Soul Search - Excerpts

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They walked toward a grand, oak desk; Oscar was trailing. There were two uniformed officers standing behind the desk--one white, one Black, seemingly engaged in friendly dialogue.

“Excuse me,” Sam said, interrupting their conversation.

Both officers turned toward Sam.

Sam ignored the white officer and directed his issue toward the African-American. Sam wasn’t intentionally prejudiced or racist, he never had related comfortably with white people. He didn’t know any white people. He wasn’t raised or educated around white people. He didn’t socialize with white people. But with his Black brothers it was different. Yeah, they had their disagreements, but there was also that spiritual attachment. That unique fraternalism. The loud laughter, multiple handshakes, and comedic story telling.

“Yes, brother,” Sam said, grinning. “I’m trying to find a friend of mines. I was wondering if you could be of some assistance.”

The Black flatfoot glared hatefully at Sam. How could this stupid, rude, inconsiderate nigga interrupt our conversation and not acknowledge my comrade? the cop wondered, increasingly energized.

Muhammad recognized the look immediately. Dad will get enough of dealing with those Black officers. Trust me, he will, Muhammad thought.

Sam didn’t seem to notice the tension developing for he continued to plead his case. “Her name is Angel and she was arrested earlier—”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” the officer yelled, cutting Sam off in midsentence.
Startled, Sam jumped back. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you see this officer right here?” the cop said, his brown, pointer finger aimed directly between the skinny, slanted nose and the ultra thin lips of a pale, white face.

“Yes, I see him,” Sam answered.

“Well, he is an authoritative figure, and he is not to be blatantly ignored!” the cop continued to yell. By now he had the attention of everyone in the precinct.
Muhammad knew that the cop was upset simply because Sam ignored a white man. It had nothing to do with the uniform, position, or authority of the officer. What the Black cop didn’t know was that he was angry because Sam had done something that he wouldn’t dare to do.

“I think you owe my fellow officer an apology,” the African-American officer finished with a sinister smile on his face.

Sam looked toward the white officer. He then put his head down and unconsciously shuffled his feet. Nervously, he raised his head. He felt cornered. He felt a hundred pair of eyes penetrating his soul. I’ll just say that I’m sorry and we can move on, he reasoned. I don’t have to mean it. He regretted speaking to the Black officer. Here he was seeking friendship because the brother was draped in the same color of skin as himself, but he had been wrong. Oh, so wrong. Evidently--in the eyes of this cop--the fraternalism of the uniform runs deeper than the brotherhood of heritage and descent.

Muhammad was watching his father. He better not apologize, Muhammad said to himself. He saw the indecisiveness all over his father’s face. Muhammad looked at the Negro officer. The vile smirk was still upon his face. An open apology would mean more to him than the white officers watching knew or understood. An apology meant that he was right in defending his white friend. It would be a nail in his philosophical coffin. For Sam to apologize for ignoring a white man meant that Sam--as the momentary representative of Black men--was weak, afraid, scared, subservient. And this would justify the Black cop’s theoretical reasoning and logic for joining the police force. Who wants to be on a chain with a bunch of weak links? Why not align himself with the strong, heroic, and daring, even if they were white?

Muhammad glanced at his father. Sam’s back was bent; his feet continued to shuffle; and his eyes were shifting uncontrollably. Dad is gonna break, Muhammad thought. Muhammad looked up at the cop, standing tall behind the desk, the momentary representative of hundreds of police officers who don the same uniform. The bitter grin remained upon his face. Muhammad tried to imagine his thoughts. “Bow down to this uniform and apologize to this white officer you pathetic, broken spirited, subhuman nigga,” is what he’s probably thinking. Muhammad was suddenly reminded of the Biblical passage “Every knee shall bend and every tongue shall confess.” Muhammad instantly became infuriated. Who does this guy think he is?

“Dad,” Muhammad said, his voice raised and clear. Sam didn’t respond.

“Dad,” Muhammad spoke louder this time. Sam turned toward his son.

“Dad you don’t have to apologize to this house nigga or his cracker buddy. Can’t you see that he’s barbarically ignorant?”

“What did you call me?” the African-American officer said turning his attention toward Muhammad.

“You heard what I said,” Muhammad responded. “I said that you are barbarically ignorant. As a matter of fact, you’re prehistorically stupid. Primitively encapsulated. Do you understand that? You’ve been psychologically maimed by a system that you have the audacity to protect with your worthless life. So who’s the idiot? You’re the one who needs to apologize. You need to apologize to every Black man, woman and child. Apologize for allowing yourself to be mentally crippled. Your medulla oblongata is challenged. Your brain needs a wheelchair and your thought pattern needs crutches. In fact, you don’t even have to work. You can get disability just by telling people what you think.”

“Boy, you better watch your mouth,” the cop from behind the desk warned him, slipping out from behind it.

“Fuck you,” Muhammad responded. “What are you going to do? Beat me with a billy club? Shoot me forty one times? Or perhaps you’ll strain your intellectual capacity and try to shove a plunger up my rectum.”