The New Yorker - 04.11.2019

62 THENEWYORKER, NOVEMBER 4, 2019

other. The same way he sometimes
seemed to like his long-gone girlfriend
better than he liked Mom, who was his
longtime wife. Dad had a picture of the
girlfriend, pale-skinned with flat hair,
on the fireplace in the living room. Right
there beside the big family portrait of
Mom, Earl, and Dad together. That one
was done professionally, in a photogra-
phy studio. The one of the girlfriend
was taken by Dad. And there she was,
up on the mantel with them, like she
was family, too. Sometimes Earl won-
dered what he would be like if that girl
had been his mother. He would look al-
most white, more like Jesus, maybe.
Last night Earl and Dad had talked
on the phone for almost thirty minutes
while Dad was driving to a job. Earl
and Dad had never spoken that long in
person. And on his cell phone, for good-
ness’ sake. Mom hated the cellular. Dad
was the only person in Ellenwood, or
maybe all Atlanta, who had a cell phone,
or so it seemed. The big brick against
his head made him look like a bug. Ap-
propriate, given his line of work. Which
was also what he insisted he needed it
for: emergency bug infestations. Earl
was embarrassed by the phone. Embar-
rassed by his father in general. But, still,
on the phone they’d talked and talked
about marbles and music and being a
man. Dad’s voice had sounded like tin,
but Earl tried not to let that bother him.
Now Earl and Brent and Pop walked
toward the ice-cream truck, Pop’s cane
smacking the ground like a warning.
Dad would never carry a cane to beat a
pastor. Earl couldn’t figure out if that
meant he finally had a reason to be proud
of his dad, or if this was another reason
to be ashamed. Earl had never been
spanked or beaten, but Brent had. Dis-
played a long scar on his lower back like
a war wound. Mr. Dick of the Mister
Softee truck took Pop’s money skit-
tishly. Served Brent and Earl their cones
quickly. Mr. Dick was also waiting. Anx-
ious as everyone else. Two of the other
marble-pitching boys were there. Broth-
ers who had come in their marble-play-
ing clothes, though they didn’t squat in
the dirt once they saw Pop. Three other
boys came, too, each with a father or
grandfather beside him.
This time, Earl felt the caravan com-
ing. Felt the worlds jangle in his pock-
ets. He didn’t start swaying like the other

boys did. But he could feel the music.

Could hear the time before he heard the

song. When God’s Caravan came into

fuller sight and sound, Mr. Dick turned

down the Softee jingle, letting Pastor

John the Baptist’s singing take over the

street: The buckwheat cake was in her mouth,

the tear was in her eye. Pop was moving

his own head side to side in a tiny switch.

As the van came crawling, everyone could

see now that Pastor himself was driving.

Pastor reversed the van until it was

again in the abandoned lot, with its back

bumper facing the boys. They’d all seen

this time that in the driver’s seat he was

wearing a simple white cassock. But,

when the back door opened, he was

wearing his black preacher’s robe—the

judge’s robes—his mike in one hand

and his Bible in the other, and he was

sweating as though he’d been preach-

ing for an hour already. And now. “Wel-

come,” he sang. “Welcome, children and

brethren.” He nodded to the fathers.

And to Mr. Dick. “Welcome, oh wel-

come, to God’s Caravan.”

The song he sang was “Catch a Nig-

ger by the Toe.” Then he told the story

of Jesus racing a Roman chariot from

Jerusalem to Jericho. The men and the

boys listened to the story as if they were

sitting by the radio, listening to an an-

nouncer shout the Preakness.

“You just might be the new Jesus

FAILED E S S AY ON PRIVILEGE

I came from something popularly known as “nothing”

and in the coming I got a lot.

My parents didn’t speak money, didn’t speak college.

Still—I went to Yale.

For a while I tried to condemn.

I wrote Let me introduce you to evil.

Still, I was a guest there, I made myself at home.

And I know a fine shoe when I see one.

And I know to be sincerely sorry for those people’s problems.

I know to want nothing more

than it would be so nice to have

and I confess I’ll never hate what I’ve been given

as much as I wish I could.

Still I thought I of all people understood Aristotle: what is and isn’t

the good life...

because, I wrote, privilege is an aggressive form of amnesia...

I left a house with no heat. I left the habit of hunger. I left a room

I shared with seven brothers and sisters I also left.

Even the good is regrettable, or at least sometimes

should be regretted

yet to hate myself is not to absolve her.

I paid so much

for wisdom, and look at all of this, look at all I have—

—Elisa Gonzalez