His Only Begotten Son
Over yonder, God was watching us. He farm the land. We grow like
cotton. He knowed what we was doing. But nuthin’ don’t change here
in Mississippi. A hot night that’s all it was when I saw his Face. Crosses
was burning somewhere with white folk dressing up in their sheets
reminding us of our place here like we don’t already know it. Right
now, they doing what they’ve always done: They banging on whatever
they could get their filthy hands on playing banjoes and fiddles at Kings
Tavern while drinking those devilish spirits from stills. They stomp
their feet, sing like ugly hogs knee deep in the mud, and dances with
each other. But things are melting like butter ‘round here. The wooden
shacks nailed together. The outhouses smelling to high Heavens. The
motor carriages that had just started coming down the highway. The
fine horses we still had that got spooked for no reason – they was
all dripping like one of ‘em fancy European paintings, not yet done.
They knowed what was coming. I mean, the horses know when an
earthquake comes before it hits. Heck, even the ladies’ were melting,
too. Their heads, arms, breasts and backsides jiggling ‘n writhing. The
Holy Spirit got hold of ‘em. You needed a deaf ear. Even the Southern
Magnolias was melting into pools of whites, greens, and yellows. God
bless ‘em. The green grass was burnt crisp, too. The South was a damn
crucible where Lucifer and his hellish legions ran the roost where they
lynched some for looking the wrong way. I once saw them with out of
the corner of my eyes when I was working in a field of cotton. I wasn’t
even a man back then, just a terrible scarecrow that only said, “Yessire,
lemme git dat for y’all.”
All’s I wanted was to be a man.
To guide my own Ship to ’nuther shore.
Is that too much?
But God listens. He knows. He stay working. The gray men flourish
like weeds here. There’s only tiny patches of green grass growing in
them tormented fields. And the clouds are blowing across this horrible
place whispering terrible things. Can’t you hear ‘em? “Where’s you at?”
“I’m heres.” “They crazy.” “I knows.” “Somethin’ needs to be done.” “That’s
just the way it bees.” God’s gonna smite this place with the back of his
Hand like Sodom and Gomorrah. It’s gonna be the way you might kill
a bug-eyed fly during a summer picnic. The stars are his eyes. He sees
everything, and damn if his face ain’t stretched across the dark sky and
then some. I even heard him guffaw when I told him a joke ‘bout how
he needs to get his black ass down here among these white folk. He got
it. The stars smiled. Twinkled. God ain’t no dummy even though white
folks think he’s stupid and gonna git amnesia and forget their own bad
deeds after a shot of whiskey or two.
Don’t nobody know the answer.
Why?
Cause none of ‘em ask the right question.
I’ve been living here darn near my whole life. And I’m taar in my
bones of being a share cropper with high rents and low pay. Can only
make a dyin’. Not a livin’. Times, I bees scared like a witch-hazel tree
shaking its mighty leaves in a storm. But the white folks scared, too.
They just don’t show it. Y’all know what I’m talking ‘bout. A different
kinda fear that makes you lose your mind over a long period of time
and you wind up doing mean things like when they gone and lynched
Danny Davis over rumors that he raped a white woman. Fresh smelly
horse manure, I called it. The Devil’s got a rich sugary tongue for words
while the Truth gives out bitter words, sometimes. Nuthin’ but the
furies and a terrible witch hunt when that happened as the white folk
have their own strange way of doin’ things even if they don’t make sense
to everyone else.
Danny been running hisself all day like I done told ‘em before. He
was hot as molasses on a fire stove wanting a cool drink. That’s all.
He’s not a monster. But they chased him down like blood hounds and
grabbed him running through a bunch of pines. Truth be told, it was
nuthin’ but a damn whistle. But the white folk told him this woman
wasn’t his’n. They drug him back and told him they don’t want none of
their blood mixing with the color folk, so they takes him and they drug
him to a large oak tree.
They built a fire like no one never seen. They git it going. The red and
orange flames licking the dark skies. Poor Danny was tied like a Negro
slave in the old days when you was whupped with forty lashes before
you had to walk to Cavalry. But the crowd was disappointed he wasn’t
burning fast enough. They howled. Booed like at a baseball game gone
bad. Cursed Mr. Harper for his work in making a too small wood pile
as his smoking shoes just weren’t enough for ‘em to feast on. “Damn,
nigger. He was late for work every day tending my fields.” “Now, he’s late
for his funeral, too!” “Gonna burn and peel the blackness right off of him
like catfish overcooked.” “Teach the others a lesson, too.” “Finishing the
work that Nathan Bedford Forest started after the Civil War when he got
the Klan goin’.” “By God, he’d be proud of us, all of us, along with Stonewall
Jackson before they brought old Dixie down to her knees.”
The fires lashed at Danny with a hot vengeance only white folks can
give to ‘nuther. I squinted some and could see that it was Satan’s hungry
tongue. His belly was stuffed with woebegone souls and was famished
again. There was demons everywhere making hay and misery, and
turning this world upside down in ways it wasn’t meant to be.
“Why he ain’t burning like he should be?
“Who the hell he think he is?”
Danny then said calmly as he might be a preacher in a Sunday mass
– “I wish some of you gentlemen would be Christian enough to cut my
throat.”
The fires were burning down. They knowed what they was doing.
Many of the men were afraid of getting some more wood. They be
missing the final act as though it might be holding an everlasting secret.
Danny’s clothes had been burnt off. He hung nude as a newborn as the
rosy fingers of dawn had come to take him Home. Most of his flesh
had been burnt off up to his thighs. The white folk roasted him like a
chicken. Maybe I could try and stop it. But that wouldn’t do no good.
The white folk had their blood up. The crowd jeered him. They made
terrible shouts like those savage tribes down yonder, and yelped as
they were dancin’ and singin’. A few men rushed and got more wood as
Danny still had his eyes open to the fury of hell.
They knowed what they was doing.
Fiddling with Black Magic.
They was fixin’ to have Satan himself swallow this tiny earthy morsel
whole.
The fires began leaping ‘gain. Savaging poor Danny worse than any
foul mouthed slave owner could’ve done.
I saw those white folks doing a ragtime dance. The old Mr. Andrews
with his jowls shaking like a pig’s and shuffling his feet in his muddy
pen. Ms. Louise Anne Jenson was shaking her bony backside trying
to get the men to notice her. She had less meat on her than a starved
chicken. Annabelle Jackson began shouting like she was in church or
somethin’: “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” Then they began all chiming in
‘n rollin’ in the aisles like the Holy Spirit got hold of ‘em. But when I
squinted my eyes, I sees that they were all red-faced and wily demons
and this place was Hell and Satan had his pitchfork. They was standin’
there. They was fixin’ to do this to all of us. I could go climb like Moses
to Mt. Sinai hisself. But I knowed that wouldn’t do no good. I couldn’t
take it no more. So I ran into the fields. Got on my knees and I began
prayin’. Like I never had before in my life. It was at a fever pitch. I lost
myself. Regained it. Felt a surge of energy –and then I saw the stars
and a myriad number of galaxies – and then I saws his face – the face
of God, black as darkness can git and with the bright stars for his eyes.
He smiled at me. I knowed it was Him. It couldn’t be no other. Then he
said to me like the wind whisperin’ through the sycamore trees that he
would send his only begotten son.
A black boy came forth.
“I needs you to go to Cairo.”
“Egypt?”
“No, Georgia.”
“And den what?”
“Wears one of my uniforms.”
“A rabbi’s or a priest’s.”
“Nope. A Brooklyn Dodger’s uniform.”
“And den walk on water like Jesus hisself?”
“Nope.”
“Part the Red Sea?”
“Nope, my Son.”
“Well, den what?”
“Play baseball! Break the color barrier! Become Rookie of the Year!
Six-time All Star might do and make sure you break dose hearts of
da white massas down there when you at it!”
“Why, Diddy?”
“Cause when dey sees my Black Face up here after deys die, ain’t so
surprised.”
“And?”
“Hit for da cycle, my Son. Steal Bases!”
“And?”
“I dunno. Make it up as you go. But a .311 Lifetime average wouldn’t
be bad for starters.”
“Why?”
“Cause ever’where’s da same these days. Da white man gots all da
power.”
“And what else, Diddy?”
“Baseball’s da only game where a Black man can waves a stick at a
white man down there and git away with it.”
Over yonder, God was watching us. He farm the land. We grow like
cotton. He knowed what we was doing. But nuthin’ don’t change here
in Mississippi. A hot night that’s all it was when I saw his Face. Crosses
was burning somewhere with white folk dressing up in their sheets
reminding us of our place here like we don’t already know it. Right
now, they doing what they’ve always done: They banging on whatever
they could get their filthy hands on playing banjoes and fiddles at Kings
Tavern while drinking those devilish spirits from stills. They stomp
their feet, sing like ugly hogs knee deep in the mud, and dances with
each other. But things are melting like butter ‘round here. The wooden
shacks nailed together. The outhouses smelling to high Heavens. The
motor carriages that had just started coming down the highway. The
fine horses we still had that got spooked for no reason – they was
all dripping like one of ‘em fancy European paintings, not yet done.
They knowed what was coming. I mean, the horses know when an
earthquake comes before it hits. Heck, even the ladies’ were melting,
too. Their heads, arms, breasts and backsides jiggling ‘n writhing. The
Holy Spirit got hold of ‘em. You needed a deaf ear. Even the Southern
Magnolias was melting into pools of whites, greens, and yellows. God
bless ‘em. The green grass was burnt crisp, too. The South was a damn
crucible where Lucifer and his hellish legions ran the roost where they
lynched some for looking the wrong way. I once saw them with out of
the corner of my eyes when I was working in a field of cotton. I wasn’t
even a man back then, just a terrible scarecrow that only said, “Yessire,
lemme git dat for y’all.”
All’s I wanted was to be a man.
To guide my own Ship to ’nuther shore.
Is that too much?
But God listens. He knows. He stay working. The gray men flourish
like weeds here. There’s only tiny patches of green grass growing in
them tormented fields. And the clouds are blowing across this horrible
place whispering terrible things. Can’t you hear ‘em? “Where’s you at?”
“I’m heres.” “They crazy.” “I knows.” “Somethin’ needs to be done.” “That’s
just the way it bees.” God’s gonna smite this place with the back of his
Hand like Sodom and Gomorrah. It’s gonna be the way you might kill
a bug-eyed fly during a summer picnic. The stars are his eyes. He sees
everything, and damn if his face ain’t stretched across the dark sky and
then some. I even heard him guffaw when I told him a joke ‘bout how
he needs to get his black ass down here among these white folk. He got
it. The stars smiled. Twinkled. God ain’t no dummy even though white
folks think he’s stupid and gonna git amnesia and forget their own bad
deeds after a shot of whiskey or two.
Don’t nobody know the answer.
Why?
Cause none of ‘em ask the right question.
I’ve been living here darn near my whole life. And I’m taar in my
bones of being a share cropper with high rents and low pay. Can only
make a dyin’. Not a livin’. Times, I bees scared like a witch-hazel tree
shaking its mighty leaves in a storm. But the white folks scared, too.
They just don’t show it. Y’all know what I’m talking ‘bout. A different
kinda fear that makes you lose your mind over a long period of time
and you wind up doing mean things like when they gone and lynched
Danny Davis over rumors that he raped a white woman. Fresh smelly
horse manure, I called it. The Devil’s got a rich sugary tongue for words
while the Truth gives out bitter words, sometimes. Nuthin’ but the
furies and a terrible witch hunt when that happened as the white folk
have their own strange way of doin’ things even if they don’t make sense
to everyone else.
Danny been running hisself all day like I done told ‘em before. He
was hot as molasses on a fire stove wanting a cool drink. That’s all.
He’s not a monster. But they chased him down like blood hounds and
grabbed him running through a bunch of pines. Truth be told, it was
nuthin’ but a damn whistle. But the white folk told him this woman
wasn’t his’n. They drug him back and told him they don’t want none of
their blood mixing with the color folk, so they takes him and they drug
him to a large oak tree.
They built a fire like no one never seen. They git it going. The red and
orange flames licking the dark skies. Poor Danny was tied like a Negro
slave in the old days when you was whupped with forty lashes before
you had to walk to Cavalry. But the crowd was disappointed he wasn’t
burning fast enough. They howled. Booed like at a baseball game gone
bad. Cursed Mr. Harper for his work in making a too small wood pile
as his smoking shoes just weren’t enough for ‘em to feast on. “Damn,
nigger. He was late for work every day tending my fields.” “Now, he’s late
for his funeral, too!” “Gonna burn and peel the blackness right off of him
like catfish overcooked.” “Teach the others a lesson, too.” “Finishing the
work that Nathan Bedford Forest started after the Civil War when he got
the Klan goin’.” “By God, he’d be proud of us, all of us, along with Stonewall
Jackson before they brought old Dixie down to her knees.”
The fires lashed at Danny with a hot vengeance only white folks can
give to ‘nuther. I squinted some and could see that it was Satan’s hungry
tongue. His belly was stuffed with woebegone souls and was famished
again. There was demons everywhere making hay and misery, and
turning this world upside down in ways it wasn’t meant to be.
“Why he ain’t burning like he should be?
“Who the hell he think he is?”
Danny then said calmly as he might be a preacher in a Sunday mass
– “I wish some of you gentlemen would be Christian enough to cut my
throat.”
The fires were burning down. They knowed what they was doing.
Many of the men were afraid of getting some more wood. They be
missing the final act as though it might be holding an everlasting secret.
Danny’s clothes had been burnt off. He hung nude as a newborn as the
rosy fingers of dawn had come to take him Home. Most of his flesh
had been burnt off up to his thighs. The white folk roasted him like a
chicken. Maybe I could try and stop it. But that wouldn’t do no good.
The white folk had their blood up. The crowd jeered him. They made
terrible shouts like those savage tribes down yonder, and yelped as
they were dancin’ and singin’. A few men rushed and got more wood as
Danny still had his eyes open to the fury of hell.
They knowed what they was doing.
Fiddling with Black Magic.
They was fixin’ to have Satan himself swallow this tiny earthy morsel
whole.
The fires began leaping ‘gain. Savaging poor Danny worse than any
foul mouthed slave owner could’ve done.
I saw those white folks doing a ragtime dance. The old Mr. Andrews
with his jowls shaking like a pig’s and shuffling his feet in his muddy
pen. Ms. Louise Anne Jenson was shaking her bony backside trying
to get the men to notice her. She had less meat on her than a starved
chicken. Annabelle Jackson began shouting like she was in church or
somethin’: “Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” Then they began all chiming in
‘n rollin’ in the aisles like the Holy Spirit got hold of ‘em. But when I
squinted my eyes, I sees that they were all red-faced and wily demons
and this place was Hell and Satan had his pitchfork. They was standin’
there. They was fixin’ to do this to all of us. I could go climb like Moses
to Mt. Sinai hisself. But I knowed that wouldn’t do no good. I couldn’t
take it no more. So I ran into the fields. Got on my knees and I began
prayin’. Like I never had before in my life. It was at a fever pitch. I lost
myself. Regained it. Felt a surge of energy –and then I saw the stars
and a myriad number of galaxies – and then I saws his face – the face
of God, black as darkness can git and with the bright stars for his eyes.
He smiled at me. I knowed it was Him. It couldn’t be no other. Then he
said to me like the wind whisperin’ through the sycamore trees that he
would send his only begotten son.
A black boy came forth.
“I needs you to go to Cairo.”
“Egypt?”
“No, Georgia.”
“And den what?”
“Wears one of my uniforms.”
“A rabbi’s or a priest’s.”
“Nope. A Brooklyn Dodger’s uniform.”
“And den walk on water like Jesus hisself?”
“Nope.”
“Part the Red Sea?”
“Nope, my Son.”
“Well, den what?”
“Play baseball! Break the color barrier! Become Rookie of the Year!
Six-time All Star might do and make sure you break dose hearts of
da white massas down there when you at it!”
“Why, Diddy?”
“Cause when dey sees my Black Face up here after deys die, ain’t so
surprised.”
“And?”
“Hit for da cycle, my Son. Steal Bases!”
“And?”
“I dunno. Make it up as you go. But a .311 Lifetime average wouldn’t
be bad for starters.”
“Why?”
“Cause ever’where’s da same these days. Da white man gots all da
power.”
“And what else, Diddy?”
“Baseball’s da only game where a Black man can waves a stick at a
white man down there and git away with it.”
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