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FREEDOMWAYS                     SECOND QUARTER 1973

talent toward the day when the depth and sweep and human magnificence of unquenchable Black hope produced the inevitable Black Renaissance and ultimately an American peoples' Renaissance. But who looks for philosophy in a bartender? Which is probably why most Black bartenders keep their mouths shut. Anyway, these musings were rudely interrupted one shimmering Sunday morning in a place called Pear Harbor.
I never heard of a Black child who wasn't told at some time or other, "Whatever you do don't upset the white folks!" But there was just no place in the home of the brave where a Black kid could reach full growth without upsetting the white folks. My friend Walter, from Baltimore, swears that his folks used to take extra precautions by having the kids end their bedtime prayers with, "and please Lord, bless all the white folks." The idea behind this strategy being that the Lord, who obviously had to be white, would pass the word on to Charlie the teacher, Charlie the cop, Charlie the judge, hell, even Charlie the President! And Charlie would put his pistol away and say, "Now there's a family of niggers you can almost trust!" The trouble is you can never know WHAT will upset Charlie. For instance his big brother Sam said, the day after Pearl Harbor, "Every ssswinginnddickkk gon' have to learn to kick and bite, shoot an' fight. In trucks, in jeeps, in tanks and planes, and naturally on your big, fat feet." Predictably this caused some confusion, especially among the more logically minded brothers, who reasoned that since the front of the bus was reserved for Charlie he would insist on the same privilege at the front. Wrong again, Baby!
I saw one brother face his moment of truth at Camp Patrick Henry, our embarkation center. We'd been standing since two in the morning in swirling sleet mixed with snow. The ground in the immense forest was glazed with ice. The barracks bags and other equipment on our backs would have made equilibrium a joke even on solid ground. About five we got the word to move. A tall lean brother who'd fallen at least ten times gave it up and started dragging his barracks bag. Red-faced and nasty, a little ninety-day wonder planted himself in front of the exasperated warrior. "Soldier," he squeaked in what he'd been led to believe was the voice of command, "do you realize that there is Uncle Sam's property you are dragging through that mud?" The brother gazed down at him for a very long and very sad moment before raising his head toward a frigid heaven. The sleet on his helmet was just beginning to reflect the eerie pre-dawn light. Then he said very softly, "Ah shore

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