T. Johnson - Welcome to Braggsville

No. I never thought it was a good idea, but I didn’t think it was a dangerous one, either.

If you can’t see how this could have been effective had things gone differently, no explanation will make sense to you anyway.

Only those letters I showed you, sir. The marriage proposals from the prisoners.

When do all these interview records — the paperwork and recordings and all — become available to the public? All the fan mail I told you about is just between us, right? You promised that, right?

That’s not me. My social media accounts are still closed. I’m strictly IRL–In Real Life. I haven’t been on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or Tumblr in months. The barbed and articulated Glenn Beck anal plug was the most civilized of the threats.

The blackface was a surprise to me, sir. The wig, not really. I mean it wasn’t surprising, knowing how… Louis [pause] Louis was. But seeing it was a surprise… I thought I saw a tattoo. A cross tattoo right here at the bottom of the thumb. I should have brought my phone, sir.

I wasn’t there.

You know I wasn’t there.

Yes, sir. I realize you might still have a hard time believing or understanding how or why four Berkeley students thought this would be a good idea. We never would have done it in Iowa.

I don’t know why we thought it was a good idea.

Of course you don’t understand. Look at you. You guys still wear windbreakers.

It was my idea, sir.

It was my idea.

It was my idea.

Mine, sir.

Mine.

I already told you.

Why not, sir?

Why not?

I already told you.

Says who, sir?

Says who?

I already, already told you.

Yes, sir. It was foolish to fake a hate crime to make the opposite point. But we weren’t faking a hate crime. We were reenacting American history.

We shouldn’t have done it. It hasn’t made anything better.

It was collaboration, a collective effort. Dress in period costume and ask about slavery. Questions such as: If you could have slaves, would you be happy? Would you still drool over pro bowls? Would you stop reliving this moment like it was the last of the glory days, a decisive fourth-quarter ninety-nine-yard run ending in a fumble? Would you ease up on the fucking zombie movies? Maybe I’d tell them not to get so red under the collar about Obama, an aberration not soon to be repeated, that a rising tide lifts all boats, but a yacht is still a yacht and a dinghy is still dingy. Maybe I’d ask them why they’re so damn restless. Why so impatient? Slow-acting poison yet kills. Maybe I’d ask why they can’t just be happy, or at least satisfied. That’s the question. Yes! Why can’t they be satisfied with our fractional existence as bequeathed by Article One, Section Two, Paragraph Three of the United States Constitution? Why can’t they be satisfied that three-fifths is the only real number with an irrational tail, its endowment an enduring quotient, a problem never solved. That is the only question: Why can’t you just be satisfied that thirty-five percent of black children grades seven through twelve are suspended or expelled during their school careers compared to fifteen percent of whites; that the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders continually refines Oppositional Defiant Disorder and that each revision accelerates the process of coding, tracking, and incarcerating black children; that only sixty percent of blacks attend high schools that support and prepare them for graduation, compared to nearly eighty percent of whites? Why can’t you just be satisfied that blacks are three times more likely to be searched and four times more likely to experience use of force when stopped by the police; that when mandatory minimum sentencing laws for crack fell under judiciary review, mandatory minimum sentencing was instituted for juveniles, grew straightaway long in shadow, is applied disproportionately to black youth; that blacks comprise only twelve percent of monthly drug users, but constitute thirty-two percent of persons arrested for drug possession; that blacks comprise twelve percent of the gross U.S. population but forty-three percent of the incarcerated population; that wages grow slower, twenty percent slower, for former black inmates once released from prison? Why can’t you just be satisfied that the black unemployment rate is roughly thirteen percent while the national average is roughly seven percent? Why can’t you be satisfied that blacks represent approximately twelve percent of the population but account for over forty percent of new HIV infections? Why can’t you just be satisfied that blacks have the highest mortality rate for all cancers combined? I demand not that you be happy about this, only satisfied. Are those numbers not sufficient cause for your quiet celebration? Can you not simply enjoy the conflagration, warm hands at those bodies burning eternal, Roman candles illuminating your feast of angels? Why can’t you allow this crime to continue, this auspicious advent of the slow crime movement, to continue victimful but assailantless? Why can’t we have a hands-off instead of a handout? Why must you dress for the party? Why must you dance around the swallow dug so generously as to mock natural phenomena? Why can’t you let us die in peace? Why can’t you look at this Medusa: history in its myriad inversions, loops, whorls, coils, corkscrews, spirals; from slavery to Jim Crow to the Carceral State; this Medusa: the Möbius trip; the helix that stitches the U.S. of A.’s social DNA; yes, coach goes to New York, but never disembarks; this Medusa: upon whom to gaze turns only heart to stone, for how else could a people suffer so unless born of inherent deficiency or willed by God? Why can’t we bear our Curse of Ham in the privacy of dignified silence? Why can’t you sit back, crack a cold one, and let America in toto enact its collective reenactment? That’s what I would ask, but I wasn’t there. So, would I do it again? Yes, but this time I would attend. That’s what I would do differently. Only that.

Never funny. No, sir. Not funny in that way, sir. By joke I didn’t mean inconsequential. I meant a critique, like a political cartoon.

Of course not. Never. I knew it wouldn’t be funny. You might be able to laugh at it a lot, but it wouldn’t be funny. No way.

Richard Pryor funny? Paul Mooney funny? Eddie Murphy funny? Louis CK funny? Funny like your windbreaker? Bill Cosby funny? Maybe more like George Bush was a two-term president funny.

No, sir. Never again.

No.

Next time I’ll only hang an effigy.

No, sir. I’m just glad it’s over. It’s like I barely escaped a burning building.

If I could be there to make sure it went okay… but not in my hometown again… Well, actually, no, nowhere, in no one’s hometown.

I plan to! My answer won’t change regardless of how many ways you ask the question.

No, sir. I don’t know of any militia. I never saw any militia activity in Braggsville. Daron has never mentioned any militia to me. If I may ask a question, sir, when will… I don’t want anyone to know about those proposals… I would hate for the others to know about those letters… I wish I hadn’t read them…

There is none that I know of, and I’ve lived there all my life. That’s why you didn’t find anything when you combed the wood or the Holler. There is no militia or hate group in Braggsville. It’s the center, the heart of Georgia, the city that love built.

You mean the reenactors, the entire town, the state of Georgia, the South, or the entire United States of ’Merica?

GO AHEAD, MR. CHANG:

In the words of Ice-T, O.G., Eat a dick.

Please, Mr. Chang:

[PAUSE]

Blood is thicker than water, but you can stab a motherfucker to death with an icicle!