Stage III: Rage & Destroy

I DO NOT HAVE A DREAM

Because of the difficulties and frustrations of a lifetime, I do not have a dream.
I do not dream that this nation has already risen to live out the true meaning of its creed.
We hold this truth to be self-evident: all men will not be created equally.

I do not dream that the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will sit at the table and feast on the brotherhood of man.
I do not dream that this desert state swelters with the heat of "in" justice and oppression, and that it will suck dry any oasis of freedom leaving just us.

I will bear no children lest they be judged by the color of their skin and not the content of their characters.

Representatives of these "UNITED STATES," whose's lips will always drip with words of interposition and nullification, will never allow little Black boys and little Black girls to join hands with little White girls and little White boys and walk together as sisters and brothers.

Where every failure is exalted and every success is made low, the plain places have been made rough. For the rest of my life I will feel it.
This is the faith that I live with: I will never be free.

Land where my father died, land where my mother died, land where I have died due to acts of pilgrims' pride; this world we must divide, to let freedom ring.

When we let it ring, all the gods' children (Black to White, Asian to Latino) will be able to address that almighty question "Can we all get along?"

No!

The Black cleaning woman stopped outside my office around midnight. She stood at the threshold and looked at me. "Good evening," I said without looking up from my computer screen. A few months ago, I could have ignored her.
"What are you doing in this office?" she asked.
I looked up at her frowning face just long enough to say, "It's my office. I'm Dana Kerry."
She shuffled into the room. "You are?" She was a Black woman in a large blue dress and floral apron. Her face was caked with make-up that was too light for her complexion. I guessed her age to be somewhere between fifty and sixty. "I've been cleaning this office for almost a year and I never would've guessed you was Black."
I kept my eyes down, hoping she'd take the hint.

"Well I am."

"How are you?"

I smiled weakly at her. "Busy, thank you."
"You're well thought of around here."
I looked up. "What makes you say that?"
"I read things. Your name's on a lot of memorandums." Her reading glasses sat haphazardly in her platinum blond hair.
I leaned forward in my chair and folded my hands. "What did they say?"

She waved her arm vaguely. "How you should work on this assignment, or that." She shrugged. "I'm glad you're Black." I went back to my computer.
She put on her glasses and pretended to dust while she read the papers on my desk and occasionally watched me out of the corner of her eye. "I'll bet your congregation is proud of you." She stopped to give my shoulder a pat, then went back to dusting. "Who's your pastor?"
I answered absently. "I don't attend church." As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew I'd made a mistake. A feeling of dread came over me. I pressed save on the computer and waited.
She put her hands on her hips and frowned.

"Aren't you saved?"

"Not exactly."

She responded sharply. "It can't be not exactly. You either are, or you aren't. Which is it?"
"I'm not."

She shook her head. "And you've been blessed with all of these things. Don't you appreciate what you've got?"

"Sometimes."

"Well, if you appreciate it, you should go to church and thank the Lord. Don't you know the Lord could very easily take all of this away from you?"

"It's not so much."

She snorted. "A lot of people would do a back-flip to get all this." She waved her hand to encompass the cubical. "I'd take it."

"Believe me, you don't want it."

"Look at me. I'm cleaning up. When I was your age, I couldn't have something like this. Why don't you come down to my church for a nice visit?"

"No, thank you."

"If you don't get saved, you're going to burn in the pit."

"Yes, ma'am."

She frowned at my easy acquiescence. "You think your mortal soul is a joke?"

"No, I don't think it's a joke."

She leaned against the front of my desk. "Why don't you want to come?"

I tried honesty. "I don't like being around a bunch of hypocrites who talk about God and goodness on Sundays and try to outdo the devil the rest of the week."

She put her hands on her hips. "People aren't perfect. You don't go to church to be around people. You go to be around God."
I tried logic. "Do I have to go to church to be around God?"

She was sharp enough to know the question was a trap, but not sharp enough to know how to manage it. "No. God is everywhere. He knows you and your works. He understands how you hate the hypocrites. He hates them, too. But doing good work and hating hypocrites won't save you. Only those who praise him will be spared." She paused, then looked hopeful. "So you pray at home, then?"

A lie would have shortened the lecture, but perversely, I told the truth. "No, I don't."
She started pacing and preaching. "He is coming soon. Amen. Come, Lord Jesus." I sat back in my chair and thought about how I'd word the conclusion of my report.

When she noticed my glazed expression, she changed tactics. "You're a sinner. The Lord doesn't like sinners. If you sin deliberately, after receiving the knowledge of truth, you will die without mercy. The Lord will judge his people, and he will say, vengeance is mine I will repay." In a way, it was funny. Here was this cleaning woman in a dirty, old dress and run over shoes lecturing me like she had the answer. Then a look of outrage came upon her face. "You aren't one of them Muslims, are you?"

"No."

She nodded and sat in one of my chairs. "God sent his only son to save the sinners and his son was crucified by Pilot. He died so we would be forgiven of our sins-so we can go to heaven."
I knew she really believed what she was saying, and that she was only trying to save my soul, but her time was up. "I'm sorry. I can't talk about this any longer. I have to finish my report."

"Oh, so you don't think you have time for the Lord?" She bunched her rag in her fist.
"Not this evening."

She straightened her back and sat forward in her chair. "There's always time for the Lord." Then she took a deep breath and prepared to continue.
Polite measures had failed. It didn't appear like she would ever wind down, so I tried another tact. "Christianity is the excuse the White man used when he invaded America and killed the Americans. Christianity is the excuse the White man used when he kidnapped, enslaved, and killed the Africans. Christianity continues to be his excuse when he rapes, mutilates, and attempts to subjugate the world. I am not interested in Christianity. I'm suppressed enough."

Rather than look offended, she appeared even more interested. "Well, now we're getting somewhere. Tell me more about why you won't believe."

I had to get her out of there. "OK. I don't go to church or actively practice a religion because all of the images of God, his angels, and the saints, are of White people. While you apparently have no trouble re-making yourself in His image," I paused pointedly. "I do. I refuse to pray to a White god, and if it means I'm going to hell, then so be it."

Surely, I thought, such blasphemy would disgust her. Surely, I thought, in the face of my vehemence, she would rise and storm from the room. But she didn't. Instead, she looked at me like I was the stupid one. "Everybody knows Jesus was a Black." Then rose and walked slowly from the office...

I reread the letter one evening after a particularly upsetting day at the office. I looked at the picture and decided they'd enclosed it to make sure there weren't any misunderstandings about the type of Kerry they were looking for. Then after taking a moment to fantasize about the guaranteed confrontations, I wrote to cousin Phil...

Introduction
Stage I: Fledglings
Stage II: Chocolate Cream
Stage III: Rage & Destroy
Stage IV: Wanna Be Blacks
Stage V: Empowered
Stage VI: Passing