“Brother Smalls, you just missed an excellent presentation,” Reverend Reynolds said. “This young man, Brother
Obama, has a plan to organize a meeting about the recent gang shooting.”
Reverend Smalls poured himself a cup of coffee and perused the flyer. “What’s the name of your organization?” he
asked me.
“Developing Communities Project.”
“Developing Communities...” His brow knotted. “I think I remember some white man coming around talking about
some Developing something or other. Funny-looking guy. Jewish name. You connected to the Catholics?”
I told him that some of the Catholic churches in the area were involved.
“That’s right, I remember now.” Reverend Smalls sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “I told that white
man he might as well pack up and get on out of here. We don’t need nothing like this around here.”
“I-”
“Listen...what’s your name again? Obamba? Listen, Obamba, you may mean well. I’m sure you do. But the last thing
we need is to join up with a bunch of white money and Catholic churches and Jewish organizers to solve our problems.
They’re not interested in us. Shoot, the archdiocese in this city is run by stone-cold racists. Always has been. White
folks come in here thinking they know what’s best for us, hiring a buncha high-talking college-educated brothers like
yourself who don’t know no better, and all they want to do is take over. It’s all a political thing, and that’s not what this
group here is about.”
I stammered that the church had always taken the lead in addressing community issues, but Reverend Smalls just
shook his head. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Things have changed with the new mayor. I’ve known the district
police commander since he was a beat cop. The aldermen in this area are all committed to black empowerment. Why
we need to be protesting and carrying on at our own people? Anybody sitting around this table got a direct line to City
Hall. Fred, didn’t you just talk to the alderman about getting that permit for your parking lot?”
The rest of the room had grown quiet. Reverend Reynolds cleared his throat. “The man’s new around here, Charles.
He’s just trying to help.”
Reverend Smalls smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t misunderstand me now. Like I said, I know you mean
well. We need some young blood to help out with the cause. All I’m saying is that right now you’re on the wrong side
of the battle.”
I sat there, roasting like a pig on a spit, as the pastors went on to discuss a joint Thanksgiving service in the park
across the street. When the meeting was over, Reverend Reynolds and a few of the others thanked me for coming.
“Don’t take Charles too seriously,” one of them advised. “He can be a little strong sometimes.” But I noticed that
none of them left with my flyers; and later in the week, when I tried to call some of the ministers back, their secretaries
kept telling me they were gone for the day.
We went forward with our police meeting, which proved a small disaster. Only thirteen people showed up, scattered
across rows of empty chairs. The district commander canceled on us, sending a community relations officer instead.
Every few minutes an older couple walked in looking for the Bingo game. I spent most of the evening directing this