Laguna Beach, California, was the perfect symbol of all that was right with America: beautiful beaches, five-star hotels, and exceptional weather. Nestled by the Pacific Ocean in southern Orange County, yet far enough to miss the stench of diversity and cross-cultural anxiety of Los Angeles.
Kublai Khan had assembled an international brain trust for a private meeting at a five-star seaside resort.
Representatives of The World Energy Church of Seoul, the Sygen Wei Sect of Shanghai, and the La Raza Pentecostal Church of Brownsville, Texas were there to discuss how they could capitalize on the growing multicultural population trends in the US. The minister prepared by having pre-meetings with his guests. He met Reverend Caldera for dinner the night before at the resort’s Argentinian steakhouse. The men sat in a private room where the scent of smoky apple and cherry wood accented the air and a side of lamb roasted slowly on a rotisserie in an open-hearth fireplace. They enjoyed a bottle of Bordeaux and a pair of rib eyes.
Reverend Caldera had brown hair and showed signs of needing less food and more exercise but maintained a ruggedly handsome face even when a fitness gym should be in his future. He spoke with a strong baritone voice and exaggerated Mexican accent. Reverend Caldera then took a healthy gulp of wine and cut into his bleeding beef while Kublai Khan pushed for an alliance.
“Together we can unite black and brown. Hispanics will be the majority in ten years,” Kublai Khan said as he nursed his wine and carved a tidy piece of a medium-rare steak.
“Five,” Caldera said as the meat juices pressed against the inside of his mouth.
“Pardon me. Five it is,” the minister said as he thought how arrogant Caldera was being. “The fact is that a plan like mine will benefit you more than me. I want us to go into the meeting tomorrow with a united front.”
“What about Wei and Hung? Do we need them?”
“This is a black, brown, and yellow coalition. They’re crucial.”
“What’s my role?”
“Just follow my lead and agree with the projections.”
“Done.”
The two men shook on it and finished dinner without dessert.
After he returned to his suite, Kublai Khan spoke with Reverend Hung on the phone. Hung wasn’t easy.
“I have no reason to support your plan. How much will this cost?”
The reverend seemed anxious as his voice came out of the speakerphone. Khan glanced at the plan summary and listened to the tide crash against the rugged shore just off his patio.
“The money is just a tool. The budget is just a start. Just bring an open mind.”
That night, as Kublai Khan said his prayers, he sensed his own impatience and asked for divine guidance. As his head pressed against his pillow, he imagined Hung’s face smiling at him approvingly.
At breakfast the following morning, he shared tea with Master Wei and also asked for his buy-in. Wei was a small slightly built man whose pale white flowing robes appeared to make him float from place to place. Looking straight out of central casting the Master had a silver white beard that flowed to his chest and appeared to sparkle. Wei listened and did not speak beyond pleasantries. Kublai Khan waited for the recalcitrant waiter to finish clearing the table. Finally.
“There must be something you want from me?”
Wei thought intently and said, “No.”
“We can help with immigration, given the majority of your flock is in China?”
“Nothing,” Wei said as he placed his linen napkin gently on the table and folded it into a perfect square and then stood up. His three manservants were already halfway across the restaurant from where they sat to attend to Master Wei’s departure.
“Thanks for tea, Minister Khan. I will see you when time allows.”
Both men bowed deeply, and then the minister was alone at the table, wondering if this was the only man he knew who wanted nothing from him.
Les began the morning discussion with a quick review of the Mocha Girls strategic premise.
“Let me tell you a story about Rebecca and Tamara.”
Les sipped a perfect cappuccino and sensed everyone was relaxed and listening with curiosity.
“Each woman was eighteen years old, and they both lived in the land of Jacob. Their lives were different. Rebecca was a noblewoman. Tamara was a slave. Becky loved to dance and Tamara survived washing and cleaning for her mistress. Each girl met a guy and had sex. After their encounters, Rebecca went back to dancing, while Tamara became pregnant and had a child named Sarah.”
Reverend Hung moved nervously in his seat. Khan watched in his peripheral vision.
“Tamara has three more girls, Joan, Cassandra, and Mary, who each had three more girls. In future generations, the women beget more girls at a similar rate. Rebecca stayed childless until well into her twenties and had her first and only daughter, Diane, who went childless throughout her short life. In two generations, the rate of births was seven to one.”
Master Wei sipped on his green tea, slowly turning his cup counterclockwise a quarter turn with every sip.
“Were the slaves Asian?” he inquired.
“How do you know this?” Caldera asked, pointing a pencil for emphasis.
Kublai Khan spoke. “Let him continue.”
Les took off his metal-rimmed glasses for added emphasis.
“Remember Cassandra? She was sold to an African warlord and had twelve children. Her seven girls had an average of six females apiece through captivity.”
The men in the room tried to do the math in their heads and saw the future.
“Generations passed and women kept having babies. Now three out of four babies born today in America are black, Hispanic, or Asian. My point is that women of color have more babies than White girls do.”
“Are White women less fertile?” asked Hung as he fingered his half-eaten croissant.
“Yes. But there’s more. The most fertile females are mixed race. Mocha Girls.”
Les paused for reactions from the group.
“Our plan is to make Mocha Girls with African seed and take over America,” Kublai Khan added.
After a few seconds, Master Wei spoke.
“It’s not my role to question or criticize what you are planning, Honorable Minister. I do speak for the followers of Qi-gong. I will meditate on this matter before I give you my final decision.”
Reverend Hung Sung Suk said, “I think your plan has promise. The key is the Mocha Girls. Taking care of them will take money and influence.”
“It’s the fathers who will spawn this transformation. In a matter of one generation we can produce thousands of impregnated females,” Kublai Khan said.
“Childhood development will be a cooperative effort of our churches?”
Minister Caldera slowly sipped his black tea. “The idea here is the creation of a new category of racial differences that would trump the idea of whiteness,” he said. Then he frowned. “I think your plan is flawed. The idea of blending into a racial hybrid will hurt our church.”
Kublai Khan felt the double-cross.
Caldera smiled through his teeth and said, “I respect your position, Reverend. But we decline to participate at this time.”
“The numbers point to an increase in mixed-race Hispanics that don’t see themselves as Latinos,” Les warned. “The change will impact your flock first. Better you join us now than need us later.”
“Our flock will only get stronger,” Caldera said as he stood and began his goodbyes.
“Thanks for coming and hearing me out,” Khan said politely. “I won’t take no as your final decision. We will talk.”
Master Wei also offered his good wishes and left the room. Hung Sung Suk and his followers remained.
“Is Los Angeles the best place to start?” Hung said.
“It has the highest birthrates among all woman, and that’s because of the mixed-race females,” Kublai Khan reported.
“My female faithful are mostly Korean.”
“That’s the beauty of this plan,” Les put in. “The growth of mixed-race people can come from any and all racial mixtures. It creates an arithmetic anomaly.”
“Anomaly. How so?” Hung asked.
Les fetched a stack of computer reports from his briefcase and spread them out in front of Hung. His enthusiasm gave his voice a squeaky pitch and hastened delivery.
“The beauty is in the statistics. One birth. One person. One race. When you add the mixed-race factor, every birth compounds the federal birthrate by twenty percent.”
“I see,” Hung said defensively, leaning back in his seat to escape the rabid demographer.
“This is why the plan will work. The growth will be faster than the government can control. Blacks will become the fastest-growing population because this plan is all about fucking and having babies,” Les pontificated.
“Let’s talk about the marriages and birthing camps during lunch,” Kublai Khan said.
“My church will develop the principles and values for living a sacred life on earth and yours will build the ideals and directions for political action. Each day the couples will learn to live faithfully. Then they will be returned to the communities,” Hung advised. “It all starts with marriages. I am prepared to bring two thousand women a month to be joined in a holy ceremony with the men of The House of Jeremiah.”
“My men will be there,” the minister said.
At lunch, Kublai Khan enjoyed the sense of victory. He picked at a spinach salad and admired Hung’s appetite for a luscious hamburger with all the trimmings.
“I have read about something called the one-drop rule. Does it affect our work?” Hung asked, putting his sandwich down and eating a spoonful of macaroni salad.
“It requires anyone who has any Black ancestry to be considered Black,” Khan said. “Americans still abide by the one-drop rule.”
“Then I could be Black?” Hung said.
“No, it only relates to Black people that look Black. If you’re light enough, you can pass for White.”
“So all of our babies will be Black?”
“Precisely. That is where the political power comes from.”
Hung smiled.
