Paul Beatty - The White Boy Shuffle

John Brown bailed out gracefully with an “I’d like to introduce the next speaker, Dexter Waverly, president of Ambrosia, the black student union.” Dexter strode to the podium, pandering to the crowd with stale slogans. “Power to the people!” he said. The crowd snapped back, “Power to the people!” and back and forth they went in a huge game of Simon says.

“Free South Africa!”

“Free South Africa!”

“M’m’mofo Gottobelezi sucks!”

“M’m’mofo Gottobelezi sucks!”

With the crowd roused to a frenzy, Dexter held up my book. “I’d like you to take your copy of Gunnar Kaufman’s phenomenal volume of verse, Watermelanin, and turn to page 133. Now read aloud with me from ‘Dead Niggers Don’t Hokum.’”

Every demonstrator from Boston local to university homesteader seemed to have a copy of the book. They read silently to themselves as Dexter read aloud.

… I am the lifelessness of the party,

the spade who won’t put on the lampshade …

I couldn’t hear the recitation very well because Nicholas was hugging me so tight my vertebrae popped like a string of firecrackers. When he released me, his wet cheek stuck to my face. “I’m proud of you, nigger.” I heard my name crackle from the loudspeakers and made my way to the podium. “Now it is with great pride I introduce star athlete, accomplished poet, black man extraordinaire, voice of a nation, Gunnar Kaufman. Remember, America, Boston University, the world is watching.”

A camera mounted on a crane swung down and bobbed in my face like a giant metal hummingbird. I looked directly into the lens. “Don’t do that,” the cameraperson whispered. I continued to look directly into the lens. When I was seven years old, my favorite television personality was Transient Tammy. Sporting patchwork overalls and a floppy hat, Transient Tammy welcomed me home after school with a hearty “Howdy, vagrants.” Before introducing the last cartoon, she’d put on a pair of enormous sunglasses. These magic glasses gave Transient Tammy the power to see her bummy friends in television-land. She’d steal toward the camera, dirty knees bursting through her jeans. “I see Suzette in Arcadia, Ingrid in Alhambra, Anthony in Inglewood.” I peered into the camera, looking for my mom and Psycho Loco in Hillside, my father, but I didn’t see anyone, just my wall-eyed reflection in the lens.

The applause died down, leaving a hum in the air, and I nervously cleared my throat. I wanted to address the crowd like a seasoned revolutionary, open with a smooth activist adage, “There’s an old Chinese saying…,” but I didn’t know any Chinese sayings, old or new. My hesitancy grew embarrassing. Yoshiko waddled over and ran my hand over the circumference of her bloated belly. I rubbed and smiled but still said nothing. I thought, If I were down there down among the mob, what would I want to hear?

Scoby broke the silence, shouting, “Thus do I ever make my fool my purse.” I laughed. The gathering laughed because I laughed. I decided I’d want to hear candor.

In the middle of the throng stood a commemorative sculpture. A slightly abstract cast-iron flock of birds in memory of Martin Luther King, Jr., who received his doctorate in theology from Boston University. “Do you see that sculpture?” I asked, pointing to this commissioned piece of artwork, which did not dedicate a small piece of the earth and time to Reverend King so much as it took partial credit for his success. “Notice them steel birds are migrating south — that’s BU’s way of telling you they don’t want you here.” The black people began to elbow their way to the front. I was speaking to the Negroes, but the white folks were listening in, their ears pressed to my breast, listening to my heart. “Who knows what it says on the plaque at the base of the sculpture?” No one spoke. “You motherfuckers pass by that ugly-ass sculpture every day. You hang your coats on it, open beer bottles on it, meet your hot Friday night dates there, now here you are talking about freedom this and whitey putting-shit-in-the-game that and you don’t even know what the plaque says? Shit could say ‘Sieg Heil! Kill All Niggers! Auslander Raus!’ for all you know, stupid motherfuckers. African-Americans, my ass. Middle minorities caught between racial polarities, please. Caring, class-conscious progressive crackers, shit. Selfish apathetic humans like everybody else.”

The crowd gave a resounding roar of approval. Here I was denigrating them and the people urged me forward. Candor, I reminded myself, candor.

“Now I’m not going to front, act like the first thing I did when I got to Boston University was proceed directly to the Martin Luther King Memorial and see what the goddamn plaque says. Only reason I know what it says is that I was coming out of Taco Bell on my way to basketball practice when I dropped my burrito deluxe at the base of the monument. When I bent down to wipe the three zesty cheeses, refried beans, and secret hot sauce off my sneakers, I saw what the plaque said. It says, ‘If a man hasn’t discovered something he will die for, he isn’t fit to live. Martin Luther King, Jr.’ How many of you motherfuckers are ready to die for black rule in South Africa — and I mean black rule, not black superintendence?”

Yells and whistles shot through the air.

“You lying motherfuckers. I talked to Harriet Velakazi, the ANC lieutenant you heard speak earlier, and she’s willing to die for South Africa. She don’t give a fuck about King’s sexist language, she ready to kill her daddy and if need be kill her mama for South Africa. Now don’t get me wrong, I want them niggers to get theirs, but I am not willing to die for South Africa, and you ain’t either.”

The audience hushed, their Good Samaritan opportunism checkmated. There was nothing they could say. “I’m willing to die for South Africa, where do I sign”?

I rubbed my tired eyes, licked my lips, and leaned into the microphone. “So I asked myself, what am I willing to die for? The day when white people treat me with respect and see my life as equally valuable to theirs? No, I ain’t willing to die for that, because if they don’t know that by now, then they ain’t never going to know it. Matter of fact, I ain’t ready to die for anything, so I guess I’m just not fit to live. In other words, I’m just ready to die. I’m just ready to die.”

I realized I’d made a public suicide pact with myself and stole a glance toward Scoby and Yoshiko. Scoby was nodding his head in agreement, while Yoshiko was pointing to her stomach and yelling, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

I swallowed and continued. “That’s why today’s black leadership isn’t worth shit, these telegenic niggers not willing to die. Back in the old days, if someone spoke up against the white man, he or she was willing to die. Today’s housebroken niggers travel the country talking themselves hoarse about barbarous white devils, knowing that those devils aren’t going to send them to a black hell. And if Uncle Sam even lights a fire under their asses, they backtrack in front of the media — ‘What I meant to say was … The quote was taken out of context…’ What we need is some new leaders. Leaders who won’t apostatize like cowards. Some niggers who are ready to die!”

The crowd’s response startled me. “You! You! You!” they chanted, pointing their fingers in the air, proclaiming me king of the blacks.

Seizing the moment, Dexter Waverly snatched the microphone, put a warm arm around my shoulder. “Our new black leader, Gunnar Kaufman.” All I could think was What, no scepter? Don’t I at least get a scepter?

The next morning the annoyingly perky hosts of Good Morning, America and its sister shows around the globe — Buenas Dias, Venezuela, Guten Morgen, Deutschland, among others — took over my living room, asking questions from leather swivel chairs.