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Slaves of violence

Slaves of violence

A man stands at the foot of the bed glaring at the young man, more out of sadness than anger.

The young man wakes with a start, having felt the heat of the older man's gaze through the tattered fog of sleep. He convinces himself he isn't dreaming, but he can't account for the older black man's presence in his cell.

He's not the warden. He's not wearing regulation red, so he's not another prisoner dumped on him in the middle of the night. He's not one of the lawyers because they're all white.

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He looks into the older man's eyes. They fill with tears as the older man tries to smile. He's wearing a dark, threadbare suit of an old-fashioned cut. The stranger's shoes are heavily scuffed, as if he's walked a million miles to be there.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my cell?"

The older man blinks back most of his tears while discreetly wiping away the few that roll down his cheek. He looks around the cell enveloped in the darkness of the Allegheny County Jail.

"I'm just a voice crying in the wilderness," the stranger says. "You don't know me, but I used to pray for you before you were even born. In those days, most of us were in bondage. We asked God to spare the next generation the misery that had befallen us."

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The old man massages his left wrist while looking around the cell. He shakes his head. He massages his right wrist. The imprint of the manacles he once wore haven't faded.

"We used to sleep on straw on a dirt floor," the old man says. "We were exposed to sun, wind and rain. Our chains were on the outside. Your chains are on the inside, mostly coiled up there," he says pointing to the young man's head.

"Nigga, I'll kill you if you disrespect me again," the young man says as he scrambles out of bed. He is nose-to-nose with the stranger, but the old man doesn't retreat to the shadows.

"Darling," he says looking deeply into the young man's eyes. "I'm not afraid of you. I've seen worse things than you can imagine. But I recognize fear when I smell it. You're afraid. I've come to pray with you, then I'll take my leave."

"I'm not afraid of nothing. I didn't shoot those niggas. It was a foggy night up at that school and bullets were flying everywhere. I ducked and ran just like everyone else. My name shouldn't be in this like I did something wrong."

The old man stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods. He listens while the young man speaks.

"I didn't shoot them college boys, but I think I know what happened. They probably disrespected some gangsta by trying to talk to the wrong honey, or something.

"I don't know what it was like when you was toiling in the fields, but niggas today come strapped just in case someone jumps wild and needs to be put down. We ain't no punks. We ain't no slaves, either. We got gats and we know how to use them."

The old man pinches the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes, blinking back disappointment.

"Child, it's true we were enslaved, but we weren't slaves. Our hearts were harder for the white man to catch than butterflies. Even chains couldn't weigh down our spirits," he says gesturing to the ceiling.

"Some of us ran north. Most of us died face down in fields we'd never own. What united all of us was a desire to catch hold of a free life any way we could. We built this country by squeezing our blood into its bricks and mortar so that the next 10,000 generations would be free. Why are you squandering so precious a gift by chasing skunks into the darkness? Why are you in this place?"

"I'm just trying to keep it real, nigga," the young man says with a smile.

"Anyway, the more I think about it, the more I blame racism for pulling the trigger. It wasn't me that shot them boys that night. It was a dysfunctional educational system that sprayed a hail of bullets in their direction. Look at me. Do I look strong enough to pull the trigger by myself? Bad choices did me in. Nobody nurtured my ass. I listened to too much rap music growing up. It's all society's fault."

The old man shakes his head. "Klansmen didn't shoot those boys. Even if this country supplied you with the bullets, you're the one who's carrying the gun."

The young man laughs. "I'm 18 years old. What are they going to do -- hold me forever? If they convict me, I'll be out before I'm 40."

The old man sighs. "Even if you walk out tomorrow, because of your mentality you'll still be a bigger slave than you would've been at the height of Dixie."

"Then let me be a slave," the young man says. "I'm keepin' it real 'cause, outside, the streets are watchin'."

First Published: September 22, 2006, 4:00 a.m.

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