older balding man with a glass eye, was sitting across the table from us, and he had noticed Marcus reading a book on
the economics of slavery. Although the drift of his eye gave the Iranian a menacing look, he was a friendly and curious
man, and eventually he leaned over the table and asked Marcus a question about the book.
“Tell me, please,” the man said. “How do you think such a thing as slavery was permitted to last for so many years?”
“White people don’t see us as human beings,” Marcus said. “Simple as that. Most of ’em still don’t.”
“Yes, I see. But what I mean to ask is, why didn’t black people fight?”
“They did fight. Nat Turner, Denmark Vescey-”
“Slave rebellions,” the Iranian interrupted. “Yes, I have read something about them. These were very brave men. But
they were so few, you see. Had I been a slave, watching these people do what they did to my wife, my children...well, I
would have preferred death. This is what I don’t understand-why so many men did not fight at all. Until death, you
see?”
I looked at Marcus, waiting for him to answer. But he remained silent, his face not angry as much as withdrawn, eyes
fastened to a spot on the table. His lack of response confused me, but after a pause I took up the attack, asking the
Iranian if he knew the names of the untold thousands who had leaped into shark-infested waters before their prison
ships had ever reached American ports; asking if, once the ships had landed, he would have still preferred death had he
known that revolt might only visit more suffering on women and children. Was the collaboration of some slaves any
different than the silence of some Iranians who stood by and did nothing as Savak thugs murdered and tortured
opponents of the Shah? How could we judge other men until we had stood in their shoes?
This last remark seemed to catch the man off guard, and Marcus finally rejoined the conversation, repeating one of
Malcolm X’s old saws about the difference between house Negroes and field Negroes. But he spoke as if he weren’t
convinced of his own words, and after a few minutes he abruptly stood up and walked toward the door.
We never did talk about that conversation, Marcus and I. Maybe it didn’t explain anything; there were more than
enough reasons for someone like Marcus to feel restless in a place like Occidental. I know that in the months that
followed, I began to notice changes in him, as if he were haunted by specters that had seeped through the cracks of our
safe, sunny world. Initially, he became more demonstrative in his racial pride: He took to wearing African prints to
class and started lobbying the administration for an all-black dormitory. Later, he grew uncommunicative. He began to
skip classes, hitting the reefer more heavily. He let his beard grow out, let his hair work its way into dreadlocks.
Finally he told me that he was going to take a leave from school for a while. “Need a break from this shit,” he said.
We were walking through a park in Compton, hanging out at an all-day festival there. It was a beautiful afternoon,
everybody in shorts, children screeching as they ran through the grass, but Marcus seemed distracted and barely spoke.
Only when we passed a group of bongo players did he seem to come to life. We sat beside them under a tree, transfixed
by the sound, watching the dark, barely cupped hands dance low off the hide. After a while I started to get bored and
wandered off to talk to a pretty young woman selling meat pies. When I returned, Marcus was still there, except he was
playing now, his long legs crossed, borrowed bongos nestling in his lap. Through the haze of smoke that surrounded
him, his face was expressionless; his eyes were narrow, as if he were trying to shut out the sun. For almost an hour I
watched him play without rhythm or nuance, just pounding the hell out of those drums, beating back untold memories.
barré
(Barré)
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