I'se Sick, America

I don’t know how to start this story. Or write it actually. It is a story that will offend. And it should. It is a story of a different time and a different society, though not that long ago and not that far away.

It morphs into a Today Story. Now. Here.

It is, as far as I know, a true story, though some of the details may be inaccurate. I was a little boy when I heard it. And I only heard it once.

As to why I feel compelled to write this story, it is because the last line of the story keeps reverberating in my head. I can not put it down.

                                                            *****

My best guess is that it would have been around 1930, somewhere in rural Kentucky. I say that because my parents were on a coon hunt. And the only possible explanation for my mother going coon hunting would have been that she was trying to impress my father. They met in 1930 so the bloom would have been fresh on their romance, and she was anxious to please. It would have had to have been that. It is the only possible explanation. Not an outdoor person, my mother. God, no.

This hunt was being led by John B. He was an older black man, with a head full of white hair and a big beard. He was an affable gent who worked for my grandparents most of his life. But to say he ‘worked’ for them would actually be inaccurate. It was different than that.

From the stories I heard, he probably lived on the grounds somewhere. Or if not, he lived very close to their house, and he would show up first thing every morning to stir up the fire in the kitchen, put on the coffee, feed whatever animals were on the grounds, start breakfast. And he would stay there for most of the day, helping in the garden, acting as chauffeur, child sitter--whatever needed doing.  And he would not leave until after supper was done and everything put away.

It was always conveyed to me that John B was thought of as a member of the family. Or as an extension of the family. What he thought of the relationship I cannot say. Though I have inklings. Slavery was long over, but Jim Crow was still firmly in place. So any form of equality in racial relationships was well into the future. There were definitely bonds there, even affection. But John B did not eat with them. And he is not buried in their cemetery. He was not a family member. He was a paid servant.

But in any case, John B had apparently been asked to lead this coon hunting expedition. He was the one with experience on a hunt. He had the dogs, and he and his hounds could tree coons better than anybody. They were a team, and they responded only to his commands.

Well, the night was as dark as night can be, and the dogs were bawling and howling as John B. got them out of the truck. Everyone turned on their flashlights, my father and my uncle loaded their .22s, John B loosed the hounds, and the hunt was on.

There followed immediate mayhem as the dogs found a scent and sprang forward through the towering trees and the dark, tangled underbrush. John B was amazingly swift and agile for a man his age and hustled closely behind them with a flashlight as the rest of the hunt lagged behind.

The sound of the hounds intensified. The dogs were baying, and they could hear John B in the distance. He was closing in on the spot where the dogs had the quarry cornered. “Coon on!” he yelled. “Coon on!”

Suddenly John B’s voice went silent. The dogs’ barking turned to injured wailing, like they were stepping on broken glass. And they could hear nothing more from John B.

They hurried on towards the sounds of the wounded hounds and finally broke into a small opening in the woods. There was an impenetrable bramble at one end, and John B. sat on a downed tree trunk in front of it. His head was between his knees, and he did not look up.

At the edge of the light of one of the flashlights, they saw the distinct black and white of a large skunk waddling off. The dogs circled the bramble and continued to moan and whine but showed no further interest in the skunk.

“John B, you alright?” my father yelled. John B. slowly lifted his head and stared vacantly in front of himself. His eyes watered, his back sagged and his breath was ragged.

“I’se sick, white folks. I’se sick.”

                                                            *****

And those words have been repeating in my consciousness for months now. I think of that old man, sick unto his very soul with that foul, noxious scent sprayed directly into his face as he pursued what was supposed to be a racoon.

            Eyes burning and sick to his stomach, he speaks perhaps the most honest words he has ever spoken to a white person. He did not apologize or offer to get up and go on. He did not offer them his seat. He did not quiet the hounds or say he would be fine in a minute. He was absolutely truthful.

“I’se sick, white folks. I’se sick.”

                                                            *****

And I confess that captures what I have been feeling for the last several months—the helpless malaise and angst. The exhaustion, the discouragement, the disappointment, the lethargy that persists as I witness a Nation’s descent into obvious, completely transparent deceit and intentional, giddy cruelty.

As I watch a historically welcoming Country restrict the entry into the US of ALL citizens from 12 separate countries, with 7 more countries facing ‘significant restrictions’--This Republic built on Diversity.

As I hear about this Administration, many of them the son and daughters of immigrants themselves, potentially banning citizens from 36 additional countries from entering this country—This Nation of Immigrants.

As I react to this Nation’s attempt to discourage and restrict the attendance of foreign students to our Universities—This Land of the Free and Intellectually Brave.

As I read of the staggering cuts to key research agencies like the National Science Foundation, the National Institute of Health, the Center for Disease Control and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration—This Country of fabled Innovation and Scientific Discovery.

As I face the reality that fully 1/3 of Americans currently support the existence of ‘Alligator Alcatraz’--or more accurately, ‘Alligator Auschwitz’.

And as I read on Amazon the merchandising ads for paraphernalia associated with that inhumane prison: “Hilarious clothing options. Find witty slogans, printed patterns, graphic tees and gag gift apparel. Add humor to your look. Where streetwear meets bold attitude.”  This land ‘Founded on Christian principles’.

John B’s simple assertion rings true to me.

“I’se sick, America. I’se sick.”

There is something foul in the air here. There is an intolerable stench in this Land. And I somehow feel I have an obligation to John B. To stand up. To stand firm and tell his small story here.

“Hey, John. I feel your pain. Take a deep breath. Here, have a drink of water. Let’s get you home now. Get you out of these clothes. Take a bath. Maybe a shot of whiskey.

“C’mon now. We won’t always be sick, John. Tomorrow’s another day.”