A letter to a president — II
After class, I distinctly remember standing for hours at the edge of a moss-covered pond.
After class, (I was an honours list student, Mr President) I distinctly remember standing for hours at the edge of a moss-covered pond where a ramshackle wooden hut stood, much like Uncle Tom's cabin, built in the nineteenth century for the slaves who worked the plantations owned by those who lived in the great mansion, now the main building of the school. That the school was just around the corner from a small, run-down town called Lynchburg seemed to be fitting — after all, that is what white folk thought was the best thing to do on a slow, warm, summer afternoon — catch a couple of darkies and lynch them, hang them from a tree, setting examples for those who dared to speak up, or to do the unthinkable, to think about freedom. (And, heaven forbid, dare to dream about Equality and Fraternity).
As I sat in Area Three of JFK airport, I remembered how the sun would reflect in that brackish pond, turning the turpid water a strange, warm color, much like the skin of one of the workers in the school's refectory, Kenny — lean and lithe, a graceful being, like you, Mr President. Kenny and I used to scrap the plates laden with half eaten roast chicken before stacking them in the industrial dish washer. For a break, we would shoot baskets at the court in the back — Kenny would sometimes let me sneak past him in a lay-up and shoot a couple of points. He strode like a panther, he was handsome, he spoke eloquently, and he was my friend, Mr President. He is the one who helped me escape that stifling campus where we each had a horse to ride and a cow which would yield us the milk with which the staff in the kitchen would make blueberry yoghurt for breakfast. He was so much like you, Mr President. He stood tall and steadfast on ground where his ancestors struggled to be recognised as legitimate, equal members of society. I don’t know where he is now, this gracious friend of mine, but I intend to look for him, Sir. And for that I need to be in your country just a little bit longer, with your permission, of course.
I will be writing to you often, Mr President, for I know that you listen, that you have the same ability that Kenny did, to be reasonable, just and humane. And I know you will be waiting to hear from me as surely as I know that you wish the best for us waiting in Area Three, waiting to be let into your most generous country.
Yours most sincerely
Published in The Express Tribune, July 5th, 2010.
As I sat in Area Three of JFK airport, I remembered how the sun would reflect in that brackish pond, turning the turpid water a strange, warm color, much like the skin of one of the workers in the school's refectory, Kenny — lean and lithe, a graceful being, like you, Mr President. Kenny and I used to scrap the plates laden with half eaten roast chicken before stacking them in the industrial dish washer. For a break, we would shoot baskets at the court in the back — Kenny would sometimes let me sneak past him in a lay-up and shoot a couple of points. He strode like a panther, he was handsome, he spoke eloquently, and he was my friend, Mr President. He is the one who helped me escape that stifling campus where we each had a horse to ride and a cow which would yield us the milk with which the staff in the kitchen would make blueberry yoghurt for breakfast. He was so much like you, Mr President. He stood tall and steadfast on ground where his ancestors struggled to be recognised as legitimate, equal members of society. I don’t know where he is now, this gracious friend of mine, but I intend to look for him, Sir. And for that I need to be in your country just a little bit longer, with your permission, of course.
I will be writing to you often, Mr President, for I know that you listen, that you have the same ability that Kenny did, to be reasonable, just and humane. And I know you will be waiting to hear from me as surely as I know that you wish the best for us waiting in Area Three, waiting to be let into your most generous country.
Yours most sincerely
Published in The Express Tribune, July 5th, 2010.