant reparations to black people we need clear-cut definitions of ‘reparations’ and ‘black people’, right?”
His dad sipped on his beer. “Makes sense to me, son. As a sales manager we need precise language for marketing strategies, no ambiguity. Same with reparations, I presume.”
“Right. Should we still be defined as black via the one-drop rule?” Malcolm asked.
Mr. Lewis shot his friend the side eye. “Man, you were right about your son!”
Pop’s ever-present smile grew wider. “Told you.”
Young Malcolm sensed the topic jumping off-track, but he knew how to keep the train moving in his direction. “So, Mr. Lewis...Mr. Durrell, what’s black?”
“Okay, okay.” Mr. Lewis said, swatting the air with both hands. “Not necessarily ‘black’, but descendants of slaves. Of course, slaves were of African blood. Dark-skinned, bu-lack blood.”
“I agree with that,” Mr. Durrell replied, nodding toward Mr. Lewis.
“So, one could argue some Caucasians may be descendants of slaves, too?”
“What?” Mr. Durrell cried, tipping his drink but righting the bottle before any spills. “How you figure that?”
I need to take these men to school, for real.
“Well,” Malcolm started, “some slave owners raped their slaves, producing mulattos, right? Considering the one-drop rule, you could still be a slave, even as a mulatto. Some slave owners raped mulattos, too, diluting black bloodlines even further, making the skin lighter.” He leaned forward, honing in on Mr. Lewis. “Now, isn’t it possible that some slave offspring could’ve passed for white after slavery ended? Kind of like in that movie, um, what’s it called, Dad? The one you, me, and Mom saw a few years ago?”
“Imitation of Life.”
Malcolm snapped his fingers. “That’s it.”
Mr. Lewis stared toward the floor, twisting his lips a little but muffling whatever response he apparently had churning in his head. Mr. Durrell stared upward, as if catching the same bug that tied his friend’s tongue. After a few seconds, Mr. Lewis nodded, then said, “I got you, I got you. I can see how that could happen.”
“And if that bloodline stayed white and beyond, that means some whites are walking around with black blood--blood of slaves. Do they deserve reparations?”
“No, because they’re not black!” Mr. Lewis shot back.
His dad said, “Didn’t you two just agree descendants of slaves vice just,”--he made the quote sign with his fingers--“ ‘black people’ should receive reparations?”
“We did, didn’t we?” Mr. Durrell smacked his tongue. He turned to young Malcolm. “How old are you again?”
“Seventeen.”
His dad laughed. “Don’t try and change the subject, now. You just opened up a whole new can of worms.”
Young Malcolm opened that ‘can’ by asking, “so, if we’re talking about descendants of slaves, we can’t assume every black person living in this country today came from slaves.”
“See? That’s my son. You see why I named him ‘Malcolm,’ right? I knew that when--”
“Dad, please. Trying to have a discussion here.” Nothing picked at young Malcolm more than someone--including his father--uttering words that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.
His father slumped in his La-Z-Boy. “My bad, son.”
“It’s okay.” He smiled at his father, then turned to Mr. Lewis. “Anyway, Mr. Lewis, again, we can’t assume every black person came from slaves, can we?”
“And why not, young man? How come we can’t assume that?”
Malcolm sighed. Some nerve.
Mr. Lewis had patronized him, but Malcolm restrained the urge to go all black rage on his “elder.” That pungent whiff of sarcasm didn’t go undetected. So what he’s only seventeen? Even old men in their late thirties, early forties could use a shot of home schooling every now and then--even from a kid born in the nineties.
“We can’t ‘assume’ because some slaves were indentured servants; others were let free during the Revolutionary War,” Malcolm said. “Some free blacks came with Christopher Columbus while a lot of them lived in the North during the 1700’s and 1800’s. Free blacks were everywhere. People forget it cost a lot of money to keep slaves--food, clothing, shelter. Not every black person was a slave.”
“True, but that doesn’t mean blacks were treated equally,” Mr. Lewis said. “Most whites back then treated free blacks no better than animals and blacks constantly had to prove their freedom status. Slaves had no rights, no dignity, little hope for freedom. Just property, a number.”
“Can’t argue that, but some blacks owned slaves, too. What do you do if you’re a descendant of a black slave owner?”
“You know, that number is so small it wouldn’t matter.”
“Whatever the case, slaves were property, but a lot of those property records were destroyed. Today it’s hard to determine who came from slaves, but if Denzel Washington could trace his roots to slavery and a regular Joe-Schmoe black guy couldn’t, should Denzel get reparations?”
Mr. Durrell shrugged. “Well...if he can prove it. Yes.”
“Is that fair? Rich as he is?”
“I guess it doesn’t matter if fair or not. If we’re talking about proving slave roots, then only those who can prove it should get reparations.”
“Even whites? Indians? Some Indians married slaves who escaped bondage.”
“Well...I...all, Craig,”--he slapped Mr. Lewis’s arm--“help me out, here.”
“I’m already taking most of the heat. Your turn.” They all chuckled.
“Even if we determined who gets what,” his father said, “the next major undertaking would be how much they should they get, right son?
"Right, Dad.” Malcolm turned to Mr. Lewis. “How much should the chosen few get?"
Mr. Lewis stared off in space for a second, as if crafting his response on a mental chalkboard. "All right, young-un. I see you’re good at keeping the press on. You’re definitely no slouch.” Mr. Lewis cracked his knuckles and rotated his neck, a new game face slapped on. Malcolm grinned, relieved that he would get a shot of respect.
“Okay,” Mr. Lewis said, punching the palm of his hand with his fist, “how about 400 years worth? I read somewhere reparations would equal in the trillions based on the wealth this country has accumulated from slavery. Not billions. Trillions."
“I'm sure. But you already agreed only those that can prove their family's slave status should get reparations. Lot of money for a few people."
“Right about that,” Mr. Durrell replied, shaking his head. “Man, I don’t even know if I can prove my status, but if you can prove it, you get it."
“That ‘it’ would be a cut from a trillion dollars?” Malcolm asked, muzzling laughter. “Wow.”
“Well...I don’t know about a trillion dollars, but...something.”
“Really?” Malcolm said, feigning surprise. “Who will pay for it?"
“Uncle Sam,” Mr. Lewis cut in. “He’s way overdue on those 40 acres and mules."
Malcolm turned to Mr. Lewis. "When you say Uncle Sam you mean this country? The United States?"
“Get ready for the bite, Craig." His dad took another sip, eyeing his friend like a man who stepped into a large meat grinder.
“Can I ask you something, Mr. Lewis?"
“Young bruh, that’s all you’ve been doing, asking questions!"
“Well, here's another one: How old is the United States?"
“What do you mean? It’s two hundred...” Mr. Lewis paused mid-sentence, mouth stuck open, then eased into a smile.
Malcolm asked, “what, Mr. Lewis?”
“Good one, young bruh.” Mr. Lewis replied, nodding. “I see where you're going. I never thought of that until now."
“Thought of what?" Mr. Durrell asked.
“I think where my son is going is the official birth date of the United States. July 4th, 1776."
“Well, actually, people don't know separation from Britain occurred on July 2nd, but it’s okay, Dad. And slavery ended in 1865."
Mr. Durrell frowned. "So...what that got to do with anything?"
“Steve, keep up!” his father cried. “He's saying how can this country pay for 400 years of slavery when the country didn't exist until 1776. Right, son?"
“Exactly."
“Ohhhh. Damn.” Mr. Durrell stared, his forehead crumpled with wrinkles. Brain apparently on Stuck mode. “I never thought of that, either. 1776 to 1865. That's what...about ninety years?"
“Eighty-nine years, five months to be more accurate. This country should pay for 400 years when it wasn't even a country, yet?"
Mr. Durrell said, “You got a point.”
“Sure do. Little man pretty smart.”
“Got it from his Daddy,” Malcolm’s dad said.
Young Malcolm again felt the train about to ride down another track, so he veered it back. He said, “And what about the other countries involved with slavery? Aren't they responsible? Britain, France, Portugal, Spain, um...the Dutch.” He paused, then said, “Africa.”
Mr. Durrell frowned. “Africa?”
“Yes, A-fri-ca. People forget Africa is a large continent made up of different tribes. Some tribes were at war with each other and held prisoners. You think those tribes thought twice about giving up their prisoners to some pale-skinned European in exchange for food and weapons?”
No response. Both faces went blank. Malcolm’s father wore the same smug grin, staring at a Kobe Bryant dunk highlight. Baby boy didn’t need his help at all.
“Another thing,” Malcolm continued, so focused he didn’t know ESPN played the top-ten highlights, “back then Africans didn't identify themselves as ‘black’ or ‘African’. Their identity was more based on where they came from.”
“I can imagine trying to get reparations from those countries,” Mr. Durrell said, glancing at the TV. “Will never happen.”
Mr. Lewis didn’t give up the fight. He said, “still, even if we decide on 89 years, this country profited from slave labor! America wouldn't be a superpower nor have the same amount of wealth without the groundwork of slaves. So many companies owe their start to slavery.”
“True. With that said, how would ‘X’ get reparations?” young Malcolm asked. “I can think of two ways. Well, three actually."
Mr. Lewis asked, “such as?”
“Well, the US Treasury can make the money, tax its citizens or try and get the money from the other countries involved. Now, you think we’ll get the money from the other countries?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Mr. Lewis knocked back a squig, then said, “Can’t disagree with you there, young un.”
Mr. Durrell asked, “Well, we could make the money, but...”
“But that definitely won’t happen, either,” His dad chimed in. “The national deficit is what, eleven gazillion something? If they won’t make money to pay that off, the Feds definitely won’t do it for reparations.”
“Just cut a check!” Mr. Lewis cried.
“Right.” His father laughed.
Malcolm added fuel by asking, “Well, what about taxing people?”
“We would need to determine who gets taxed.”
“Exactly, Dad. Asians? No, they had nothing to do with slavery here. Neither did Middle Easterners or Latinos. And blacks? Doesn’t make sense to tax blacks for money they’re supposedly owed.”
His dad said, “That only leaves one group. And we all know who that is.”
Everyone nodded but didn’t say a word. For once, they agreed on something without even voicing it--the “group” now in the spotlight.
As usual, Malcolm rolled the wheels of momentum and said, “would it be fair to tax them to pay descendants of slaves? I know I wouldn’t like anybody stealing money from me to pay for something I had absolutely nothing to do with and ended almost 150 years ago. Shoot, I’d be mad as hell.”
“Has to come from somewhere,” Mr. Durrell said. “Why not yank money from the very people who represent the greatest crime against humanity?”
His dad asked, “And what crime is that?”
“Slavery!”
Although his father’s question forced them off the track Malcolm had paved, Young Malcolm decided to run on it for a short while. He took the “baton” from his father and asked, “my father has a valid question. Mr. Durrell, was slavery a crime back then? Hard to call something a crime when it was perfectly legal.”
Mr. Durrell opened his mouth, but words forgot to follow. He regrouped, then said, “well...it would definitely be a crime today. A crime against humanity.”
“But in a court of law, you’d be hard-pressed to receive retribution from crimes against humanity when those ‘crimes’ weren’t really crimes, especially when the old government sanctioned slavery. Shoot, many lawmakers owned slaves.” Malcolm slapped his hands. “But we just got off track. We need to figure out if we should tax whites for payment to blacks for...Mr. Lewis said...‘unpaid labor’.”
Mr. Lewis shrugged. “Okay, taxing individual whites probably wouldn’t be right. Some of them have descendants who were abolitionists and died to end slavery. A lot of them come from folks who immigrated here and had nothing to do with slavery...Ireland, Italy, uh...I don’t know”--he threw his hands up--“Switzerland, I guess. Hell, from all over the world.”
“True,” Malcolm replied. “Can’t find them responsible.”
“But!” Mr. Lewis cried, pointing his index finger up. “We forgot about one thing, probably the best route for reparations.”
“What’s that?” Malcolm replied, unsure of what ticked-tocked in Mr. Lewis’ noggin.
“The companies that profited from slavery, still standing today because of a slave foundation, making millions and eventually billions of dollars...all on the backs of slaves. Literally, on their backs.”
Young Malcolm nodded. “I hear you.”
“Companies from all sectors benefited from the free labor of slavery. This country became an industrial powerhouse, creating wealth and sharing it among themselves while those hypocrites raped African women and castrated the black man’s ability to develop his community.” Young Malcolm felt the heat from his eyes.
Mr. Lewis added, “Some estimated millions of slaves died on their way to bondage or in bondage. And for what? Greed. This country owes a huge debt to slave descendents.”
Surprised at the passion in Mr. Lewis, Malcolm said, “You may be right. Believe it or not, I agree with you...to a point. It’s not like this country has never done reparations before.”
“Exactly my point. Hmmm...I’m surprised.” He smiled with a look that Malcolm interpreted as a man happy to win one argument. “Now you get it. I thought you were against repaying a debt to us...to black Americans.”
“Well, I didn’t say I agree fully, but we’ve had reparations in this country before, so there are precedents. Survivors of Rosewood got it.”
“Wow, you know about that?” Mr. Durrell said. “And I just remembered, the Japanese got it, too.”
Impressed the old man knew a little something with a historical relevance, Malcolm said, “good one, Mr. Durrell. Japanese-Americans did receive reparations from our government.”
“In the late 80’s,” his father added.
“Really?” Mr. Lewis asked. “What for?”
Before Malcolm could reply, Mr. Durrell ran down the short history lesson. “For relocating them to intern camps. The US government way of evicting the Japanese into wasteland areas during World War II. The US figured all Japanese were the same, even the American citizens.”
“I didn’t know that.” Mr. Lewis turned to Malcolm. “See? Black people should get reparations, too!”
Malcolm chuckled. “Black people today aren’t survivors of slavery. Rosewood folks and the Japanese-Americans survived their tragedies. We didn’t.”
“Well, that’s up for debate,” Mr. Lewis replied, nodding to Mr. Durrell. “This man’s wife got him on a leash. Might as well be a slave.”
They all laughed. Mr. Durrell said, “Shut up, fool. I’m no Kunte Kinte.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Mr. Lewis turned to Malcolm. “But, seriously, do you believe blacks should get something?”
“Maybe, but I believe in a different kind of reparations.” Young Malcolm checked his watch. “I would get into that, but I have to study for a test tomorrow.”
“Hold on, you can’t leave us hanging like that! We still have time! I want to hear about this ‘different kind of reparation.’ ”
“I can’t right now. Need to get this homework and studying out the way, Mr. Lewis.”
Mr. Lewis smiled. “I respect that. You’re going to watch the game afterward?”
“Definitely.” Young Malcolm stood up, yawning. He leaned back and stretched. “Gotta get that grade, though. Calculus is no joke.”
“That’s right, son,” his father said, an overflow of pride painted on his face. “My boy has his priorities straight.”
“All right, young buck,” Mr. Durrell said. “Good luck on the test.”
“Thanks.” Malcolm walked toward the staircase and grabbed his book bag. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Lewis...Mr. Durrell. See you in a few, Dad.”
“All right, young man.” Mr. Lewis said. “See you later. You definitely are like your father.” Malcolm grinned. Nothing wrong with that at all.
But before heading upstairs, he looked back and said, “actually, I have one more question, Mr. Lewis.”
Mr. Lewis turned away from the TV screen. “What’s that?”
“We agreed slavery helped make this country what it is now, right? A superpower?”
“Correct.”
“And because of slavery creating wealth in a free enterprise system, Americans can pretty much do anything they want, right? More so than most countries? Shoot, the poorest black here is still richer than half of those in the world, I bet. Right?”
Mr. Lewis looked down at the floor, then nodded. “True, true.”
“Well, aren’t we as black folks benefiting from slavery, too? Aren’t blacks living in a land that slaves built? You can almost say slaves died so we could have a better life. And we definitely are.”
“Another good point, Craig,” Mr. Durrell said. “He got you there.”
Proud Dad interjected, “that’s my son.”
“You’re right, young un,” Mr. Lewis said. “I...yeah.”
“None of you asked for hand outs; you busted your butt and made it happen, right?”
“Man, am I looking at a Stan clone here or what?” They all laughed.
Mr. Durrell asked, “How do you know so much? Being so young?”
“Easy. I read.”
The End