Three Days Before the Shooting ... (105 page)

And Hickman
, his doubtful self added,
it’s all because you made the mistake of hoping that when so many folks from the old days arrived unannounced you’d get to the Senator. But you didn ‘t, so now the game is back where it started. And not only for you, but for the members as well…
.

All right! So the problem of getting to the man remains to be solved, but we’ll do it. And even if he still rejects the ties from the past that brought us to Washington, all will be well
.

Yeah, but that “if” is as high as the Washington Monument!

Even so, we’ll find this prodigal son of ours and act as though it was
he
who finally found
us.
And after telling him that his life is in danger we’ll bless him and leave what happens next for him to decide
.

Sure, Hickman, that’s what you planned, but the idea was much too hopeful—which you should have realized; just as you knew very well that anyone unaware of its background would consider your plan as a brainstorm conceived by an ignorant jazzman turned preacher. And in light of the man’s reputation that was illogical
.

Yes, but most of life adds up to an illogical blend of disorder and order. That’s why we try to apply logic as a way of reducing our lives to patterns which we think we can manage. And the members accept that fact of living just as I do. Because life in this country has taught them that order and disorder are inseparable. So they knew what they were doing when they took on the risk of this mission
.

What’s important is that we came to this town to save the man’s life, and one way or another we’ll do it. So like it or not, what you’re putting down as illogic contains a vein of good sense. And that’s true even if it springs from our hopes of finding some trace of the child we once loved still hidden in the heart of the man who rejects us. That’s the logic of our coming here, and in it the present is being influenced by the past. Yes, and all of the made-in-America color confusion that wrought it…
.

Yes, Hickman, I know what you mean. But thinking of it here in this lobby full of prosperous white folks is like somebody in a loud, drunk-filled bar thinking he can get their attention by reciting a fable!

Maybe so, but even if nobody listens it’s true, it
happened.
Because in the not too distant past we old folks were warmed by a little child evangelist with white skin and white features, but whose speech and spirit were shaped by our own…
.

Yes, Hickman, but that was a long time ago…
.

… A marvelous child of Ishmaelian origin and pariah’s caste, but his blending of bloods and unusual experience endowed that child with a command of the Word which was so inspiring that we came to accept him as the living token and key to that world of togetherness for which our forefathers long hoped and prayed. And since that child landed among us during a time of great trouble we saw in him an answer to our hopes that this divided land with its diversity of people would at last be made whole. Yes, and instilled with our own stubborn vision and blues-tempered acceptance of this country’s turbulent reality
.

It was that child, that mysterious outcast of the race that opposed us, who won our hearts and filled us with hope. So we accepted that child as a gift sent from heaven, and in the unfolding drama of our lives we cast him as a hero and symbol on the order of Christ, our savior. And because of his power and grace with the God-given Word we envisioned him as a means of breaking the slavery-forged chains which still bind our country
.

Yes, and then look what happened!

Sneer if you like, but what a wonderful experience he gave us!

And what pains for your trouble!

Yes, but while in those days boy evangelists were fairly common and a wide-open secret that many Southern “whites” were black and many “blacks” white—at least visually—we had known no youngster evangelist of any race who possessed his traits of character or a gift of eloquence which promised that longed-for transcendence of the past which would free us. And since attaining the freedom to be our own unique selves while peacefully coexisting with those who outnumbered us would unify our goals, both religious and social, we rejoiced and gave thanks to the Lord for the sheer existence of our rare gifted child
.

Thus, with our little boy preacher as symbol and spokesman we set out to overcome the limitations imposed by our history and this country’s ongoing contentions. And by embracing that child as the unique symbol of a unity to come we hoped that the combined promises of Scripture and this land’s Constitution would be at last fulfilled and made manifest
.

So in church house and tent, on highways and in byways, we engaged ourselves in spreading the glad tidings by Word, song, and ritual. And for a few bright years it was our hope-inspired mission, and an act of faith in the promised showing forth of the possible. It was a time of rejoicing and gladness, but then hostile forces before which we were powerless prevailed and once again things fell apart
.

And then mysteriously, and to our utter dismay, the child reached his teens and seceded by losing himself in the black-denying world of skin whiteness. So once again, as in the days of our fathers, we were left puzzled by the wreck of our dreaming. For in the mysterious spell spun by our yearning our little orphan of mixed identity had become one of us. And no matter how often we were disappointed by others we had come to expect loyalty from one whom we’d made so uniquely our own. So the blow was shattering, yes! But the dream itself continued to haunt us, as it does to this day, here in the vastness of Washington
.

So there you go, it’s still the same story!

Yes and no. At first it came as a harsh reminder of earlier betrayals of our love and goodwill, and a chastening lesson in the undependability of all human hopes, whether in the form of mere dreams or in the promises of those documents of state that our enemies claim to hold sacred but constantly defile. And it forced us to recognize once again that while dreaming is human and most indispensable, even the most
exalted
of dreams often turn into nightmares
.

Thus, in our own secret way we were reliving an experience which the Book of Revelation has so hauntingly described. Which is to say that in the process of exalting the child’s promise we had tasted of that which is honey-sweet to the taste but in the bowels turns bitter. And so now, late in their lives, and in what for them is the most unlikely of places, the sisters
and brothers are reaffirming their faith in our child-fostered dream by trying to save the life of a man whose hand has been turned against us and all of our kind
.

As you insist, it’s illogical but an act of undying faith. And now in the elusive person of the man whom our lost child’s become we’re here hoping to recapture some of the mystery that glowed long ago from the image of hope which as a child he made manifest…
.

Yes, Hickman, but as you just admitted, the whole thing’s illogical. And what’s more, when the child shattered their hopes the members were outraged!

How can I deny it? But in time their slavery-born sense of life’s ever comic and blueslike turns of phrase and waywardness muted their anger. So along with me they soon became fascinated by the mystery of how such a devout child could have become a man so devious. Why, having had a choice denied those who took him and gave him protection, did he turn against that part of himself which was a gift of those who loved him? What had we done, or not done? How could that much-beloved child become a man so attracted to the world which denied his friends and protectors that he chose it and denied our gift of unselfish love?

Well, Hickman, that’s the question which sent you here still seeking an answer
.

Yes, because over the years since the child ran away, I like the others have been patiently searching him out and following his adventures. And through the dark glass imposed by racial differences and distance we’ve caught glimpses of him here, heard words of him there, despairing over most of his actions and marveling at others—much as we rejoice at the achievements of the government in whose name he now acts and despair at its failures. And in time our lost errant son would become the source of yet another reversal through which we realized that it was precisely his devious scheming that was gradually drawing those like us closer to having an active, if behind-the-scenes, role in that selfsame government. And now, beyond all reasonable expectations, we’re here. Unheralded, yes, but determined to see the past redeemed and the child’s promise made manifest in the present—here in the District of Columbia!

Which is indeed a confounding surprise. For before the boy’s surfacing as a politician we thought of ourselves as simply outsiders who were strictly limited in the role they could play in the nation’s affairs. We had been among the counted—as I said in the pun I laid on that woman—but seldom among the heard. Which was little more than a signifying playing with words, for in view of our lost son’s prominence we have come to recognize ourselves as
inside
- outsiders and learned to laugh as we do at most outrageous jokes in which we’re projected as fools or as victims
.

And why not? For like logic most jokes are two-sided, and we’ve come to realize that no matter what positions the Senator takes, or how much power he amasses, he remains the creature of our own mixture of blackness and whiteness. Oh, yes! He remains our own fallen angel, our
own
prodigal son. An outrageous notion? Yes! But one for which there can be no earthly undoing. So no matter how hard the struggle has been, we have endured. And as the old saying goes, by simply enduring we’ve switched the yoke and changed the joke that keeps plaguing America
.

So now, face-to-face, we’ll seek out the child in the man who denies us while pondering anew the mystery of how he could have become that which he is. And while accepting the fact
that what has been done can not be undone, perhaps we’ll learn what went wrong when our dream of felicity collided with this country’s most thorny reality
.

For in our own down-home way we are basically realistic. And since our living has taught us that in most human affairs the victimized are at least
partially
responsible for their condition, perhaps we’ll learn more of the extent to which our own dreams and errors had a role in the agony we suffer
.

So, like you say, we erred by placing such a burden of hope on the child. Still, it was an act of faith, and we must accept the fact that such faith is not only thorny but makes us appear as childlike as our enemies would like us to be. For such faith is a testing of life’s possibilities, and the virtue of our old act of faith lay in its being s
elf
-chosen
.

It was ourselves who invested our hopes for the coming of a more peaceful and tolerant society in the person of a child. It was our own vision of a Peaceful Kingdom in which the child was both visual sign and eloquent symbol. And the fact that he went on to become an insatiable lion in Washington turned out to be far beyond all our imagining. The amazing thing is that although with a few exceptions our own condition has remained much as it was, the child who inspired our dreams for a land of milk and honey has become, much to our despair and amazement, a hostile political power. So today if he rejects our act of good faith and turns us away, it will still be proof that here, and no matter how, an American mystery has been turned into history
.

So for us whatever happens will be no surprise. We’ve kept the faith, and for that alone all shall be well. Yes, all shall be well. But who knows? Perhaps there’s a trace of our old bee tree’s honey still concealed in the carcass of our raging political lion…
.

Yes, Hickman
, he thought,
all will be well. For in exploiting our condition he’s retaught us who loved him and all who’ll listen a lesson taught our people following the Reconstruction: that in this land, and no matter their color, the weak and powerless are granted either false hopes or blind ignorant bliss. And that the trick of survival lies in keeping at the endless task of distinguishing the one from the other. Therefore, we must keep “keeping on.” So we’ll take our look at the man and this city and return home. And perhaps all we’ll ever know for certain is that we have endured and endured the stress and hardships of our enduring. So, having chosen to hope for justice and equity in a land where so many are eager to exploit the mystery of color to our disadvantage, we’ll have to keep clinging to hope and leave the Founding Fathers’ dream of eternal bliss to the future—

Bliss?
he thought as he awoke with a start,
good Lord, Hickman, how could you come up with such a crude misnaming! Anyway, we’ll have to go on struggling for our dream, because given the way the deck has been stacked, what more can we reasonably expect?

Yes, Hickman, and that’s why for us the mystery and inescapable agony of hoping lies in its being a form of gambling, a game in which winners take the leanest, hindmost part. So, like playing jazz in the days when it earned fellows like you little fame and even less money, it has to serve as its own compensation. Maybe that’s its built-in joke and realistic function. If so, maybe it’s still working behind the scenes in its own secret fashion. Because in spite of all our defeats it might well be blues-like and a transcendent triumph over all who would reduce us to hopelessness—Amen!

Yes, Hickman, but after staking so much on time, change, and a little lost boy you forgot the joker who can take the form of a woman! That’s right, you ignored the fact that usually when folks like us reach out for a pot there’s always some woman of theirs who’s waiting to grab it. And I mean by
any
means possible. You, who learned years ago that their men have used them to block the gate to equality. And if it were left to them Saint Peter would turn out to be an evil, nigger-hating woman! It’s a terrible idea, but the truth is the truth, and that’s the nasty old black-and-white mess of it! So thank God that there’s also been the other more charitable side, in which, sometimes, it’s been the women who’ve extended us a helping hand…
.