Today, our nation commemorates the end of slavery in America.
A thing to treasure, freedom. A thing Americans claim to value above all else, yet often take for granted. Particularly perhaps those Americans whose ancestors didn't reach these shores chained in slave ships.
A commitment to freedom means, among other things, a commitment to remember the lessons of the past, however painful, and to build on them.
But, can we do this as a nation when we live under a presidential administration which condemns as communist or divisive any effort to remember or address those past failings, condemning those efforts as "woke" - the new universal right-wing pejorative. Those from historically oppressed minority groups who recognize those injustices, past and present and call for justice are condemned and whenever possible silenced by our present administration. An administration which goes so far as to use the military to repress dissent of any kind in our cities.
The unprecedented military occupation of American cities over immigration battles may be only the first step in an on-going attack on democracy.
On this Juneteenth, it warrants mentioning that an administration that frowns upon immigration from "sh*t-hole" (meaning black) countries opens our doors invitingly to white immigrants from South Africa, under blatantly false claims of anti-white genocide. The real genocide attempted against the indigenous populations of this continent would probably be banned from history altogether if it were left up to our present administration.
The racist element of the current president's agenda is increasingly evident. So, once military occupation, emergency powers and blatant abuse of executive authority combine in eradicating anything resembling constitutional law in America...what meaning will Juneteenth have? Will we as a nation even be allowed to commemorate it?
This short story presents one answer.
****************************************
LIBERATION DAY
Walter Klein started as the sound of artillery shook the
building. He looked up in the dim light
of the musty office, his nose wrinkling at the smell of aging paper, dust
rising as old volumes fell from the bookshelves, the overhead lamp swaying, the
weak bulb flickering.
His breathing steadying, he groaned as he began gathering up
the scatter of old history texts strewn across the floor. He flipped through the pages of one volume of
American history after another. He hadn’t
gotten to these yet. His wrinkled
fingers brushed across the yellowed pages.
He adjusted his glasses, squinting over the faded text in the poor
light.
The A.I. scan would save the relevant, ‘useful’
passages. Any of the ‘inappropriate’
references to systemic patterns of racial discrimination or inequity…slavery,
etc…anything that could breed ‘unacceptable attitudes’ among the next
generation…would end up deleted from the online texts, the books themselves of
course consigned to the incinerators.
As he ran the pages through the scanner, his heart skipped a
beat every time the sub-program he’d slipped in paused the scan, making the
interruption look like a circuitry glitch.
Just long enough to store any forbidden bit of history on a micro-drive. A reference to names almost lost to future
generations. A few precious snatches of
forbidden history stashed away in old, pre-cyber books of paper the censors hadn’t
gotten around to burning yet. Names like
Harriet Tubman. Frederick Douglas. Medgar Evers.
The Underground paid him for those recordings. He’d do it for free, though. He’d been an historian his whole life. Now, little more than a glorified
librarian. But, if he could save even a
bit of history…his insignificant life would not entirely be in vain.
He coughed, cursing
under his breath, realizing the pain in his chest was getting steadily
worse. He took a pill, washing it down
with water from the cooler. He rattled
the last few pills inside the bottle, realizing that since the last budget cut,
he probably wouldn’t be able to fill his prescription in time. Since the regime had outlawed anything even
remotely resembling socialized medicine, his life expectancy had grown
increasingly short. That gave him a
certain freedom, knowing he wouldn’t live long enough to see the inside of a
government torture chamber.
Still, he couldn’t help now and again nervously glancing
over his shoulder. A habit he’d retained
from the early days of the occupation.
He’d been in his early 30’s when the federal tanks had rolled into New
York City. From then on, literary clerks
like him had always had government ‘minders’ looking over their shoulders. Since the insurgency had grown and skirmishes
in the streets had escalated into all-out war, most of the security bureaucrats
had retreated to a safe distance outside the city.
He winced as the scratchy P.A. speaker blared the usual
grating martial music, celebrating Liberation Day. The day the justices of the Supreme Court…an
institution now forbidden to mention…were stood up against the wall and shot as
communist ideologues. The beginning of a
new age in which the universities and news offices had gone up in flames. Segregation had come back after that. Followed by mass deportations of blacks. Where they were deported to remained a
mystery. And, no mystery at all, Walter
thought with a cold chill each time he brushed a dusting of ashes off the
sleeve of his coat as he walked home at night.
Walter looked down as something wedged between the pages of
one of the old volumes fell to the floor and bounced off the tip of one of his
worn, battered shoes. He groaned, his
back aching as he picked it up.
Damn. An old floppy disk. He smiled as he held it up to the light. Maybe the last one left. He wondered if he could possibly get any data
off it. Blowing a layer of dust off an
old, obsolete drive, he plugged it in, hopping it wouldn’t fry the computer’s
circuits. Slipping in the old disk, he
started the scan. Largely corrupted and
useless, of course. But, his curiosity aroused,
he linked in the latest recovery program and brought up every salvageable bit
of data.
His eyebrows arched as the red signal flashed across the
screen. His heart raced. This was major poison, as far as the regime
was concerned. Whatever it was, it was
hot. Possessing something this hot was
practically a death sentence. He boosted
the restoration level, the A.I. extrapolating data fillers for the gaps as a complete
vid record formed. Walter squinted at
the image on the screen. A black man
addressing a vast multitude in what he recognized from the history texts as
Washington D.C…. apparently long before the terrorist nukes went off.
“I have a dream that little children will one day live in a
nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the
content of their character.” Walter was
startled by those words, and listened intently.
“I have a dream today…” the man said.
“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the
true meaning of its creed: ‘We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all
men are created equal.” Walter was
fascinated. There was something in the
man’s voice that was charismatic… captivating. “I have a dream that one day on the red hills
of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will
be able to sit together at the table of brotherhood.…” Shaking off his momentary numbness, Walter
hurriedly ran the speech back to the beginning and recorded it onto the micro-drive. “…let freedom ring. From the prodigious hilltops
of New Hampshire, let freedom ring. From the mighty mountains of New York, let
freedom ring. From the mighty Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!”
Walter started as more artillery bursts shook the
building. Booted feet stormed through
the corridor and a pounding came at the door.
“Clear out!” a harsh male voice shouted.
“We’re evacuating!”
Walter continued the recording.
“Let freedom ring
from the snow capped Rockies of Colorado!”
“Hurry up!” another
voice in the corridor shouted. “We’re
under attack! All staff evacuate!”
Walter’s heart raced as he impatiently continued the
recording.
“Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California! But not only there; let freedom ring from the
Stone Mountain of Georgia!”
“Clear out in there!” another voice called out. “Last warning!”
Walter clenched his fist, the words throbbing through his
mind.
“Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain in Tennessee! Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill
in Mississippi. From every mountainside,
let freedom ring. And when this happens,
when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and
hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day
when all of God’s children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants
and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old
Negro spiritual, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God almighty, we’re free at
last!”
He finished the recording, his hands trembling as he slipped
the micro-drive into his pocket and ran for the door. He could feel the building collapsing around
him as he ran for the exit, his heart throbbing.
#
The streets of New York exploded around him. European and Chinese migs were roaring down
on the city, their air-to-ground missiles destroying regime tanks as they fired
on the planes, interceptor rockets going off all around him, smoke pouring out
of the buildings…crowds of terrified civilians screaming as they ran for the
shelters.
His heart gave out, his legs collapsing under him as
invading rebel troops gunned down the regime soldiers around him. His vision pitched, the burning skyline
swaying before his eyes as he fell, clutching his heart. He knew this was it. Please, God, if you’re still listening…don’t
let the secret die with me.
A rebel soldier bent over him. He looked up into the reb’s face. A young black woman. He pulled the micro-drive from his pocket and
handed it to her. “The past,” he
whispered with labored breath. “For the
future.” A puzzled look crossed her
face, but she clutched the drive tightly as his vision dimmed.
Free at last, he thought as his heart stopped.
