What Uncle Reamus Told Of

By T War Powers Tilden

On the designated break area of a foundry plant along the Great Lakes, a crew of workers sat segregated from their white coworkers. It wasn't in accordance with the law they sat segregated but, rather, in accordance with the way things were simply done. As each man wedged his metal lunch pail between well scuffed and soiled steel-toed boots or overall-clad thighs, the men made themselves comfortable. They were listening to Joe Gregory's fantastic story about the ludicrous dream, or “vision,” of his great-great-, many times over great-, Uncle Reamus. 

Joe could relay stories with the best of radio programs but this one, this particular one, enthralled head-and-shoulders above the others. It defied the wildest and weirdest imaginations to where even a giant beanstalk reaching through the clouds seemed more plausible than:

“White Negroes?!”

Joe wagged his head at the stubborn miscomprehension of his buddies. 

No, no, no. Not 'white Negroes'—like niggas who pass—but niggas who become white by choice. Just like, I don't know, deciding between black socks or navy blue ones.”

Someone wanted to know: “What of the man who only had a singular colour of hosiery?” 

Joe shot down the notion: “Unless he's living and sleeping on the street, every damn body has more than one pair of socks, and where there is more than one pair there is certainly more than one color. Hell, the funeral director only ever breaks out his black suit, and I even seen his ankles covered in brown and green and grey and red. Red, I kid you not!”

“Nevertheless,” insisted the man, who was putting a toothpick to good use, “Can a no-sock-having, good-for-nothing so-and-so—such as a homeless bum—become white?”

“Well,” answered Joe, “since you put it that way, yes. Yes, his black ass can—piss-pot-poor and all. How so? By. Choice. Just as the meekest among us can come unto Jesus Christ and gain the riches of everlasting salvation in the hereafter, then, according to Uncle Reamus's dream—let's not forget, it is just that—but, according to his dream, black peoples, by the thousands, convert into white peoples. Right here in this country. In the future.”

“No skin paint or medical surgery?”

“None.”

“Amalgamation until not a drop of black blood remained?”

“Nope.”

“And it has nothing to do with being super high-yellow?” 

“Nothing!”

“In fact,” Joe emphasized, “niggas can be as purple as negro black… as dark as the racist honky under the Sun or in the ground  and still insist they is white as driven snow: woolly headed, wide nose, big-bone structure, and all. And ain't nothing about education, neither! He ain't got two nickles to rub together but guess what: there poor white folk, too! So, hey, Future Black Man, he go from being a homeless nigga to a homeless honky. Still poor as dirt but … ” Joe left off with a shrug.

Cornwall opined: “Well… Reverend Dr. King spoke of a good dream—real good dream, too! till bring tears to my eyes when I hear it all these years later. And? That was a ‘future dream’ too, and not nearly so long ago as your uncle's. But look at us. Where we at in the world, I ask y'all? All I can comment on is what I can see. Exactly why you don't see me up in church. That, and I likes fornicating without guilt, among other things.”

The pontification of morally immodest Cornwall struck a chord with the gathered. What Cornwall had to say usually made some sense, in an odd roundabout way, but usually only after one sobered up the next morning and, in trying to recollect the night's chronology, had a twinge of reflection while he concentrated on the mindless task of taking a leak or lighting that breakfast cigarette. 

Deacon Kenneth wanted his brethren to know, and remember, that all progress came through strife—and the help of God.

“He don't lay on us no more than we can bear. Then, too, the Man never, but never, ceases to oppress out of the goodness of his heart neither. Amen?” he called, rhetorically. “Pharaoh didn't let them go because he was asked to. And Rev King wasn't paid no mind because he asked for rights and respect of law and equality. Amen? Them Negroes down south had to march and protest to gain concessions that we have now.” 

“That's right Deacon,” came the response. 

“And it is still up to us, here in the North, because it don't no matter where your black hide live, to follow Dr King's courage—and NAACP, SCLC, Pullman's Union, Urban League—and fight the good fight to be treated just as good as white folk.”

“But Deacon Kenny,” one of them reminded, “the story is not about race equality. It tells of blacks becoming whites! But where I'm lost, Brother Joe, is—is the transformation for real and physical, or just by symbolic vote?”

This was always the sticking point of confusion for anyone who heard the story and who, after hearing it, gave it more than a little thought. 

Most people are rarely given to pondering high ideas or mysticism that accost or ruffle their tried-and-true worldview on everyday life. Because when one did find himself in this new territory he also found himself lost. And lost is not a pleasant state to be in. Ways and means don't materialize as simply as calling “Amen!” on cue or accepting how it was that an old woman lived in a shoe or came to have so many kids she didn't know what to do. No one paused to wonder how an old mother could have all young toddlers, to say nothing of them living in footwear. People live in huts and cars, cardboard boxes, between walls, under bridges, in trees, in fear and poverty—but a shoe?! But if you didn't think on it, then hey … 

Everybody knew what “passing” meant. They knew of persons who could pass and some even recalled individuals, including family members, who achieved it. But Joe's uncle's story sounded not to be about racial stealth and secrecy. The sticking point seemed, strangely, remiss of luck or pluckiness. Or science. 

Joe sighed. “That's just it, my brothers: in the future the Negro simply decides he will be Caucasian! Like blowing out your last birthday candle and taking up with them Jehovah's Witnesses never to celebrate it again.”

Then the call from the floor supervisor broke out, curtailing further discussion. He growled loudly to be heard over the machinery. “Alright youse! BREAK'S OVER. Quit your asses and get back to work! Break's over! Back to work!”

T. War Powers Tilden is a native Hoosier, a graduate of Wabash College, retired pornographic actor, and founder of Grammætix, an editing, translation, & copywriting business. Mr. Tilden lives abroad in Spain with his ex-wife, their cluttered desks and fruitful, fragrant lemon tree.