The sound of a door slamming fills the air inside the house. Lorraine Miller looks out the window of her home to find out why the door wasn’t closed gently. What she sees is rather humorous. A small person is struggling down the hill to the mailbox. In his arms are no less than three white mail trays filled with envelopes. Her son waddles his way down the drive, barely able to keep from falling over. Lorraine sighs and puts down the dishtowel she was drying her hands with. She goes into the laundry room and picks up a cart that was designed to carry luggage. She rolls it out the front door and has soon caught up with her son, who was on the verge of spilling his heavy load.
“Glory! I just can’t understand how someone who is supposed to be so smart can be so dumb,” she said out loud as she got within hearing distance. “Or maybe you’re just stubborn. Your father’s the same way. Now here, use this cart before you fall over and hurt yourself.”
“Thanks Mom,” said Jim, handing over his load. “I was in a hurry, I don’t want to miss the mailman. I’ve been licking stamps all morning.” He stuck out his tongue as if to show how worn out it had become.
The two started walking toward the mailbox together. She looked through the contents of the mail tray. It was filled with identical magenta colored sheets of paper, folded in thirds and stapled. “Is this another issue of that newsletter of yours?”
“Issue Four of ‘Genetic Equality: The Official Newsletter of the Johnannes Handel Anti-Defamation Society.’” Jim beamed with pride. “Dad, Jordan and I just finished it last night. I’ve got to get it out today, we’re on a deadline.”
The two rolled to a stop by the mailbox. It was almost 1:30 pm now, the mailman was already past due. Jim checked the box just to make sure that he wasn’t late, but it was empty, the mail hadn’t been delivered yet. “The ‘Johannes Handel Anti-Defamation Society’ huh? Well, I’m glad that you’ve been keeping busy these last few months. You were pretty down after the college rejections you know. Not me though, I’m glad that you’re staying around the farm for a little while longer. Things would seem so lonely if you went away. Just me and your father. Even Joyce is gone now...” Lorraine cast her eyes downward and let the rest of her sentence trail off.
“It’s gone past that Mom. I know that when we started I just thought that the newsletter would be a way to keep busy, but I’ve found out so much and corresponded with so many different people. There are serious issues that no one in the mainstream press is really giving much attention to. Did you know that Johnston has a bill before Congress right now that would require testing of all humans? And those that tested positive for HS would have their names publicly released? Right now it’s totally legal to fire someone just for having an Alien-American child.” Jim started counting on his fingers. “And what about the violence of August 6th? Thousands of Alien-Americans were killed, property was destroyed, and there hasn’t been a single prosecution.”
“Alien-American? That’s what you’re calling yourself now?” Lorraine chuckled.
“That was Dad’s idea. It makes it sound less like a disease or a disability.” He continued without letting up, “Third, there are stories coming out of other countries that make what happened here six months ago look like nothing. They’re now estimating that the world population is actually decreasing with all the infant killings that are going on! Fourth, every day gangs of ignorant thugs beat up and murder Alien-Americans and the cops don’t do anything to stop these people. Fifth, the military buildup for this vague threat is resulting in decreased social services and...”
“Ok, ok, calm down. You’re preaching to the choir here,” said Lorraine. She patted her child on the head. “I’ve got to listen to your father rant on and on all day about this. I don’t need it from you too.”
“Sorry, Mom, it’s just that I get so excited. I mean, I’m doing ok here, but there are a lot of people that are in way worse shape. Have you heard about the things that go on in those orphanages? I mean it’s...” Jim caught himself before he started another tirade.
“So what’s the big deadline?”
“Huh?”
“You said that you had a deadline to meet.”
“Oh, yeah, we’re planning a march.”
“A march, where?”
“Washington, D.C.”
“Does your father know about this?
“He’s the one who’s driving.”
“How are you planning a march?”
“I know, I thought that it was a crazy idea at first too. I mean, I don’t know how to plan a rally, but I said to Dad that we needed a rally, and he told me to figure out how to do it. I started by calling other minority groups and asking them questions. Some were pretty friendly. Then I called the City Hall in D.C. and asked them how to get a permit. I’ve still got to paint up some banners and all, but we’ve got a permit for two months from now. So, I’ve got to warn my subscribers to come if they can make it. I’m hoping to get a hundred people. We’re gonna march from the White House to the Capitol. Maybe we’ll even have some speeches, if I can figure out where to get a microphone.”
“Where did you get the money for all this. It ain’t like you got a job or nothing.”
“Donations, donations, donations. I’ve got checks from a bunch of people. I never asked for any, but people send me money anyway. Plus, there’s this guy, he’s the CEO of an oil company. His daughter is an Alien-American. He’s said that he’d put up a hundred thousand dollars if I needed it.”
“A hundred thousand dollars? I don’t know about this James. That’s a lot of money. These people are expecting something serious. You’re just a teenager. Maybe you should let someone else handle this.”
“There isn’t anyone else Mom. When I started this thing I didn’t realize it, but no one else had stepped forward. I’m one of the oldest Alien-Americans around, so a lot of the younger kids look up to me. Sure, there were some groups that have been dealing with HS as a disease, but they’re all small and local and misguided. No one before me has come forward and talked about the human rights issues associated with this thing. Now everyone’s looking to me for guidance. I’ve become a leader.” He puffed up his chest proudly, “I’ve got a mandate from the people.”
Lorraine looked down at the pile of newsletters. “What do you have there, a thousand letters? That’s not exactly a ‘mandate from the people.’”
“Oh these, these are just for those people that don’t have email. I’ve got about fifty times this number of people who I sent newsletters to electronically.”
Just then, the mail truck appeared in the distance. It drove closer and closer trailing a cloud of dust. When it arrived, Jim helped the mailman pick up the newsletters and put them in his truck. The driver then reached around back and pulled out two large sacks of mail each as big as the boy himself, which he dropped at the young leader’s feet. “Good thing we brought the cart, huh Mom?” Jim said.
Two weeks before the J.H.A.D.S. Rally. An alley in downtown Fredrick, MD
“I’m telling you man, if you want in, you’re gonna have to jump a baldie. That’s like the rule.” The teenagers, just boys really, sat in the alleyway hidden from the view of the street by strategically placed garbage cans. They all wore the brown berets that they were so proud of. Two of the boys had black leather jackets with a strange symbol hand painted on the back. It was a gray, upside-down teardrop with a large red ‘X’ overlaid on it. You could tell that the decoration was fashioned in a hurry since small rivulets of paint had dried into permanent drips. One of the boys had the letters ‘BK’ carved into his arm, although they weren’t visible with his jacket sleeves rolled down.
“I don’t know you guys, this is pretty hardcore,” said Ben Hayes. He was at least two years younger than the other members of the ‘Baldie-Killahs.’
“Don’t wuss out on us man.”
“Look Hayes, you’re either with us or against us. We all know that you got a baldie in your family, so you’re on the edge already. You’re just lucky that your Dad works with M
r. Johnston. Now you gonna prove your loyalty to the BKs or not?”
“Uh, ok, what do I gotta do?” said Colin’s child hesitantly.
“Come over here.” The boys moved to the front of the alley and peered around the edge of the building. “Now, you just have to wait until a baldie comes along, and then you jump him.” He pulled something out of his pocket. “Hit him in the face a few times with this. That’ll show ‘em.” He handed a homemade set of brass knuckles to Ben who took them and tried them on. The gang leader turned to his lookout. “Greg, you see anything.”
“Yeah, a baldie just walked into that store. He’ll be coming out soon. Then pow! He won’t know what hit him.” The boys chuckled to themselves. A bead of sweat dripped out from underneath Ben’s beret. He looked down at his armored hand.
“Man, you’re such a wimp man. Come on, be a man. Look it’s almost dark out, no one’ll see you. Just hit the kid and run. Don’t you hate baldies?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to see them all dead?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to be a real American like the Vice President?”
“Yes!” Ben was starting to get revved up.
“Don’t you want to punch their little fat heads in?”
“Yes!”
The door to the shop opened and the boy came out, skipping.
“Now go man!”
“Wait,” said the leader. “Get him with this.” He handed Ben a switchblade. Ben hesitated a second. “Go now man, you’ll miss your chance!”
Ben took the blade and ran from the alley. His long stride covered a full sidewalk segment per step. Everything flashed through his mind at once. He thought about how Dad always loved Neil best. He thought about how those freaks in school always got better grades then he did. He thought of all the irrational fears he held about being eaten alive by alien oppressors. He screamed in a frothing fury of rage and terror. He bore down on the slim child and before the alien even knew what was happening to him the knife pierced his chest. “Die Baldie!” he screamed as he delivered the deathblow. The alien frame is very fragile compared to that of a human, and the blade dove deep. Ben tried to run but the knife stuck and jerked his arm backwards. He spun around as the blade snapped off. Ben tried to regain his bearings and keep running but he didn’t see the adult figure who was exiting the store in pursuit of his errant son. The two slammed into each other. Ben fell backwards and hit his head on the ground.
“Neil!” said the father rushing to the side of his youngest child who lay unconscious and bleeding on the sidewalk. The man wasn’t sure what was happening exactly, he just knew that his child had been hurt. Luckily several passers-by saw the incident and grabbed Ben before he could recover from his fall. The rest of the BKs ran past at top speed, eager to get away from the scene before the police arrived. Colin picked up the head of his child and cradled it in his arms. “Neil, talk to me, talk to me, stay with me!” he cried, but to no avail. Neil would never regain consciousness.
Colin was too distraught to feel hatred for the murderer, he didn’t quite even grasp what had happened on that small town street corner. This wasn’t the big city. These things weren’t supposed to happen here. He had decided to raise a family here because these things didn’t happen in a place like this. He rocked back and forth with his dead child in his arms, oblivious to the sirens of the police and ambulance that arrived on the scene a few minutes later.
As the paramedics separated the father and son, the police took the young thug into custody. Colin stood in disbelief as they attempted to breath life back into the boy. A policeman took Colin by the hand and guided him over to the police car. “We are going to need your witness testimony to prosecute, Mr. Hayes,” said the officer. “The kid who did this is waiting in car. We’re going to need an ID. He opened the door. “Is this the person who stabbed your boy and ran into you just now?” he said shining a flashlight in the face of the assailant.
Through blurred, puffy eyes, Colin stared in disbelief and horror as he recognized the face of his eldest child. Ben looked back, wide eyed and slack jawed. His mind whirled a mile a minute trying to come up with something to say, but words failed him.
Two weeks later, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, DC
The noise of the crowd is deafening. Jim’s hands are shaking with nervousness. Just an hour before, he had been a nobody, an anonymous person in the sea of a big city. He looked around for his father for support, but he wasn’t here. He looked for Jordan’s Dad, or anyone remotely familiar, but he couldn’t see a single recognizable face in the crowd. He was alone with his microphone. He cleared his throat and began to speak.
That morning, things had gone pretty much as he had expected them to. His father, himself, and the McReynolds had gotten in the night before after a really long drive from Texas. They were excited about the march. The bed of Mr. McReynolds’ truck was filled with flyers, posters, signs, and a banner that they had put together with some tempera paint and a bedsheet. All of the information Jim had sent out scheduled the march for 10am, so they arrived at the rallying point at 9am. What they saw there amazed them. Based on the few replies they had received, and their wild guesses about who would actually have the courage and motivation to come, they expected a hundred or so rallyers. An hour before the march was to start there were already over three hundred people waiting around. Many carried signs and banners of much higher quality than they ones that Jordan and Jim had painted up in his bedroom the week before. Everyone was milling about looking for something to do. Jim took out the microphone and portable amp that he borrowed from his preacher and addressed the crowd. When he announced who he was, a cheer erupted from the crowd. In the next ten minutes he was almost smothered by well-wishers and supporters. Soon after, he was greeted by none other than the Reverend Jeremiah Bentley, who was a prominent leader in the African-American civil rights movement. The Reverend introduced himself to a shocked Jim Miller. The Reverend was one of the people Jim had read extensively trying to come up to speed about the history, techniques, and effectiveness of previous civil rights struggles.
“Reverend Bentley. It’s an honor to meet you sir. I never would have expected to see someone of your stature here,” he said to the towering figure.
“Don’t be so surprised boy. This is the front line of the newest battle for equality. My organization has been keeping track of your efforts since you contacted us. I’m here to lend our support. Our fundamental goals are similar.”
“I didn’t expect this many people. I’m not sure what to do,” replied Jim.
“It is your time to step up son. Today is your day to alert the world to your struggle, to break the conspiracy of silence. Take command and become a leader. These people are looking up to you, don’t disappoint them.” He turned his head towards a group of people standing on the opposite side of the street shouting slurs, “That’s what those people want. You can’t fail today.”
Over the next half hour, the crowd grew exponentially in strength; the marchers, the counter-protestors, and the police. Just before 10 o’clock Jim’s group had grown to several thousand. They were clogging streets for several blocks. The police were standing around, trying to keep the counter-protesters at bay. There were a lot of them; many were people who were just on their way to work and saw Jim’s group queuing up.
A police sergeant came up to Jim. “Is this your rally?” he said in a harsh voice.
“Yes officer,” replied Jim meekly.
“Well, it’s off. It ain’t happening you hear. There’s too many people and there aren’t enough police. Tell the crowd to disperse.”
“But I’ve got a permit.” Jim held out the slip of paper he had received from the D.C. Clerks Office.
The Officer took the paper and ripped it into shreds. “No you don’t. Now tell this crowd to disperse or I call in the riot police.”
Jim didn’t know what to do. His father was on the other side of the crowd issuing instructi
ons to the marchers. Jim looked to the Reverend for support, and the man stood quietly, with a look of seriousness. His body language said enough. It screamed, “Take charge boy! Don’t let them stop you.” Jim was about to say something when another figure in a business suit arrived on the scene.
“Officer, my name is Greg Stubman. Congressman Greg Stubman. You’re going to let these people march.” The policeman backed off and started talking into his radio. He was trying to get confirmation from headquarters on what to do.
“Glad to meet you Mr. Miller,” said the Congressman, leaning over to shake Jim’s hand. “I’ve been reading your newsletter. My daughter is HS-positive, and I can’t stay silent any longer. I’ll march with you today.”
Jim smiled. The Reverend leaned in. “Jim, now’s the time to go, the police won’t wait long, but they can’t stop the march once it’s started.” Jim took the advice. He turned on his microphone to the maximum volume and shouted out orders to begin. All of a sudden, signs and banners arose from the crowd and people began moving down Pennsylvania Avenue in an amorphous mob. At the front of the line were Jim, the Congressman, and the Reverend. Jim looked around, but he couldn’t see any of the people he came with. The crowd was so thick that it wasn’t going to be possible to find them for a while. The three leaders pressed forward, each carrying a part of the large, hand-painted banner that called for equal rights for ALL Americans.
As the march moved forward, more and more counter-protestors began lining the streets. They finally had a target for their hatred. Up until that day, there was no focus for their anger, it was diffused throughout the world in the wombs of millions of disparate people. But now there was a group, a central point, something that they could use to coalesce their hatred around– something to shout at, to throw bottles at, and to curse about.
The group made their way down Pennsylvania Avenue to the steps of the Capitol. Every step was fearful for Jim, who wasn’t used to having things thrown at him. But he marched on, partly out of fear of disappointing the figures on his right and left, but also partly because he wanted to help the thousands of people behind him. He wanted to give them a focus too. He wanted to provide them with something to dream in, something to believe in, something to call on in times of need. He felt alone and scared, and he didn’t want others to feel the same way. The only thing that they could do was march, to show themselves on the TV cameras, and put up a brave face so that all of his Alien-American peers could find the strength to do likewise.
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