Chapter 8

By the time Terry had reached his junior year of high school, he was well-integrated into the "in" crowd of Pimatau. He was on the varsity basketball team (Roy’s tutelage had paid off with a wicked jump shot), his circle of friends had widened beyond the lunch table crowd of Malachi, Mick and Mary. One thing had changed, Roy had graduated and went off to a junior college. But, despite the loss of his best friend, Terry was feeling at home in the cloistered comfort of the school and, though not making the grades Chester and Madeline had hoped for, he was perking right along with a solid "B" average.

There were other changes, as well. Chester, rounder that he always was, had been taking his grandson with him on some of his nighttime activities - mostly poker and whiskey at local handouts. Chester’s friends took to Terry quite well and, since Chester hung around with the "have nots" of the island and frequented seedy island bars never seen by the tourist set Terry never had trouble fitting in. He liked the outings with his Grandpa as they gave him a diversion from the starched and pressed students at the school.

One of the characters Terry always ran into when he was with Chester was a elderly black man named Franklin. Franklin had escaped the mainland (presumably under shady circumstances) and was living with a white woman on the island. He was an "authentic black man" - at least in Terry’s eyes - as he wore a dashiki and kufi cap everywhere. He would be at the bar Chest frequented most and, while Chester and the mangy group of club flies would play poker and drink, Terry would often have the chance to sit and talk with Franklin. He found him to be a refreshing conversationalist and totally unconventional in his view of the world.

Franklin was an unabashed communist and had even, back in his dark mainland days, had written several books on the black man’s plight in America and how communism was one answer to the oppression of minorities. As he had aged, his hate for the American system of capitalism still raged in his voice whenever he and Terry talked. He reminded Terry of his old mullah in so many ways - hate for America and its treatment of blacks, its decadence and system of values and, more to the point, the imperative that democracy must fall in order for the world to prosper. Terry was strangely drawn to the old militant, not because he was Muslim but because of his fierce defense of the black race.

On this particular night, he spotted Franklin in his usual booth. Chester ordered his usual (double whiskey) and the bartender, knowing Terry and his age, automatically fixed him a coke. Chester waved at the 4 men playing cards in the back of the room and asked Terry if he would be alright while "Grandpa made a little money" (which he never did). Terry said "Sure) and told Chester he would be over talking to Franklin. "Watch out for that old derelict, Terry, He’ll try to get you into a robe and skullcap too!" Chester let out a belly laugh, nodded at Franklin and scurried back to his poker pals.

Franklin greeted Terry with "What’s up, little brother?", obviously happy to have someone to regale with his many stories of past militancy or, at least, just to talk to. "Hey, Franklin! What’s shakin’?"

"Just my bones, young blood, old as I am you can hear them cracking when I walk!" Franklin merely smiled. Terry could never recall him ever laughing out loud. He was solemn and serious and, to Terry, that signified a man who had seen and suffered much. It gave Franklin a sort of gravitas for Terry. Over the couple years he had known him, Terry probably believed the old man’s mishmash of philosophy more than anything he learned on the subject at school.

"White man still got their boot on the neck of the black man, boy, and it ain’t never going to stop." Franklin spewed out just before downing a shot of tequila.

"It’s 1977, Franklin, ain’t the man let up a little?" Terry attempted to lighten the mood.

"No, little brother, he ain’t. Martin came and went; Malcolm came and went, laws got pass "giving" us the vote - like it was a bunch of bananas to make us happy - but nothing ever changes. We all still just niggers on the white man’s plantation. And that’s a fact!"

Terry couldn’t help but think back to the first day at Pimatau when Roy had smirked "Welcome to the plantation.." He remained quiet as the old man was just starting his engines to deliver another of his indictments of white America.

"Just look around at what is happening on the mainland, youngun! Niggers are allowed to succeed in sports, singing, and, now, even acting but you see any color in corporate America? Ain’t no brothers on Wall Street but there are plenty in the ghettos. We are fighting for the crumbs from the white man’s table and that is just what they are handing out. Now, they give us Food Stamps, Food stamps! Our mothers and babies are drowning and the white devils throw us a thread. Ain’t no progress being made - they just rolling Trojan Horses out to us and distracting us from the real tragedies in the communities. It’s like the white men and the Indians - they are buying our souls, this time, with wampum and beads. Sad, little man, sad." He took a breath and downed another shot. He leaned back in his seat and lit a Kool. Both were quiet for a moment.

Terry thought about what the old man had said. He saw the fire in Franklin’s eyes and it, once again, reminded him of his ancient grandfather’s when he spoke of the persecution of blacks, in general, and Muslims, in particular, in the United States. In Franklin, as in no one else he had met in the States, he felt a kinship.

Before Terry could manage to say anything in response, Franklin leaned for another of his diatribes that came like gusts of wind before a thunderstorm. "I’ll tell you another thing, blood: The government is behind all this drug addiction we are seeing in our young blacks. First, they beat them down with their segregation and then, say ‘Hey, little nigger. This will make you feel so good!’. And, then, since they got the brothers selling it, they got the jail full of black men. They got black men killing each other on the streets for a bigger piece of that drug pie. They got brothers forgetting their proud African heritage and reverting back to plantation thinking, slaves to the streets and the ho’s and the drugs." Franklin ended another gust.

This time, Terry quickly jumped in: "But, Franklin, some things must be changing. I mean, the rioting and unrest seems to have stopped in America. More blacks are going to college. These have to be considered positive changes. right?"

"My poor little distracted brother. The rioting has only stopped because there are no longer leaders who give the blacks any hope for a better future. They are filled with apathy. And that apathy fuels their lust for drugs and unclean women and unwanted babies. The only way for the black man to prove he is a man these days is to have as many children by as many women as he can. He ain’t trying to out-breed whitey - he ain’t that smart - he’s trying to show everyone he still has his manhood. And the next generation - these fatherless children - woe be to their lives. Children cannot be prepared for life without a man around to spank that ass when needed and show children what real men are supposed to do. It’s becoming a vicious cycle, Terry [he only called him by his name when he was particularly serious], and there has to be some changes from somewhere. Damned if I can see from where it will come." Franklin drew a long drag on his dying cigarette and slouched back into his seat again, as if exhausted.

Terry reclined back as well. There were so many things running through his mind. Change is what he intended to execute in his glorious plan but he wondered what Franklin would think about his method of change? He would never discuss it with even someone like Franklin who was aware of the injustices of the infidels but hearing his words did fuel the fire kindled by the old grandfather so many years ago.

"Well, maybe someday," Terry ventured, "change will come. Maybe someone black will become President and change everything." Terry watched Franklin closely for his response.

It came slowly. First, a smirk came across the wrinkled old face. He crushed out his cigarette and deliberately and slowly took another shot of tequila. Finally he leaned out of his seat and closer to Terry. Finally, he spoke: "A black President? A BLACK President? Nigga, please! Not in my life and probably not in yours. But it is a good dream, little brother. A good dream." He leaned back in his seat and lit another Kool. He ever so briefly smiled and closed his eyes as if trying to imagine. After the briefest repose, he managed a few concluding words: "Maybe you will be President, someday, little brother. Now, that would really be something." He closed his eyes again and resumed enjoying his cigarette.

Terry could tell their conversation was over. He, too, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He visualized, as he had done thousands of times before, his mission for Islam. He silently reiterated his vows, made first so long ago, that he would succeed. He wished he could tell Franklin of his goals but knew it was forbidden. For now, he would dream, like the old warrior across the table from him, of conquest and revolution.

Unlike Franklin, Terry’s dream had wings.