Dominion

by Randy Alcorn

  “Minister Farrakhan is right,” Harley said. “White people are just tools of the devil.”

  “So are black people, Son,” Obadiah said. “Farrakhan is right to think white people are sinners. He’s just wrong to think black people aren’t.”

  “Minister Farrakhan is the black people’s hope. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you brother?” Harley glared at Clarence. “You wouldn’t even come to the Million Man March.”

  “I didn’t go because I can’t follow Farrakhan. I’ve read Minister Farrakhan and your Nation of Islam theology. It says the black man used to inhabit the moon, but then a scientist caused an explosion that blew blacks to the earth, who were the original Tribe of Shabazz, have I got that right? Then Yakub, a mad scientist with a big head, created the evil white race from the blacks, and the white satans were allowed by Allah to rule the earth for six thousand years, which ended in 1914. And now Minister Farrakhan is like the Grand Pubha or something?”

  “Look who’s talkin’ about myths,” Harley said. “How about, ‘Blackness is the mark of Cain’? Or, the descendants of Ham are under the curse of Canaan, when in fact the great majority of blacks aren’t even descendants of Canaan. The Christian myths make anything else pale in comparison.”

  “Why do you conveniently forget what I documented for you, brother, that a ninth century Muslim first came up with the myth that blackness was the curse of Cain, and he did it to justify the fact that Muslims enslaved blacks. I’ve showed you the reports, that today in Mauritania there are ninety thousand black tribesmen enslaved by the Moors, but do you or your intellectual colleagues who railed against apartheid ever speak out against slavery when it’s Muslims who do it? Or what about the tens of thousands of children of black Christians in Sudan enslaved by Muslims? Why are you so selective about justice? Why doesn’t Minister Farrakhan speak out against Muslim injustices instead of fraternizing in the palaces of tyrants and taking money from their bloodthirsty hands?”

  “Minister Farrakhan has done more for our people than Martin Luther King ever dreamed of.”

  “Is this the same Minister Farrakhan who preaches whites are ‘sub-human,’ that they’re all devils, that Judaism is a ‘gutter religion’? What would Martin Luther King think of that, Martin the Christian minister? You think I want to take my son to hear that kind of bigot? Farrakhan isn’t just a racist, he’s a crazy racist. His numerology and his UFOs and his conspiracies? Napoleon shot off the nose of the Sphinx to destroy the proof that blacks created Egyptian civilization? AIDS was invented by white men to kill off blacks? Give me a break. The man’s a Looney Tune.”

  Harley stood up and leaned toward Clarence, the whole living room cringing at the exchange. “What do you think it says about your precious Christian church that it took a Muslim to inspire a million men to come to Washington? Minister Farrakhan called on men to accept responsibility for themselves, their wives, their children. They vowed not to raise weapons against each other. He called on blacks to take responsibility for their behavior. I was there, brother, me and my sons. It was peaceful, it was positive, and Farrakhan was only a part of it—yet all the white media could do was tear it apart.”

  “The white media was handcuffed,” Clarence countered. “They wore kid gloves. If this had been a white man preaching racism and malarkey like Farrakhan, they’d have crucified him.”

  “How come no Christian leader ever got a million black men together, tell me that. Minister Farrakhan is restoring patriarchy to black America. Paternal authority and responsibility—haven’t I heard you say that’s what we need, brother? Well, Minister Farrakhan was saying it long before you did. I saw two young boys stand up on that platform and ask black men to be their fathers and their grandfathers, to love them and discipline them. They came to show the nation black men aren’t just drug dealers and wife abusers and drive-by shooters and child deserters. But all white America could do was scoff at them and mock them.”

  “I’m not scoffing at them, but—”

  “Instead of applauding black men for standing up at the march for what’s right, they denigrated them. Minister Farrakhan is a prophet of God.”

  “Minister Farrakhan is David Duke with darker skin!” Clarence saw the hurt in his brother’s eyes, and while Harley’s anger didn’t bother him, the hurt did. Clarence felt empty, less because he was attacking a religion he believed to be false than because he was defending a religion he was no longer certain was true.

  “Let me ask you just one thing, Daddy,” Harley said, turning away from Clarence. “After all you’ve said about Mississippi and all the black folk lynched, all the suffering, how those white police nearly beat you to death, what does it tell you that the place was full to the brim with Bible believin’ church people? I want you to tell me now, did you ever, even once, hear any white Christian church leader stand up and say to the community, to the black churches, to the newspaper, to anyone, ‘This is wrong. I’m sorry. We will not tolerate the lynchings and the beatings and the humiliation and the cruelty anymore! We will kick the Klansmen out of our churches and stand up for justice for people of all colors.’ Did you ever get that from a white church leader, Daddy? I want the whole family to hear your answer.”

  Twenty-seven family members sat in breathless silence in the crowded living room, all of them looking at the patriarch. Obadiah sat silently for a long time, his eyes down, slowly filling with moisture. Finally he lifted his eyes and spoke.

  “No, I never did hear that. And I wish to Jesus I would have.” He fought to gain control of his voice. “But that’s not God’s fault. And my faith is in God, not men. Not white men, not black men. My faith is in a God who isn’t black or white but who made both and who died for both and for people of every color.”

  Obadiah looked around the room. He had the floor now and not even Clarence or Harley would dare try to take it back. “You two boys, you hear me now. It grieves this old man to see my sons fight like this. I don’t want yo’ mama or my Dani to look down here and have to see it either. I’m old as dirt, but I ain’t mulch on the flowers yet. I’s still your daddy. When you was boys ’member how I read those Proverbs to you over and over? ‘Member how whenever you crossed the boundary, I always sided with the boundary? Still do, ’cause God made the boundary and the boundary always wins. Now I got just a few things to say, so shut up yo’ mouths and listen to the boundaries, both of you.”

  The rest of the family sat amazed at his strength and attentive to his words. “Clarence, you should show more respect for your brother’s beliefs. Yeah, you knows I disagrees with him too, but sarcasm and venom ain’t the way to convince him. I wish I heard more love in your voice, more kindness to your brother. Yo’ mama would want that. You knows the words of the gospel, boy. But you’s missin’ the music.”

  Clarence looked down, rebuked and ashamed.

  “And now you, Harley,” Obadiah said. “You better read Revelation, the last three chapters. And you better realize God ain’t gonna adjust it all to fit your beliefs or Minister Farrakhan’s or mine or anybody else’s. If you’re gonna get on the right side, you’ll have to change your faith because God isn’t gonna change his. He’s stubborn that way, but then he’s God and that’s that.

  “Now, the rest of you, hear this old man and hear me good ’cause I don’t know how much longer I’s gonna be here to tell you nothin’. There’s bad Christians and there’s good Christians; there’s phony Christians and there’s real Christians. The devil can go to church once a week. Nothin’ to it. It’s livin’ it that matters, and the people that live it, those are the real Christians—not just the ones that mouth it. Now I’m not college educated like some folks in this room, but I was near the top of my class when I dropped out in third grade.” His eyes gleamed. “And the way I reads my Bible, anybody who hates a man for the color God made him isn’t filled with God, he’s filled with the devil. So jus’ because somebody say he a Christian, it don’t mean he is. And even those that is Christians is sti
ll just people, and people’s gonna always lets you down.” He’d been talking fast, but his speech now slowed to a crawl.

  “But my Jesus, he won’t never lets you down. Never. Yessir, my Lord tooks my daddy and mama, my Ruby and my Bobby and my Dani and my Felicia, he tooks them all away from me, and all my brothers and sisters ‘cept ol’ Elijah, but he never once tooks away himself from Obadiah Abernathy, and that’s the gospel truth. The Lord gives and the Lord takes. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  A hush permeated the living room. Clarence and Harley, both ill at ease with the tears now flowing down their father’s cheeks, bowed their heads in chagrined silence.

  Clarence arrived home early from the Trib. As he pulled into the driveway, Ty and three friends came walking out the front door. He sat in his car a moment and listened. Ty was animated, like Clarence hadn’t heard him in a long time. His voice cracked, oscillating between child and adult. Ty was fourteen years old, all elbows and knees, not yet grown into his ears. His body was awkward but lean and strong. As Clarence watched, Ty pulled out of his pocket a blue baseball cap and put it on. On the front was a capital B with an X drawn over it, followed by the number 187.

  Clarence recognized only one of the boys, Jason, a kid Ty had hung with for years. Jason looked different now. He didn’t like the way any of these boys dressed. They had the look of bangers. But then, so did most the kids around here. Who could tell?

  “Hi, Ty. Jason. Hey, guys,” Clarence said, trying to sound friendlier than he felt.

  Ty barely acknowledged him. His friends grunted, making eye contact only long enough to send an unmistakable message—“Outta my face, old head.”

  Clarence came inside and Geneva greeted him. They kissed. “I’ve had some of Ty’s friends over after school the last few days,” Geneva explained. “I figured if he’s spending time with them, we should know what they’re like. The key seems to be food. The more I put out, the more they come back.”

  “They’re teenage boys,” Clarence said.

  “It’s like the descent of the locusts. I put it out and it’s instantly devoured. The grocery bill’s goin’ crazy. Ty’s got the metabolism of a wolverine. I thought you ate a lot—you do eat a lot—but Ty leaves you in the dust. Jonah’s catching up too.”

  “He’s growin’ up—almost twelve now. I still don’t think this is the place for him.”

  “His place is with his family,” Geneva said. “You know, when Ty was with his friends, I actually saw him smile. It shocked me. I hadn’t seen him smile for months. Certainly not since the funerals. He’s got this big lopsided grin, you remember? He only seems to be happy when he’s hangin’ with his friends. I’m afraid we’re losin’ him, Clarence.”

  “I don’t think we ever had him, did we? But we’ve got to help him. I won’t be beaten by a gang of young thugs.”

  Geneva started to say something, but thought better of it. Clarence went to the telephone and punched a number.

  “Ollie? Listen, you used to work gangs in L.A., right? I’ve got a family problem—you know, my nephew? I need some info on gangs. Would you mind walking me through some things? Yeah? That’d be great. Thanks.”

  Maybe if I can understand his world better I can reach him before it’s too late.

  “Read to us, Grampy!” Keisha demanded.

  “Grumpy? Who you callin’ Grumpy?”

  “No, Grampy.”

  “Okay, then, that’s better, yessuh, that’s better fo’ sure! Yeah, ol’ Grumpy, he’ll read to his grandchillens any day. Readin’s a joy if ever there was one. But first I’s gonna play you some of my old music, just to set the mood.”

  Obadiah Abernathy moved slowly toward the stereo. On top of it sat the old turntable that he alone used. While the rest of the world had graduated from tapes to CDs, he’d never graduated to tapes from records. His music was engraved on platters. He played for Keisha and Celeste a sampling of jazz and jitterbug music. He played Duke Ellington, Nat King Cole, and Louis Armstrong. The children weren’t old enough to know they weren’t supposed to like it.

  “You know why music is so important to black folk, chillens?”

  “Why Grampy?”

  “Because it lifts you up; it takes you somewhere else. It’s a way of gettin’ out from under the rock. Music gives you wings.” He said it with great energy, and though he only said it once, the children would always remember it, as if he’d said it a hundred times.

  “Now you think that music’s somethin’, you jus’ wait for heaven’s music— choirs of angels and all God’s chillens there’s ever been. They gonna make Nat King Cole sound like scratchin’ fingernails on a blackboard.”

  “Will black people and white people live in the same part of heaven?” Celeste asked.

  “Yes, darlin’, I believe they will. Ol’Jim Crow won’t be in glory. Maybe there’ll be segregation in hell, but not heaven. Same eatin’ places and drinkin’ fountains for everyone in God’s kingdom. Black people, white people, every color people. Some whites in heaven, some in hell. Some blacks in heaven, some blacks in hell. That’s how it goes. God made all colors. If he don’t care, we won’t.” He coughed from deep inside, hard and long.

  “You okay, Grampy?” Keisha asked.

  “Ol’ Grumpy’s all right, now. Don’t fuss yo’ nappy little heads none over me. I ain’t mulch on the flowers yet, you know. Nothin’ wrong with this ol’ boy that couldn’t be fixed by a good resurrection. For now, I’d settle for a mess o’ cornbread and black-eyed peas. You tell yo’ mama that, hear me?”

  His eyes sparkled, and his contagious spirit worked its magic on the children. He then broke into song with as much gusto as his old lungs allowed. “Go tell it on the mountain…

  “Oh Freedom, Oh Freedom, Oh Freedom over me. And before I’ll be a slave I’ll be buried in my grave, and go home to my Lord and be free.

  “Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home, swing low sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home. I looked over Jordan, and what did I see…

  “O Canaan, bright Canaan, I’m bound for the land of Canaan.”

  Obadiah’s mind returned to the living room as suddenly as it had left. “Let’s see now. Which book you want your ol’ Grumpy to read to you today? More of them Narnia stories?”

  “Why’d you leave L.A.?” Clarence asked Ollie.

  “It was turning into a madhouse. A fourth of the city’s homicides were gang related. Now I hear it’s close to a third. Kids killing kids. Everybody’s goin’ to the mission.”

  “The mission?”

  “Gang-slang for dying. The L.A. morgue’s on Mission Street.”

  Ollie handed a list to Clarence, printed on paper with a police department logo. “Okay, I got this from gang enforcement. These are the fourteen major gangs in North Portland, not counting odds and ends. Of course, there’s dozens more gangs in Southeast, Milwaukee, West Side, you name it.”

  Clarence looked over the list. “Forty-Three East Coast Crips?’”

  “First lesson. It’s Four trey, not forty-three. Three is pronounced trey. Two is deuce, one is ace.”

  “What’s with East Coast? They from Jersey or something?”

  “No. Los Angeles. East Coast just means the east side of L.A.’s Harbor Freeway.”

  “So…these guys are from L.A.?”

  “Nope. Maybe the originals, but most these kids have never been outside Portland.”

  “And the four trey means…?”

  “Four trey is just an L.A. street number, forty-third. It means that’s the center of the set turf, the area of their dominion.” Ollie looked down at the list. “Most of our locals are named after L.A. gangs, but some are original with Portland. Like this one.” He pointed at the paper.

  “Forty-Seven Kerby Bloc Crips,” Clarence read. “So, is this the 4700 block on North Kerby?”

  “Exactly.”

  “This a typo? ‘B-l-o-c’? No k?”

  “Nope. There’s a reason for everything. If you’re a
Crip you never put a k after a c. CK is Blood dialect for Crip Killer. So you don’t follow a c with a k unless you’re a Piru, a Blood.”

  “No kidding? The Hispanic guys that killed Dani—what local gangs could they be from?”

  “Well, there’s the CVTF, for one—Compton Vario Tortilla Flats, from Compton in L.A. They’re a Southeast Eighty-Second gang, down in Johnson Creek, Clackamas. Usually they just go by TE. They’ve got the belt buckles with the M.”

  “Why M?”

  “Thirteenth letter of the alphabet. After their home base, Thirteenth Street in Compton. Then we’ve got several gangs affiliated with the EME, also called Mexican Mafia. It’s more than just another gang. It acts as overseers of the regular Hispanic street gangs, forcing them to pay ‘taxes,’ ordering hits on uncooperative gangs or members. A ‘green light’ is put on any gang that doesn’t comply, meaning they’re open to being hit. EME killed a movie consultant when the movie didn’t portray gangs the way they liked.”

  “Sounds like the Gangsta Disciples in Chicago.”

  “You know them? That’s right, you’re from Chicago. Yeah, the Disciples were one of the first gangs, besides the EME, to really get organized, almost like Capone during prohibition. They’ve actually sent representatives out to cities all over the country, channeling profits back to the mother group to fund more crime and drug dealing and weapons purchases.”

  “What about white gangs?”

  “We’ve got ’em. There’s the Oak Grove Posse, a bunch of white thugs. Then there’s the skater gang in Southeast, the Toaster Strudels.”

  “The what?”

  “Pretty intimidating name, huh?” Ollie’s voice got even tougher and raspier. “‘Hey, man, we gonna rumble with the Strudels tonight.’ It’s weird, but hey, they’re skaters.” Ollie stood up. “Listen, I’ve got an hour. Let’s take a drive, and I’ll show you some things. Maybe something will strike us related to the case, who knows? You want to visit white supremacist territory? You up for that?”