From the steps of Los Angeles City Hall, one could see the old Parker Center, the home of the Los Angeles Police Department. As the crowd of two hundred men, women, and children from South Los Angeles stood and shouted opposition to the death of Sidney Dennison, men in blue casually walked into the police headquarters without so much as a glance at the commotion.
A dozen police officers, mostly Black, stood around the perimeter and watched the proceedings. A cameraman captured the stoic faces of the officers and the growing agitation of the crowd for the web.
“Black lives matter!” shouted an elderly man in an orange, red, and purple dashiki with his fist held high in the air. Sprinkled throughout the assembly were signs and placards showing an angelic grade-school graduation photo of Sidney.
Reverend Harper stood at the makeshift podium and spoke into the microphone with the rolling cadence of a Southern Baptist minister. He knew that the camera was running, and he needed to make something happen.
“Brothers and sisters,” he boomed, “I stand before you as a man with fire in his heart. It’s been ignited because of the case of two young Blacks being arrested in Hollywood for simply roughhousing. The real tragedy wasn’t the fact that they were arrested. It was that young Jeremy slept in his own bed that night, while Sidney was found hanging from his own hoodie in the morning.”
The crowd erupted in whoops and yells and then quieted as Harper raised a hand in benediction.
“We will not stand for injustice,” he continued. “Young Sidney Dennison should have gone home with Jeremy. Both boys wanted to enjoy the scene on the streets of Hollywood. They didn’t realize they were dressed like the kind of troublemakers the police see all our boys to be, no matter what they’re doing.”
“No justice, no peace!” someone shouted from the middle of the crowd, and everyone took up the chant.
“No justice, no peace! No justice, no peace!”
Harper pressed on. “You don’t have to take my word about what happened,” he called, “because there’s a witness to the Hollywood Hoodies incident with us today. Please give your attention to Jeremy Talbert.”
Reverend Harper stepped away from the podium, trusting a sixteen-year-old boy to galvanize his listeners.
Jeremy stepped to the podium weakly. His first words were nearly inaudible.
“Hello. I’m Jeremy…Talbert,” he mumbled, “and I’m…bbb…bbb…Black.”
The crowd roared approval.
“Jeremy! …Jeremy! …Jeremy!”
Jeremy’s voice wavered as he spoke, and his hesitation only spurred the crowd to get louder and louder. Every word he spoke was greeted with emphatic screams.
“Jeh-ruh-mee! Jeh-ruh-mee! JEH-RUH-MEE!”
“I want to speak for my friend Sidney,” Jeremy pressed, “who died a few nights ago in a Hollywood police cell. I was there.”
The camera caught the crowd swaying back and forth, as they tuned in to his emotional struggle.
“We both felt the cops shouldn’t have arrested us,” Jeremy went on, the microphone carrying his small voice over the heads of his listeners. “We…we…weren’t hurting anyone. I tried to tell the officers that we were buds and we were just having a little fun hanging out on the boulevard…but they didn’t listen. When they let me go, I was surprised Sidney wasn’t right behind me.”
Jeremy took a breath and paused for what seemed like a minute. The crowd fell suddenly quiet.
“Nothing I was going to say will bring Sidney back,” he said as he looked up from the notes Harper had given him.
Silence, as perfect as the moon’s.
“…I have white skin…some people say I’ll never be treated like a real Black man.” Jeremy looked down at his shoes, then up at the faces in front of him. “But what people think about me doesn’t really mean anything. My blackness is not on my skin. It’s in my heart.”
“Be Black!” a woman’s voice called.
“Stay Black!” a man replied.
The crowd started jumping up and down in a frenzy, picking up the chant. “Be Black…stay Black…be Black…stay Black…be Black…stay Black!”
Jeremy stayed around for interviews after his speech, and used every opportunity to spin the story for reporters and bloggers alike.
Harper jumped in at the end of every conversation to say, “Use our hashtags—beblackstayblack and blacklikejeremy.” The interviewers dutifully wrote everything down.
The viral videos were next.
The first video showed the bare head and shoulders of Justin Hennessey, an English actor, speaking into the camera while riding on a horse-drawn chariot racing through cobblestone streets in central London.
“I am Black like Jeremy,” he intoned, in a perfect Eton John accent.
Then the image morphed into Jessica Alba, dressed as a modern dancer at center stage, where she said, “I am Black like Jeremy,”
Then the image transformed to Hall of Famer Benito Maricon, the Cuban baseball star, who repeated, “I’m Black like Jeremy.”
Next was Eva Morales, the movie star, dressed as a galactic storm trooper on the set of her most recent film. Then it was the Australian movie star Pleather Jackson, dressed in a tuxedo and holding a champagne glass, then the action film hero Justin Wong, dressed in a wetsuit and walking out of the Pacific Ocean. They all repeated, “I am Black like Jeremy,” and the video finished with NeSha Langston, a Black reality TV star dressed in a gold lame two-piece. She too said, “I am Black like Jeremy,” and then added, “Aren’t you? Upload your video at BlacklikeJeremy.Com.”
Within weeks, the website had two million hits and 150,000 videos had been uploaded. Anthropologists and academics alike joined Minister Kublai Khan in offering the hypothesis that if in America the single drop rule was the law of the land, and there were traces of African DNA in all human beings, then everyone in the nation was Black.
The discussion became manna for talk shows on radio and television, with a cadre of experts surfacing to defend the merits of racial and physical profiling.
“Welcome to Talk of the Town with our host, Cynthia Chambers. Today her guests are Reverend Rufus Harper from the Freedom Brigade and Pastor Tucker Dalton from the Christian Covenant Church. They will be discussing the topic. ‘Who’s Black?’ Here’s Cynthia.”
Cynthia smiled blandly at the camera, her blonde hair shimmering under the lights. “Welcome to where we tackle the difficult issues. Today it’s just—who are Black people, and what do they really want? My guest today is Reverend Rufus Harper, who has helped make Hollywood Hoodies a household phrase. Welcome Rev. With him today is a man who is no stranger to controversy himself, Pastor Tucker Dalton from the Christian Covenant Church in Chino, California. Welcome to both of you.” She turned her smile on her guests. “Reverend Dalton, it’s nice to have you with us today to discuss such a controversial subject.”
“I appreciate your invitation to confront the terrible precedent Harper’s people are creating here in Southern California,” Dalton offered. He was sitting ramrod-straight in his blocky modernist chair, his suit and face a little too shiny under studio lighting.
“Well, let’s get down to it, then. What is so wrong with what Reverend Harper’s doing?”
“He and his outside agitators are stirring up the people of Los Angeles by taking a sad incident in Hollywood and making it into front-page news with that ‘I am Black too’ thing…” Dalton shook his head. “Disgusting.”
Harper, seated beside him and comfortably filling his own space, made a harrumphing noise. “Yes, we’ve helped our people understand that they have a right to demand justice for Sidney Dennison. The people who agree with us are not going to let people like you,” he glowered at Dalton, “tell us just who are. Not ever again.”
“But Reverend,” Cynthia interrupted, “I think Pastor Dalton is saying Black people are clearly people who look one way while others don’t. Does your campaign try to blur the lines of race and ethnicity?”
Harper turned to her and gave her a polite, almost fatherly smile. “People are declaring for themselves what race they identify with,” he said, “and being Black is no more about biology than it is about physical appearance. It’s social. And people have seen that one of the victims that awful day in Hollywood is fighting against the social perceptions that he isn’t Black. We’re all Black like Jeremy.” He looked sideways into camera two and added, “The idea of choosing who you really are resonates with all people.”
“This is blasphemy,” Dalton snarled. “God has blessed all of his children with the capacity to be different races and ethnic groups since the start of time. Confusing people with this kind of political manipulation is a selfish act. The members of the Christian Covenant Church won’t stand for it!” He wiped his sweaty brow with a cotton handkerchief while the harsh stage lights warmed his partially bald head.
“Reverend Harper, what do you say to Pastor Dalton’s accusation of manipulation?” Cynthia asked, reading from a small stack of notecards she held in her hands.
“I don’t agree with Dalton,” Harper said simply. “I think that people want the freedom to declare what race they identify with most. And Black is where it’s at.”
“When your people were still in caves and had tails, White people were navigating the oceans and establishing civilizations,” Dalton growled as his face turned scarlet.
“You’re a racist,” Harper said, a hint of frost creeping into his tone, “and misinformed. Black people of Africa mastered the oceans and conquered much of Europe with cunning and bravery. Haven’t you heard of Hannibal?”
“Our Lord and the laws of Nature have created the races to be different as any species,” Dalton retorted. “Therefore, White people have to be, and are, superior to any other racial species on Earth.”
“If that’s true,” Cynthia cut in, “how do you explain people like Jeremy Talbert, the survivor of the Hollywood Hoodies case? They look White but see themselves as Black.” She held out a languid hand. “Doesn’t that make race simply a personal thing?”
“I don’t believe any of that psycho-babble,” Dalton grumbled. “People like this Jeremy kid are biological abominations. People should look like the race they are. If they don’t, they are strange and unnatural.”
“So you think the millions of people in this country who are mixed-race are abnormal?” Harper interjected, struggling to hide his smirk.
“Don’t put words in my mouth, I didn’t say that,” Dalton snapped. “White people must protect our society and way of life. White people must reject the idea that they can be another race.”
“I urge Americans to help transform race and politics in America by defining themselves as Black,” Harper proclaimed. A wicked gleam appeared in his eye. “Who knows? From where I’m sitting, I can see thick lips, curly hair, and broad nostrils. It looks to me like Pastor Dalton has a nigger in his woodpile.”
Reverend Dalton’s face turned the color of a robin’s chest as he surged to his feet, overturning the coffee table in front of him. Harper scrambled back out of striking range and blundered into a nearby lighting stand, then rebounded, balling his fists in preparation for a fight.
But neither one threw a punch. The two men stood nose to nose, breathing heavily, and suddenly began hurling insults at each other. After a few seconds of ratings gold, Cynthia stepped in between them and pushed them apart like chest-beating boxers at a weigh-in.
“You psychotic bastard!” Reverend Harper roared, his cheeks and neck flushing dark. “I hope you…you burn in hell!”
“There isn’t enough power in those monkey brains of you people to change our way of life!” spat Dalton as camera one zoomed in close on his rage.
“Black people have put up with the lies and deceit of people like you since slavery! No more, you ugly cracker!” Harper bellowed as he threw his arms around the preacher in a hostile bear hug.
As the studio assistants rushed in to separate the two men, Dalton twisted free and scrambled back while Reverend Harper calmly straightened his tie and readjusted his suit jacket. The camera cut back to the host, who remained calm and in control.
“Gentlemen,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “What a show. I invite you both back to discuss this further. Thanks again for being on Talk of the Town.”
The #blacklikejeremy campaign became a problem for Washington and the administrators of the US Census. The African American working group was brought back together under an emergency provision to study the issue. The working group met in The Albert Hotel, on DuPont Circle. Kublai Khan was there remotely by speakerphone.
Quickly the conversation turned to the issue of self-identification. The fear was clear. An explosion in the “Other” racial category would damage the accuracy of the data. Reverend Foresight was quick to see the ramifications.
“The government must rely on the integrity of its people and adjust for the results of social change. This is a good thing.”
“Anything that impedes one minority group over another is cause for grave concern. A Black citizen isn’t a White one,” Les asserted.
“We’re already down the rabbit hole now,” Reverend Harper insisted. “Race is now a choice. We better get used to it. And Black is what’s happening.”
“It’s unfortunate that my people are choosing other categories than Hispanic to describe their race in the census,” Dr. Garza remarked, and added, “and some of those are now becoming Black.”
“Yes, that’s regrettable,” Kublai Khan agreed from the speaker in the middle of the conference table. “But the Black like Jeremy movement has transformed race in America.” There was a short huff of breath, possibly a snort. “Get used to it.”
Les and Harper shared a car to Dulles Airport.
“Birth camps?” Harper blurted when Les told him the story. “Where Asian women are having Black babies?” He stared.
“Yes. That’s the deal. A fully functional facility with a full staff of nurses and doctors,” Les confirmed.
“The idea is just plain immoral. What was he thinking?”
“As simple as it sounds…he wants what you want,” Les said with a shrug. “Power.” He held his pale fist up for emphasis.
“Les, you know the minister can’t keep a lid on those camps. Sooner or later, it’s going to leak out. I suggest that he gets their affairs in order—things like birth and marriage certificates as well as permits and medical records.”
“I’m sure everything’s in order. But the House of Jeremiah should prepare a press campaign soon to offset any negative public perception about the center,” Les concluded. Outside the window, the Washington monument slid past, touched with blood and fire against a dusky sky. “But it shouldn’t be an issue. It isn’t against the law to provide medical benefits to underserved mothers, or to offer early childhood education.”
“With all due respect, I don’t know how the House and Minister Kublai Khan thought that controlled birth camps could impact the national census. Do you?” Harper asked.
“He and I talked extensively about it. The numbers are clear. If the camps closed tomorrow, California’s Black population would still be changed forever.”
“Even so, it would never make a difference in federal appropriations,” Harper said.
“Don’t doubt the numbers…unless you got something more reliable than White people calling themselves Black. The birth camps are worth supporting,” Les said.
By the time, the men got to the airport the conversation had turned to sports, urban decay, private schools, and the high price of college tuition.
