Our Man in the Dark (40 page)

1988

A picture comes to me in my dreams, clear and unaltered. President Johnson sits at his wooden desk and signs the Civil Rights Act of 1964. He hands the pen to Martin, patting him on the back and shoulders as Martin leans in to add his signature as well. Martin looks toward the cameras almost stupefied, amazed, and definitely grateful, but there is an element of disbelief in his eyes.

I try to place myself there, but it's hard. When I do so, the image fades in and out, losing clarity. I can now trace this effect to the deep fear of being on the wrong side of history. We wish and hope for great change, but few of us actually expect it. That is what triggers Martin's look of amazement—the shock that not all of us can see that change is inevitable. He knew that one day America would have to wrestle with itself to live up to its ideals and promises. He saw it. I did not. I am angry with myself for not having the vision or the faith to see it. I am angry for choosing the wrong side.

As the status quo expanded, some of us wanted to sneak under the fence, including me. However, he had a greater vision: one of change, one of hope, a vision that I aligned myself with, out of pure pragmatism—a desire to hedge my bets. Maybe I was fearful of appearing cynical, but the foresight belonged to him, not to me. That vision, that courage—it fills me with shame to think of myself on his side. Now I see I was on their side—the side scared of change. Count, Mathis, Strobe—all of us are on the side scared of change, all of us desperate for inclusion, to receive that pat on the back from the establishment. It pains me to say it, but I feel I am part of an old breed of Negro that dreams inch by inch, while these new brothers and sisters dream in leaps and bounds.

When I think of the movement, it seems that the media has provided
my memory. It's the same black-and-white photos and footage of marches and beatings that everyone associates with the time. And to the disappointment of the occasionally interested young person, I offer no insight on the era beyond the superficial. Although the other ghosts have faded, there is one image that continues to haunt me.

I still see that man on his knees, twenty years later. I have since read a book that a prominent historian had written about that time. Scholars consider it the preeminent account of that period:
The King Years.
(There are other works, but I never dared to read them, fearing what they told or didn't.) I read the pages with careful interest, though pretending to be indifferent to whether or not my name might pop up in a paragraph. I got halfway through the dense text before going to the index and taking a look. I was there. But not in a chapter dedicated to exposing me, or a section intent on condemnation. Just a simple but troubling line buried in the voluminous notes:

This book—and so many other opportunities—would not have been possible without the peaceful crusade of Martin Luther King, Jr. I thank him, and his fellow patriots—both remembered and forgotten—for their vision, courage, and sacrifice.

My thanks and gratitude go out to the following:

Scott Mendel, for believing in my work and finding it a home.

Malaika Adero, for granting me a home, encouragement, and guidance. Todd Hunter and the hardworking folks at Atria.

The Public School Heroes: Ms. Taylor, Mrs. Poulet, Mrs. Thrower, Ms. Balton, Mrs. Mullen, and Mr. Drulias.

The invaluable books on the era by David Garrow, Taylor Branch, and Michael Eric Dyson.

The Jacob K. Javits Fellowship. Jonathan Ames. The New York University Creative Writing Program and my teachers: E. L. Doctorow, Nicholas Christopher, and Chuck Wachtel.

Charles Salzberg and the New York Writer's Workshop.

Samuel Maio, for believing early (even when I did not).

My family: Khadija El-Amin, Leroy Harrison, Sr., Pauline Harrison, Robert Avery, Sr., Dena Avery-DeGuzman, Butch DeGuzman, Alberta Finch, Sweetie Dean, Uncle Junior, Mildred, Earl, Latiah Hill, Wanda Thacker, John Harrison, Moses Gora, Larry Miller, Melissa, Megan, Jeffrey, Paula Mathis-Ellebie, Tom Ellebie, Steven and Vivian Myers, and all the other family and friends that I have failed to mention. Especially:

Eileen Miller-Myers, for your open-hearted generosity.

Doris Avery, for your wisdom and love.

Roy Harrison, for introducing me to faith and imagination.

Debra Harrison, for your strength, for all you've endured, for me, for
everything.

Jennifer Harrison, my partner, best friend, soul mate, and inspiration.

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