SPARK AND PIVOT



Colored? No, that can't be it. For, what did that mean, back in mid-20th Century? It must have meant, of course, a comparative, an adjective ... something that was similar to, but a tinted version of, something else. Perhaps deeper. As in more advanced, richer, weathered.

No. No one felt it was richer. Even time proved how opposite that was. Many thought of tinted as tainted --degraded, stained, not as good as. Colored meant, indeed, darker, as in Darkies, as in black as the dark night ... as in evil.

Of course, you couldn't have "evil" drinking from the same water as "good," or using the same facilities. Or, in fact, using the same anything. Have to put signs up. No contamination, please. Better safe than sorry. Couldn't have Negroes around "real" people.

That meant, of course, those who weren't dark. Those who didn't have the dirt built in. Lighter people. Whiter people. White as snowflakes. Cold people. Cold and hard as stone ... bleached out ... devoid of heart, of feelings ... devoid of humanity ... Whiteys.

2

But that couldn't mean, certainly, that all whites were colored by this lack of heart? No, only those who ran the show, for even lesser whites were only puppets, controlled as much by the status quo as their darker cousins.

And it was powerful, the status quo. Everyone wanted a piece of the media's Good Life, black and white and every shade between. All were suckled on its seduction and taught to emulate its message ... that white was right; snow was the way to go. Though not all whites were cold and not all blacks wanted to be, still ... many wore parkas. The blizzard was intense and many were blinded by it. No matter what shade, most would become lighter, colder.

Black? No, that won't do, either. Asians aren't called Yellows and Indians aren't Reds. We've got to stop that. A person isn't a color. Nor colored by anything, either. Except, perhaps, bias. Besides, it's not accurate, anyway -- there are many different shades, many degrees of difference. Some blacks are even white. Imagine the tragic irony of someone's color targeting him for violence, when he's actually the same "color" as the attackers, only whiter.

We need a new way of looking at things, a different vision, where pigment plays no part. Indeed, we must develop a self-induced Racialitis Pigmentosa, for there are few things more inconsequential than color.

3

Our focus has been misdirected for too many painful years. We have wasted far too much time on the meaningless measurement of melanin and suffered too dearly because of it. We've been children too long. Some are impatient -- those children keep us all from advancing. One day they may be simply left behind.

The glasses are heavy, now ... one lens, fear; the other, loathing ... of that we perceive as strange or foreign. Coke bottle blinders made by the Xenophobia company ... with plants all over the world.

What, exactly, is strange or foreign about another human being? Yes, we're different. Thank God! Otherwise, how boring -- to have everyone just like you, or me -- five billion clones, and all just the same. What a stifling prospect! "Different" is not a synonym for "strange," but is only a new book whose chapters promise the wealth of enrichment ... the deepening of character ... the broadening of our human horizons. We get more, by sharing. Why can't we figure that out? Give it away and it all comes back, many times over. Let's send those glasses back; maybe we can get a refund.

We'll never get those years back, though ... all those horrible days of our youth when we hurt each other so well. Children can be very cruel. But we're older, now, and tired of tantrums. We understand more. Or, at least, we know we should. That's a start.

4

Some would, at least, remember the Peanut man ... not Carter, but Carver. And Rosa and all the others who finally refused to be always last. Many would be too young or unaware of lessons lost in the dust of decades. But there would be new lessons, enforced by the bitter blizzard.

We froze in our collective cold until the spark of '65 burned our parkas. No matter. We got new parkas. Better lining. But we were still cold. And hard. And couldn't see too clearly because of those thick lenses, buffeted by the blizzard.

Then the weather changed. The cold front was ceremoniously supplanted by a bonfire in the basin. Manmade weather. It soon spread to other cities, other states, melting the status cold in other high-pressure zones. And they spoke of it across the water in tones of "I told you so." Hell, they didn't have to rub it in, for we already knew it, or most of us did. We all knew something was wrong and the system wasn't working ... it was harder out there than ever before. But those at the top didn't seem to hear our small voices ... we'd all been trickled down on for years.

Until now. It was a singular event of '92, a pivot upon which we are now precariously balanced, a pivot of change from the bureaucratic snowstorm which has blinded us for so long ... and at such great cost.

4

Many names have been carved in the stone of that heritage ... images come to mind of Love, the Samoan brothers, Hamm, Harlins and Karlin, King and Denny ... and all the others who paid for the ignorance of the age.

Yet the epitaph of these violent times will be a message in vain that doesn't seek an end to them. Our character is greater than those who would ignore us, those bastard sons and whores of power ... for we are the true Americans and builders of the ship of state which those in charge have run aground. Patience will reward us when such chaff is consigned to the wind.

We can't afford the mistake of thinking our current mess was all the doing of others, however. To be honest, we haven't been very good. We've been rather petty and short-tempered. We've hurt each other, too. We've followed the bad example of those who have used and abused us, and we've made it our own. Give it back. It's the folly of lesser minds. We owe each other more. Animals don't have to care. But we do.

The problem is not simply one of Civil Rights, but Human Rights ... and as our numbers increase competition for the same basic requirements, we'll either continue to abuse with abandon or we'll learn to survive together. Choose.

One thing is certain -- those thick lenses are too smoky now to be much good, any more. The King is dead ... Long live the King ... and "Can't we all just ... get along?"