Reparation Anxiety
James Lewis
REPARATION ANXIETY
By
James W. Lewis
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PUBLISHED BY:
Reparation Anxiety
Copyright © 2010 by James W. Lewis
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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From the upcoming book “Black People Can’t Be Republican!” (Nov 2012)
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 of the stairs, still trying to identify the two men occupying space in the same room, who were 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 about 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,” his father said, shooting 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 gentleman 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 steps. “I heard a little ruckus going on before I walked in.”
“Oh, 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 nowhere.”
“Have you discussed the topic in History class at all, son?”
There he goes. Dad was slick. Malcolm knew that ploy.
But Malcolm appreciated his dad’s open door policy to hard-topic discussions. He’d involved Malcolm in current events since childhood—after making him watch the news every day, of course. Dad had always fed Malcolm a line to reel in his opinions and thoughts on various topics, especially those involving the black community. Eventually, the quest to find answers took root since Malcolm 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 have 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 said, “I’m not trying to get into it with your son. You and I have had way too many heated debates over the years.”
“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 in 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 yo
ung 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 said, nodding.
“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 went 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 can probably make the point about Barack, too. He’s not really ‘black, black’ according to some people.”
“And that’s my point, the president is bi-racial,” Malcolm said. “Half cup milk, other half chocolate syrup.”
“But mix them together you still get chocolate
