Listening to a deeper way thinking how to outsmart adversity without dying and losing his soul he walked away from the juke joint late Saturday evening/early Sunday morning moving in communion with his third self and the embrace of Grandmother Moon’s silver-gray arms
Poor shy scared colored boy emotionally intelligent physically strong a tender-hearted thinker the outside insider Raised on corn, beans, squash rabbit, fish his mother’s biscuits, her collard greens her teacakes and pecan candy
Passing the cotton patch in the afternoon of the next day he watched Iretha Swinson stand upright and blow between its endless rows and bolls of whiteness Her idealized beauty against the piney-woods horizon caught his attention in a way that leavened his uncertainty and brought to mind the Mississippi tonality of Jerry Butler’s floated vocalizing Farther along, he started to disbelieve the lies they told in the aftermath of each murder knowing that said and done neither were the whole truth nor gospel either but empty words and aggressive actions weapons for making extreme intergroup conflict possible and sincere intergroup harmony impossible Even farther along, he asked himself for the eleventh dozen time how best to make it in a world without reverence for blood running warm in human veins and the chorus of ancestral voices took him to task once more: “Normality is a paved road, Roijun2. It’s comfortable to walk but no flowers grow on it. The day will come, my son, when you have to choose whether to be like everybody else the rest of your life or make a virtue of your peculiarities. Care about what other people think and you will be their prisoner”