Chapter Eighteen

The Plight of Malcolm Garvey

The room was small and could only hold about a hundred or so people. About twenty rows of black folding chairs were lined up, facing the stage where I intended to deliver my message. The hardwood floors were clean enough to eat from, and the white walls had framed photos of courageous black women and men who played a vital part in African American history. For almost two years, I had set the stage. I had invited my brothers and sisters to come here and discuss many of the challenges we’d faced in America. It was my desire to make our communities better places to live, and I wanted all of us to reap the benefits of being financially stable, well-educated about our history and empowered.

While many of us knew severe changes had to be made, not much had ever happened. People hadn’t shown up for my meetings, and every now and then, most of the time, after a cop had shot and killed another black person, two or three more people would show up seeking solutions. Some of our discussions led to arguments, and whenever I started spilling the truth to people, some would get up and walk out.

Then, there were handfuls of celebrities who stepped up to educate our people. They charged fees and shit to hear them speak about our best way forward and wanted to enlighten everyone on how to become financially independent. Many times, hundreds of people showed up at their meetings. Not to receive the message, but people paid just to get a glimpse of the celebrity and/or to shake their hands. After signing several autographs and receiving a few pats on their backs, those celebrities returned home with big dollars in their pockets and smiles on their faces. Not because they had gotten their point across, but because black folks had been tricked again to dig into their pockets and swell the pockets of people who didn’t really give a damn about them to begin with. Here I was doing things for free and most people still didn’t want to hear it. Telling people to Stay Woke had become fighting words and everyone was so quick to defend The Masters. I knew who they were, simply because I had done my homework. I had discovered and examined The Masters’ plans; it was very disturbing. Oppression was still alive and well. Racism wasn’t going anywhere, and we would have to fight— fight hard for our freedom. That was my message, and as more people began to trickle in that day, I sat behind the podium, wringing my hands together and wondering if it was too late for us. Had we ignored our problems for so long that now we had to suffer the consequences? I surely hoped not, and I was determined to keep on reaching out to as many people as I could about what we needed to prepare ourselves for.

To be fair, some black folks were listening and there were some white people who supported us. They were there with me today and were prepared to add constructive dialogue to our conversation. Some had been more active on social media, and because of their efforts, I was surprised to see more people show up this time. I sat and observed some of the people coming in. To my left, second row, third and fourth seats was a black woman with her husband next to her. She kept rolling her eyes at him; I could immediately tell there was friction in their relationship. He was attempting to explain something to her, but she turned her back to him and folded her arms across her chest. Behind them sat another black woman with her white husband. There wasn’t much happening with those two, but a few rows back from them were about six teenage boys who kept laughing and flirting with young women as they came in. On the right side, another black woman and her pregnant daughter caught my attention. The daughter appeared real young, but she and her mother kept talking and turning their heads to look at people coming in. I still couldn’t believe how many people had shown up this time, and as I leaned forward, I whispered to Nadia who sat to my right.

“Looks like those social media blasts have been successful,” I said. “Great job. Keep doing what you do and your efforts are much appreciated.”

“No problem, Malcolm. You know I’m with you one hundred percent.”

I nodded and stood to stretch. The direction of my eyes traveled to the round clock on the wall. It showed 6:55 p.m., five minutes away from show time. I stepped down from the stage and walked up to greet an elderly black man who sat in the front row.

“Malcolm Garvey,” I said, extending my hand to shake his.

He gripped it tight. “Robert Anderson. Nice to meet you. I want to thank you for conducting these meetings. I’m looking forward to hearing what you have to say.”

I thanked him for coming, before moving on to the couple who appeared to be at each other’s throats. The man spoke up first.

“Marcel,” he said, introducing himself. “And this is my, uh, wife Melody.”

She shook my hand too, but she didn’t say anything after that. I spoke to the couple behind them, and then conversed with the teenage boys and a white pastor and his wife in back of the room. As I made my way back down the aisle, I stopped next to the pregnant girl and her mother.

“Thanks for coming,” I said with a smile on my face. “How did the two of you hear about this and what made you come?”

The woman shrugged and looked at her daughter. “Not sure,” she said. “Just kind of felt like we needed to be here. By the way, my name is Aubrey Evans. This is my daughter, Sasha.”

Sasha smiled and looked at me. “I came because it’s June 19^th and I heard you was going to touch on the meaning of that day. I didn’t know about it until a year ago. When I read about it, it sparked my interest. I don’t know why, but I like to stay informed. They don’t teach us nothing in school about black history so I’m just trying to educate myself as best as I can.”

Her enthusiasm caused my smile to widen. “Well, you’re in the right place. I’m getting ready to get started and I appreciate the two of you for coming.”

I waved at a few more people who sat nearby and then returned to the stage. As I stood behind the podium, I looked at the clock again. It was now 7:00 p.m. I shifted my eyes to everyone seated, and after I swallowed hard, I begun to speak.

“I would like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you for coming here today. I can’t stress enough how important it is for us to come together like this and unite. For far too long we’ve allowed things to go from bad to worse. We’ve become too comfortable with the crumbs being thrown at us. We’ve gotten too use to marching and rallying. We demand change, but we never follow through to ensure that we get change. Time is of the essence and it is imperative that we realize no one is going to give us anything. We will have to take our freedom by any means necessary.”

I stopped talking for a few seconds to look around the room to see if my words were sinking in yet. I had their attention as all eyes were on me, but it was hard to tell if my words were having the effect I needed them to have.

I continued, “Our future belongs to those of us who don’t mind preparing for it today. I’m also well aware that we can’t save everybody. I’m not looking to save everybody. There are some of us who are no good here and therefore will be of no use to us elsewhere. We have—”

I paused when the doors came open. And I remained silent when I saw the chubby white woman with a flowered dress on walk in. A bible was close to her chest as she searched for a seat. She found an empty chair next to Aubrey and her daughter. They smiled at her; she smiled back. Three white men who had entered behind her stood near the door. They whispered to each other while examining the room. All other eyes were on me. I still hadn’t moved, hadn’t said one word. At that point, I knew it was too late, but after all we had endured as a people, many of us were ready. On this day, June 19^th, we’d have to fight for our freedom again.

“Everyone,” I said with a sharp pain in the pit of my stomach. “If you’re listening, today is your wake-up call.”

The only person in the room who agreed with my assessment was the woman with the bible held against her chest. She grinned and delivered a slow wink at me that warned what would come next. If only everyone else knew. I hoped like hell they all had been paying attention . . .