Mat Johnson - Loving Day

“They were the ghosts of crackheads,” it edits me as saying.

“Tal!” I yell in real life but I no longer feel her behind me. I’m described in a screen tag as “Witness’s Father.” The voice-over says I am a longtime Germantown resident so it can interrupt me until I blurt out my next comment out of context.

“I saw something. Definitely,” my image tells the world.

The anchors are laughing. One says, “That’s some story!” Then the other says, “Skeptics can come see for themselves. Loudin Mansion will be open for tours this Friday, June twelfth, for the Loving Day Festival. Loving Day celebrates the anniversary of the Loving v. Virginia verdict that allowed interracial marriage nationally.” It then goes black. Replay , the screen dares.

I look over at the tent. The flap is down, the zipper is tight. She’s in there.

“We are not having tours of the house tomorrow,” I say to it.

“It’s my house. I can do what I want,” comes back to me.

I scroll down the page, look at the comments. Some Mulattopian, surely, has posted an event listing for Loving Day, under the name CrispusAttacks. Besides that, though, lies the subconscious of ugly America. PatriotGoEagles writes, Ghosts come from trauma. That woman was probably raped by that black guy .

“Haters gonna hate,” Tal says after I read it to her. The sub-comment discussion for this entry reads like watercooler dialogue at a Klan meeting. One of these replies links to an article already written in reference to the clip, billed as a Must Read Response . I click on it. The article is called, “Mongrel Separatists? Obama’s America Invades Philly.” The first line is: Remember when we warned of Reverse Racism, and the Libertards all laughed — now we know why they were really laughing .

What comes after that, my daughter doesn’t need to hear, so I stop reading it aloud. Into my pause, Tal says, “That’s so stupid. How can you be racist against ghosts?”

“Listen, honey. Here’s a news flash from outside the Mélange bubble: Americans know how to be racist against anything. People look at interracial couples through their own, distorting racial lens. It doesn’t matter what form they take.”

“That’s just one nutjob,” she tells me.

“That article has eighty-four likes. On Facebook. So those are just the people willing to link their names to it.”

Tal doesn’t say anything in there for a bit, but I can hear her on her own laptop.

“Well the First Couple video now has 22,786 page views,” Tal says back triumphantly.

—

I only know about Tal’s membership in the Loving Day Planning Committee because Tal, in her insistence on leaving the house for the final meeting before doing the dishes, chooses to reveal this to me. A teenager’s every move is their opportunity for the clandestine and the only way I get in on this is to demand that I come. I have to be there. I have concerns. I have concerns that need to be raised. I have to be there also because Roslyn is not answering my texts or calls directly. Tal gets a response, though, and I’m allowed. “As my guest,” my daughter makes the point of telling me.

It’s a late-spring day, but we’re inside the administration trailer, encased by its depressed low ceiling and wood-veneer paneling. The room has more than a dozen people shoved into it, the hum of an air conditioner forcing everyone to speak a little too loud for grace. My attempt to grab Roslyn before the meeting begins is foiled by a delegation of half-breeds from other mixed-race organizations and locales. Apparently not just black and white people are sleeping together. “Everyone is loving everyone, always, everywhere, and this room is proof of that,” jokes the hapa dude after his introduction. He flew in all the way from Oakland. For this. It’s going to be huge.

I sit through forty-five minutes of prattle and minutiae. Also, I sit through the way Roslyn stares at me. Like she’s won, and like she’s happy about it. Staring over at the Amerasian issues therapists, and the multiracial marketing coordinator, all the other lords of their own online and community mixed-race support groups, the Great Mulatto Queen addresses her court of subjects. The regality of her chandelier earrings, the rich draping of scarves over head and breast — none is as majestic as the look of joy in Roslyn’s eyes. Or maybe she’s actually happy. Maybe this is all her dream. Maybe it’s all come true, everything she imagined in her darkest hour would bring her bliss and fulfillment.

“It’s going to be protested,” I say the second Roslyn asks if there are any questions. “I talked to a friend. She made it clear. There are going to be protests, the whole damn day I’m sure.” Roslyn looks at me as if I’m not even speaking. As if the only reason she’s even facing my way is to read me like a clock on a wall. So I turn, physically, to the rest of the room.

“This is an existing neighborhood. There is an existing order. Racially, locally, all that. Blowback is going to happen. And with that video circulating online, who knows how many other wackos are going to be drawn out. You need to seriously consider canceling this. This whole place will be on the news for something a lot less silly than ghosts. This could be bad.”

“Protests mean press. All press is good press, generally.” Roslyn, always pleasant, always smiling just enough to promise not only happiness but the opportunity for more. “We want the world to know we exist. Nobody cares about marches or rallies anymore. They want spectacle. They want ninety-second clips they can peruse on their choice of mobile device. Our guest speakers are already here, the bands and equipment are booked.”

“My house is a mess. And not ready for a tour,” I point out.

“Fine. But people are already in cars, trains, planes, coming here. For this. For us. For all of us. This event is happening. Protesters are just the final ingredient to make the day monumental. How many agree?”

“Agreed!” comes from across the room. Even Tal, she says it. I hear her voice distinctly because she’s the one I love here and also she’s right by my side.

“Sarah, make sure you resend the press release immediately. Add the part about the expected protesters. Make it a headline. Use the word ‘controversial’ in it too. Also, ‘outrage.’ They’ll see ‘outrage,’ and think page views.”

I get one voice on my side. One fellow champion of sanity in the whole lot of mutts. I have no idea what ethnic groups she’s mixed with, either. Laotian and Ecuadorian? Pakistani and Italian? Who knows, she’s just another member of the international legion of tan. But the woman is wearing a business suit, and is by far presenting the most professional air in the room, so I take special pleasure in cloaking my agenda in her gravitas.

“Does this dovetail with the image that you hope to promote, though? If the intent is to create an atmosphere of acceptance to interest the marginalized?”

Standing to speak to us all, opening her arms high like a bear staking its territory, Roslyn says, “This year, it’s about making our presence known. About thrusting ourselves into the dialogue. Not just locally. As far as we can. Nationally. Internationally, if possible. Next year, our second Loving Day event will be at our new rural location, and then we can focus on message refinement. This year, this year we announce to the world that we are here, this is our time to be heard, our time to be whole. If this is big enough, next year, they will come from all over to find us.”

“What ‘new rural location’?” And I know Roslyn hears me, because she responds to everyone else.

“Tomorrow night, we have a major announcement. The Mélange Center for Multiracial Life will be unveiling a new satellite retreat in a setting that combines natural beauty with major historic resonance.”