A Tale of Race.

A Tale of Race.( Consider if you will this narrative)-:

You return home to find the most beloved person in your life missing. The two of you live together. After searching through the house innocently for about fifteen minutes, gently calling your beloved’s name, but with mounting tension and gently rising volume, you finally find her. She is not all in one piece, as they say. Her remains lie in a bloodied rest room, her head severed from the remainder of her body, a life less expression of shock upon what could have once been called her face.

Now, needless to say, you are upset, taken aback, and furious.

So naturally, having registered what you have witnessed, inferred what has happened, and come more or less to an even keel about the whole thing, you surmise two things:

·         There is no chance of reviving your beloved, restoring her to health, within the known physical limitations of this Universe and the human frame of reference.

·         You should probably inform some authorities about this.

After all: You would HATE for them to blame this on YOU!

The police, having shown up, inform you that your spouse (or what ever) was the target of what they suspect to be Gang Violence.

And you ask, curiously of course: What is Gang Violence?

They reply: We do not really know. All we know is that our job description says that Gangs are our avowed enemy.

This explanation checks out with you, you think, given the nature of your predicament. Given the shock that you have at finding what once had been your lover now trans-muted into a truncated corpse, you can empathise with the Police for the anti-pathy.

So then you venture to find a member of this supposed “Gang” and to address your concerns with him.

You meet one one day on the streets. His loud, abrasive and overtly violent music, his style of “urban” dress, et cetera all indicate his affiliation. You wonder briefly (that is, for a brief time. Not wondering about his briefs) if you are essentialising him. Then you surmise that he probably has bigger worries, given the possibility of being essentialised by the members of a rival gang. So you surmount your apprehension and unhesitantlingly approach the gentleman.

No, he says. I do not know who killed your wife.

That is quite unfortunate, you say. But you are unsatisfied. You inquire:

But WHY do you think that she was murdered?

And at that point he guffaws.

Well, THAT is obvious. Had you asked me that, I could have told you the answer IMMEDIATELY. (Bro.)

You persist in your curiosity. He explains:

She was killed because of her race.

You stand puzzled, for a moment. Then you ask:

With whom was she racing?

Laughing again, with a touch of hesitation, he replies: She was racing with the members of the other races, quite probably.

And he leaves you standing there, puzzled.

Over the course of an other short while you meet an other gentleman. This man is cleverer, and he seems to have the same affiliation.

You ask, care full not to ask the same question twice, even of two different people, so as to avoid the banality of redundancy:

Why do gangs exist?

And he replies, sternly: They exist because of the Police.

This puzzles you even more. The Police up until now had vowed to be enemies of the Gang, bent on their destruction. Now this fellow seems to suggest that THEY are responsible for the Gang, and by association for the death of your beloved.

So you ask: How is it that the Police gave way to the existence of their sworn enemy?

And the lad replies: Racism. And he walks off.

You follow him.

Wait! You say. What is racism?

He turns about, looking at you as though you were mad. Following a few words of anger that you can not comprehend, he calms down to explain:

RACISM is DISCIMINATION based upon RACE.

That word again. Race. You ask: What do you mean by Race? What do you mean by discrimination? Is it how one judges a race?

Of course, you still have in mind this thought: Whom was my beloved racing to begin with? Who was the judge of this race?

The lad replies: Yes. It is the entire system by which we judge race. And we judge people ACCORDING to their race.

Your befuddlement grows deeper and deeper. Yet this starts to make sense: Not only is a judge required to determine the outcome of a race. So it is that the participants must have their character judged depending upon how they behave over the COURSE of that race.

Bit how does any of this justify your love’s brutal murder? You remain puzzled and un-convinced.

You ask: So why is it that the judges of a race are so violent?

And he replies: Because they they are racist! Their souls are corrupted.

You pardon his out-burst, and you ask again.

He says: Look. I might be wrong. But it looks as though you are a bit naive. (What’s that mean, you think.) Let me break it down for you. Real simple. Race is a VERY COMPLICATED MATTER (all ready your eyes begin to droop, wondering how elaborate the race-track is and why your wife never told you about her participation in such an event.) and here’s the thing: Most of the JUDGES OF RACE were them SELVES not only GUILTY of Racism, but VICTIMS of it.

And he walks away, leaving you thinking only of this:

If THEY were victims, how could they be guilty? How could they commit a crime if their heads were all so cut off?

You decide to go out and find a Racist. You ask around. Finally some one refers you to a group of young men and women convened in private. They seem to take kindly enough to you. You notice faintly a kind of uniformity of appearance amidst them. But you figure that it is probably just by virtue of their clothing.

So you ask one of these young men: Who here is the Judge of Race?

And he replies: THE judge? I am not THE judge. Neither is any man. There is only ONE judge, and he is not only here but every where.

You venture: What is his name.

And he replies: JEHOVAH!

AT this point all of this non-sense is starting to bug you. Your curiosity has reached a limit point. Now you just want justice. You ask: Who was it that killed my wife?

And the crowd replies: The OTHER!

So you ask where you might find this Other. And they refer you to a congregation of this group of people.

You visit the congregation, much as you had visited the prior congregation, but now with greater restlessness and a growing sense of cognitive discomfort.

You ask the members of this group, who seem less uniform in appearance but all so to take less kindly to you: Who killed my wife?

And some say: THE OTHER.

Others say: We do not know.

And still others say: We killed her. But we were provoked.

Then others more said: No. We did not kill her. Our kind did. [You pause to think: “Kind?” Does he mean to say that it was KIND for her to be killed?] Yet they were provoked.

And finally you have to interrupt:

But I thought that it was RACISM that killed her!

And your pro-clamation is met with a hushed silence. One elderly woman breaks the silence, laughing gingerly as though to calm her neighbours, explaining: Oh but my poor dear. What might YOU know of RACISM?

This angers you now. You feel as though you had drunk a touch too much alcohol and your passion is beginning to sub-vert your Reason.

Look, madam. I do not know who it was that killed her. But I was told that RACISM was the cause. I have suffered a long day on the behalf of this menace. I should like you to acknowledge my experience in the matter as a cause for respect to my knowledge.

And she replies: But my dear. If it were RACISM that you were looking for, why did you come to us? Why not go to The Other?

I was told that *Y’ALL* were The Other.

Perplexed, she asks: By whom?

By *THEM*.

And she slaps her hand to her mouth, then draws it aside, and says: Well of COURSE. It is *THEY* that are The Other! And she is met with murmurs of agreement.

Now you are TRULY bamboozled. You would leave, but you have no where left to go but home.

You ask: Look. Where might I find the source of RACISM?

And a man of middle age and still fair health says to you: My dear boy. No one knows the SOURCE of it.

But then why was my wife killed?

Ahh. That we know not the source of either.

You walk away, pondering all of this.

What if the SOURCE of Racism was a choice on the part of its believers?

What if it was that same CHOICE to behave irrationally and violently that was responsible for your wife’s death?

But then you put the mad thought from your mind, as you approach a young boy in gang attire.

You ask him if he has ever heard of Gang Violence.

His eyes widen.

THAT’S RACIST! he yells at you.

Stunned, you look up, like a frightened animal who is all so carnally excited, and feverishly scan your surroundings.

But the alley-way of your meeting appears un-occupied.

You return your gaze to the boy.

Where is the Racist? Who is he? What does he look like??

And the boy points at you, to your infinite puzzlement, and pro-claims:

YOU are the Racist! He looks like YOU! Just like THEY said you would!

And you ask, after a moment coming to your senses, for if not the second then the dozenth time that day:

How am *I* the Racist? What have I done to judge what race?

And he replies: It is quite simple. There are some things that I can do because of MY race that YOU cannot do because of YOUR Race because when YOU do these things you are RACIST. They told me so.

Not bothering to wonder how the boy knew Them, you reply:

So what makes it Racist if *I* do it?

But the boy hears some thing you do not, and suddenly and swiftly, he turns about to run home.

Dm.A.A.