The Color Play

I never really had much use for whiteboys. Didn’t have nothing against them. It’s just that anytime I saw one in North Philly, he was usually asking for something. Trying to hustle me, or collect on some damn bill. Anyway, whiteboys made me nervous. Always think they got something you want. Acting like you're the Brute Negro or something. That’s why it tripped me out that me and Mark Berens ever got as close as we did.

I mean, even if I wanted to hang out with some devil, why choose him? We ain’t got nothin’ in common. I'm strictly from the streets. He’s some spoiled Air Force brat whose biggest crisis before he met me was probably trying to gank his Pops; trying to cheat him out of spending change. Wouldn’ta lasted ten minutes where I come from. I met him at Delaware State College down in Dover.

I didn’t know nothing about college. Barely got outta high school, but I was certainly ready to get away from the streets and them crazy-assed gangs running ‘round killing everybody. My boy Andrew went the year before me, and when he showed me how to get a government grant to pay for it, I was in there, Jack.

Delaware State College for Negroes (or DelState for short) was put together right after the Civil War to do something with all them recently freed niggas loose everywhere. Couldn’t send them to the University of Delaware with decent whitefolk. So, they built this "coon college" just north of Dover. After Civil Rights and Martha Lutha King (as my friend Bobo calls him), we got "free at last." So, DelState dropped that "Negro" part, and started sucking up to white people in town and at the Air Force base. Had an open admission policy too. And if you was slick enough, you could even register your pit-bull and he could be a freshman for a semester. The perfect place for a "non-traditional" brother like me.

If I ever thought high school was full of meaningless, pointless bullsh-- that nobody would ever use in life, I was shocked at college. Stuff like World Literature, World Civilization, and here's a good one, Intro to muthaf---in’ Logic! I mean, cain’t nobody teach you how to be logical. Either you stupid, or you ain’t! And if you are, classes damn sure won't help. And if I ever need to know the literature of some foreign country, I’ll read it in the plane on the way over there. Now, I’m supposed to take this seriously, right? Some of it was so boring, you’d be listening to a lecture one minute, then you’d just pass the f--- out! Like somebody had farted sleeping gas or something. Slob be drooling all on the desk. Strangers hafta wake you up. It was embarrassing. But at least it was keeping me off the streets. And I had to admit that this was way better than living at home. The part I liked best was that you were exposed to so much: concerts, plays, exhibits, lectures. I got to see Jesse Jackson, Ray Charles, Nikki Giovanni, Wynton Marsalis, Gil Scott-Herron you name it. All I had to do was walk across campus. And boy, more honeys than you could shake your dick at.

What got me over in class was that I'm a good reader. If you could get thru 256 Marvel Comics, you's a fairly literate dude. I can’t write worth a goddamn, though. I can do letters and little essays, but not too much over three pages. My thoughts just won’t stay still that long. I could keep up enough to get C’s and occasional B’s. And since all these other dorky chumps were passing every semester, I knew I could hang for a little while at least.

In my sophomore year I signed up for a class in Play Production, just for the sheer hell of it. Enough with all this egg-head stuff---let's have some fun. Hell, I been an actor all my life. Been acting like a college student for a whole year now. Besides, I knew that I could play the moment, play it for all it was worth. When me and my young brother used to play make-believe as kids, I could pretend with so much emotion and conviction, I’d have Tim laughing, crying and pissin’ all over hisself. Would just f--- him up. So yeah, let’s try some Play Production. Well, that’s when I met Mark Berens.

Mark

How did I end up in Dover, Delaware? Well, the Air Force brought me here. I know Woody’s probably told you already how I’m this know-nothing, spoiled, pitiful whiteboy, right? Well, Woodrow is prone to exaggeration, if you can’t tell that already. He’s partially right. I am a veteran and so was my father. But I see that as an advantage. I got to see quite a bit in the Force. Been to the Philippines, Germany, Alaska, and all over the United States.

Besides, my motivations for enlisting were, how shall we say, unconventional? I guess you could say I have this thing about authority. I don't know what it is. It’s just that misused power infuriates me. Maybe it’s because I've seen so much of it in the military. Maybe it’s because my father always had this little regimen mapped out for my brother and me. Greg could always figure out how to please Dad. He was the golden child of the family, and Dad wanted me to emulate Gregg. But I’ll be damned because, they’re fakes; the both of them. When I got into my teens, me and Dad fought about one thing after another, all the time. For a while there, I was hell-bent on defying every single rule anyone had ever given me. It got so bad that the MP’s on base knew Dad’s phone number and duty roster by heart. Finally, Dad had enough. Told me that he couldn’t take the dishonor any longer. Either I would enlist in the Air Force and try to make something of myself, or I’d have to leave his house. That next weekend he helped me put my bags on the plane to Lackland Air Force Base.

The military did nothing to domesticate me. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Man, we did more drugs, had more sex than I ever did at home. I used to let my fingernail grow out so I could use it as a coke-spoon. Back then, there was more acid available than coke. One day my CO asked me had I been painting my nails because my pinky was purple. I couldn’t tell him that it was from all the purple micro-dot I had crushed up and snorted, so I told him it was mimeograph ink. With all the girls sneaking in, the barracks were busier than a Holiday Inn during a hooker’s convention. Plus, Staff Sergeant Steve Hemmig and Airman Don Reed shared more than just a room together, if you get my drift. Everybody knew, but nobody cared. And all this was happening right on base.

By the time I finished my tour, I had been transferred to Dover, and all I wanted was a little peace and stability. This disciplined military life was just too fast lane for me. So when I got discharged, I rented a little trailer in the woods. See, if I enrolled in college full-time, my veterans benefits would pay more than I could make on minimum wage. So, I went to DelState as a professional student.

I’ve always had an easy time in school. Too easy. Maybe that was the problem. I’m a voracious reader and history buff. Reading has always been a way to escape for me, a way to cope. So, whatever the subject, I was usually ahead of the rest of the class. Made me restless and bored in high school. College was more bearable because at least they treated you like an adult. But whoever designed the curriculum missed the whole point if you ask me. Seems like they went out of their way to make it as excruciating as possible.