AMERICANS ALL

What must it feel like? I was born to an environment of extreme kindness. However, I have never taken my good fortune as a given. My lessons of brotherly acceptance were very clear. My mother reminded me that, “THERE, BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD, GO I,” whenever our paths crossed those of the less blessed.

The phrase she used became implausible to me. Why was I spared by God? What was the reason for random selection in the negtive? I needed to file away that exception clause in favor of ‘chance.’ I couldn’t believe that God would deem I should be above the wicked fray of cruelty in life or that others should fall heir to abuse.

I wondered what I could ever do that might help make the unlucky among us realize that most of us, unmarked for condemnation, despise its use on our fellow man? At last, in 1994, I got my opportunity.

In my role as president/CEO of a 501c3 organization, I applied for a grant to the Florida Historical Foundation for a visiting professional to present a program at our Amelia Island Museum of History. With the positive reply came a list of the presenters from whom I could choose our lecturer. Charles Pace’s name and program zoomed out of the page. He was an African American interpreter of historical figures. He would impersonate a man from our past and then invite the audience to comment or ask questions.

Our flyers were posted on all church doors and public buildings. On the night of Pace’s appearance, I waited in the glow of a street lamp outside of our museum’s side door. Our 150 maximum-seating Student Hall filled quickly with black residents and a sprinkling of white faces. A bearded black man called to me by name from the dark parking lot. I answered,and we approached each other. Pace introduced himself as Malcomb X, “for the next hour,” he said, smiling radiantly. He asked me to introduce him in character.

I faced our looming episode from the podium. I welcomed everyone, then said, “I see racial discrimination as ludicrous. It makes as much sense as my begrudging you men for not being born women!” A chuckle fanned across the room. “Prepare yourselves,” I continued, “tonight we host Malcomb X.”

Malcomb X bellowed his entrance from the door at the back of the room. He stormed, hissed and ranted his way, pacing before us, stopping to raise his fist, lower his voice and menace the guilty world. We breathed in his indignation and fury. Finally, he stopped and froze, letting his tirade and his audience settle after the tempest blew itself out.

Into the stillness a very large, very black man spoke. “I think like a black man, because I am a black man. How long am I going to have to apologize for that?”

The answer was clear as soon as our country elected Barack Obama, President.