“When you hear this story, and you see Jerome Wilkes and Mr. Foster, what do you think of?” Anne asked the audience.
“I see what I see all around us,” a man answered from his front-row seat, arms crossed tightly across a pudgy chest. Several seats to his right, the rabbi of the synagogue sponsoring the presentation leaned forward to listen. “All around our neighborhood. Look, no disrespect meant, Miss Preston…”
Of course not, but I stopped being “Miss” a long time ago. And earlier when you agreed with me, I recall being referred to as “Doctor Preston.” It was Anne’s job to read into what was said, and what wasn’t, and she was damned good at it, much to her boyfriend’s displeasure at times. Here, though, it would let her make a breakthrough…maybe.
“…but all we see are blacks committing these crimes. You see this all the time. You hear of it every day. They walk down our block and sell their crack.”
“Not anymore,” another man interjected. His face was a mask of hate. “Not on my block.”
“Fine, we clean up our own neighborhoods,” the first man continued, “but what about the rest of the city? Or the country. Look,” he said with added passion, pointing to the screen. “That’s in Atlanta. The blacks there are no different than here. No different than anywhere.”
“They can’t fit in,” a woman offered. “They don’t try.”
The first man’s head nodded emphatically, looking at Anne.
“That’s right. And so what do they do? They rob and kill white people because we tried to fit in, we worked hard, and we have things they want! Miss Preston, you show us these pictures and tell us this story and expect it to change our mind? It only reinforces it.”
Anne wanted to smile. She always wanted to smile at this point, more than her natural tendency to do so, but didn’t. “What reinforces it?”
“This!” the man half-yelled, standing and tossing his hand toward the screen. “You tell us a story about another black murderer taking a white man’s life because he wanted his things! That is what we live with every day!”
Darren swallowed hard. He hadn’t expected to hear the hate. Maybe feel it, but not hear it. Was this a mistake? Was coming here hoping for something to drive the hate out of his soul too much to ask? His eyes again looked to the screen. Why? Why did you have to fulfill their prophecy?
“You mean Jerome Wilkes?” Anne asked.
“Yes!” the man yelled fully now, pointing a spear-like finger at the black face over Anne’s right shoulder.
Anne glanced over her right shoulder, then over her left, holding her look there as she brought a hand up and casually pointed at the smiling white face staring down upon the audience. “This is Jerome Wilkes.”
It couldn’t be called a gasp, but there was a collective sound from the audience, including Darren.
“What made you think I meant this gentleman was the murderer?” Anne asked, pointing now at the black face above and to her right.
There was no answer. The man who had been standing looked to some of those near him, glancing briefly at the lone black face in the audience, and slowly sat back down.
“This, ladies and gentlemen, is Robert Foster. The picture you see is from his identification card. You see, Mr. Foster was an Atlanta firefighter when he was murdered by this man.” The direction shifted back to the man who, until a minute before, had been the victim in the eyes of the people in the room. “Jerome Wilkes is now awaiting execution for that crime.”
Silence. The hum of the slide projector’s cooling fan might as well have been thunder. The only member of the audience unaware of it was Darren, whose face was now downcast, his mind assaulting itself with torturous accusations. Racist! To your own people! The whites don’t need to hate us — you’re doing it for them! Black means bad! It means guilty! You’re no better than the animals that killed Tanya! He had come seeking understanding, and was now filled with confusion. The hate he had developed for those other than his own, a hate he wanted to destroy, was now targeted inward. He sat there, hearing nothing more, dreaming of ways to end this pain. To end it for good.
“This was a trick,” a faceless voice from the audience said.
“You’re right,” Anne responded. “Your perceptions tricked you into believing what you expected, rather than the reality. You see, preconceptions — even if somewhat validated by past experience — circumvent one of our most important abilities: the ability to look critically at something. When I put those two pictures up there you immediately focused on the black face when I mentioned that a crime had been committed.” She heard no dispute from the audience; not even a Why is his head hung like that? “Many people have come to the point where they see black as the color of danger. Yet here we have an example of something quite different.”
This was a mistake. Darren wanted to just curl up in a ball and fade away. To just be gone. Gone like Tanya. His living family didn’t even matter at the moment, and he had come here in the hope of resurrecting the old Darren Griggs, the real Darren Griggs, in order to save them. Now that wasn’t even a possibility as he saw it. He was on a slippery slope sliding slowly toward a steep drop-off. Slowly but gaining speed.
“You all condemned the victim here,” Anne said with some accusation in her tone. “Your perceptions prevented you from ascertaining the truth. Your biases prevented understanding from developing.” She gestured to the smiling face of Jerome Wilkes. “You were prepared to offer sympathy to this man based upon the color of his skin.” And next to Robert Foster. “And to crucify this man because of his. Color is a color, people. A color. That’s all it is. If you condemn Robert Foster because of his, then you condemn me. You condemn all people with skin darker than yours to a life of explaining why they aren’t all bad. Think about it. Please. Thank you.”
Anne never expected applause at these presentations, but it did come, if slowly. First one person would politely clap — She did do this free, after all — before a few others — I did think it was the black man without knowing anything else — joined in. She stood appreciatively before them as Rabbi Samuel Levin came from his front row seat to stand beside her.
“Dr. Preston, thank you,” Levin said, hugging Anne. “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say we deeply appreciate your time, and your wise counsel.”
Some nods now, more applause. Anne guessed there were seventy-five minds in the audience that needed enlightening. Maybe she had reached five. Maybe ten. That would be a success.
But there appeared to be one mind that might need something more. Maybe something she could offer.
“There will be refreshments in the Weitzel Room, everyone,” Levin announced. He turned back to Anne as the audience began to filter toward the door. “Will you join us, Dr. Preston?”
The man hadn’t moved. He still sat there, looking downward. “I’d love to. But I may need a minute.”
Rabbi Levin saw what she was looking at. “Yes. Of course. I will see you down the hall.”
Anne walked off the stage to where Darren remained seated. “Hello.”
Darren’s head jerked up, his eyes glistening.
“I’m Anne Preston.” She stretched her hand out.
Darren looked at the hand. Somehow it seemed to be more than an appendage. Much more.
“Darren Griggs, Dr. Preston.” He took her hand, shook it, then let go when he really wanted to hold on for dear life.