Paint It Black

By D. H. C. Carter

Paint It Black is a historical fictional account of the Vietnam war during the year 1968 from the Black perspective. In his well known style of mixing fiction with literary narrative, Carter takes the reader into the world of the Black soldier as he fights for his country and self during a year that defined American modern history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481766777

D. H. C. Carter

Author D. H. C. Carter (David H. C. Carter) is a native of Richmond, Virginia, where he currently resides. He has been writing for fourteen years, and The Learning Curve is his sixth work. He graduated from Richmond Community High School for the gifted and talented in 1991 and studied at Hampton University as an undergraduate. His previous works—For God and Country, Seven Chiefs, The Boar and The Leopard, The Foundation of Heaven, and Paint It Black—are available online.

Book preview

1

Martin K. Johnson—the K stood for King—was not named after the famous civil rights advocate in any way, but he was born in the same generation as the now revered reverend and called Mobile Alabama home. He was 23 years of age with a low cut fade that would make it easier for him to transit into military service. It was the style of the day and would be again, roughly 20 years later, for young people that is.

He was 5',9" in height, and was a light brown color that showed off his full lips and flat nose rather well. A hit with the ladies, he was romancing several women at the time, and had been since high school. Not that that was his full time preoccupation, however. He held two jobs; working in the local shrimp factory, and general store down the street from his boyhood home.

At the age of 18 he was told by doctors that he needed glasses, but he couldn’t discern any problem with his eyesight, so he ignored their diagnoses. His mother, Mabeline Doris Johnson, was a strong woman who reared the family with dignity and courage; as was needed by an African-American mother in the civil-rights era of the American south. He had two brothers and sisters. And he was 3rd from the youngest. The oldest two siblings had attended college at Alabama A&M, a HBCU (historically black college and university) located in his home state. And returned home to work in their respective fields of sociology and nursing. It was something Martin admired, who never attended college, and used to brag about to his friends, who lacked the discipline to accomplish such feats.

Although he had no formal training of any kind, he was very industrious, and hoped that one day he could open up a store of his own, or start some sort of business that would help his family and lend status to their name.

People considered him handsome, and his looks bought him a lot of time in various social circles. He would often treat his lady friends to nights out at the clubs around Mobile. And was known to parley with several notorious characters.

Drugs, like sex, kept the day-to-day laborers, like him, and those who were battered by the high stress jobs in the city, in line with the more seedy aspects of southern life. The feelings of lack of opportunity and oppression grew on those who sought an escape from the ills of the world. Martin, like others, was no stranger to the realities of a Black man in the America of the 60’s. He had seen the racism and hatred that fueled militant groups, such as the Black Panthers and Black Muslims. And also had witnessed the peaceful, non-violent movements of Dr. Martin Luther King and SNICK and CORE.

He had almost participated in the march from Selma to Montgomery, in his home state, but declined due to the pressure from his friends; who believed that such a statement by them was totally unnecessary at the time. He had just begun his twenties then. Although he didn’t participate, he watched on T.V. with the rest of the country. As the struggle revealed itself to the entire nation.

It was a difficult period for Martin and the rest of the country. When he was younger he could appreciate the simplicity and honor of the civil rights struggle led by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and others. Now, in the wake of the Watts riot and others across the country, he felt more militant and angry at his white countrymen. Something about Kwame Turé’s (Stokely Carmicheal’s) Black Power movement spoke to him now.

The year was 1967. It was mid-summer, and Martin was approaching a fork in the road of his young life. He had seen the recruiting posters and advertisements for military service, and witnessed the Vietnam war unfold on the T.V. screen along with rest of the nation. He didn’t consider himself a fighting man. He thought he was more of a lover. But several of his childhood friends had been drafted, and one, Charles Dubois, had even returned, so he heard. He wanted to look him up, and maybe pay a visit, but from what he’d heard of those who’d fought over there he figured that it might not be wise to talk to him now.

His friends at work talked about the war during lunch and breaks. It was the favorite subject next to sports and women. Many of them had friends or relatives serving, and they related their stories of the experience to each other, complementing what came across their television screens at night.

Tonight was a clear summer evening, and Martin chose to drive with a girlfriend of his to the beach. They took his ’63 Pontiac, and cruised through the city, meeting with some of her friends at a popular night spot. Then headed towards the Gulf.

Her name was Regina, and she was very pretty. Her permed hair sported large curls that seemed to dance in the wind as the open windows of the car invited more of the warm summertime air into their environment. She was light-to-medium brown colored, and her bright red lipstick clothed her lips very well. The more Martin glanced at her, the more he wanted to kiss those lips. As the moonlight loaned a mellow highlight, and gave slight reminiscence of the day time.

Pretty night, huh? He leaned over and asked. One hand guiding the steering wheel. The other resting on her exposed knee.

Yes it is. She replied with a smile that approached satisfaction.

Her personality was as warm as the air that permeated the fairly new automobile. And Martin took a mental picture of the moment, as if to remember it if things were to get too gloomy for him in the future.

Beyond the space of a few miles, the traffic began to slow on the main road to the coast, giving the group a chance to view the horizon of the Gulf waters meeting the southern sky.

Regina’s friends, two cars behind in a black Chevy, raced to catch up to Martin’s car. Once behind them, they honked the horn, waving with playful delight. The two cars their friends passed were filled with white passengers, who either shook their heads or tried to ignore the happy negroes as they sped towards their destination. Which was the nearing beach close to the pier.

Besides some beer the group brought along KFC. Choosing to ignore any stereotyping as they ate next to a group of white youths on the sand. The two parties exchanged glances, checking each other out, but not choosing to speak. To avoid any serious confrontation.

The racial climate of the late 60’s in Martin’s Alabama was, suffice-it-to say, very tense. Both ends of the color spectrum felt it, and it was growing worse, with each advance made by the civil rights proponents.

However, Martin’s bunch seemed to ignore all of the details. They exhibited an aura of confidence and freedom, though the battle had yet to be won, and yet to be fought by them. Theirs was a very dangerous situation.

At the beginning of the decade, children had marched to Birmingham demanding equal rights. Organizers were later criticized, but to Martin and his friends this was of little note. Maybe his mother’s frustration had paralyzed him, or made him so afraid that he became inactive, but the truth was that neither he nor his friends could hide from the realities of their American life any more.

Eat that chicken nigger! Want some watermelon with that? Voices blurted from the nearby group of white youths. Rising, Martin felt a stiffening feeling counter his every attempt to respond.

Ignore them. Regina pleaded. But something about their agitation had lit a fire inside him. His fight or flight response adrenaline rushed throughout his body. He seized the opportunity, as his male friends accompanied and threw their discarded chicken bones at the group of whites.

The white males in the group approached them, picking a fight. Just then a police car patrolling the boardwalk showed up, distracting Martin; who was hit across the chin with a punch from one of the agitators. His friends pushed the man down, and a full out brawl took place.

Motherfucker! Martin exclaimed as he rose and placed his hands around one of the white boys’ neck. But any serious attempts at revenge were halted by the squad car’s siren. And as the whites backed off, the policemen homed in on Martin and his bunch.

Lesson 1: never fight whitey. It was a hard one to learn, and as Martin sat in front of the judge at his hearing, the sentence of three months in jail, and three suspended was as numbing as the process that rendered it.

The Mobile jail was packed as sardines with blacks serving time for a full range of offenses.

You hit a white boy? the voice of one inmate, John Staples, demanded. You crazy?

Dazed and almost totally confused, Martin just sat in his cell. His hands covering his face, and thought.

Mabeline Johnson did not know what to do. At his hearing she thought she would faint. What was her boy doing in a situation like this? She thought. And didn’t he know better? What would he do now? His job at the factory was at stake. Basically lost. She might be able to talk to the store manager at Goodies. Where he held his second job, but for the most part, he would be unemployed. It seemed.

Messin’ with those silly women, and stupid friends! Mabeline thought, shaking her head as she left the court-room. I didn’t even get a chance to talk to him. She thought further. The procedure going by so quick. Martin had gotten a lesson all-right. A lesson in America 101. And he would have many more opportunities to learn.

It would be his first time in jail. The prisoners, mostly black, were housed in different cell blocks, at the sheriff’s discretion. He would be in block E, with murderers, rapists and thieves. Either awaiting trial or on their way to the state prison. John Staples, who had chided him earlier, would become somewhat of a friend of his during his stay.

Staples, who was in for armed robbery, showed him the ropes around the jailhouse, teaching him some valuable lessons about the system. During lunch and in the cell-block he gave him some reading material he’d received from another inmate, describing the fuel of the black movement. He read Dr. King’s Why We Can’t Wait and The Negro Mood by Lerone Bennett Jr. Also books like Richard Wright’s Black Boy and Native Son were read. He read Message to a Black Man, by Elijah Muhammad, famous for inspiring the likes of Malcolm X. And The Prophet, by Khalil Gibran.

Martin was on his way to becoming a well-learned man on the subject of the black struggle. And read much during his brief three-month stay. It kept him out of more trouble, and gave him the space he needed to sort out the details of his life.

Out on the yard. Been readin’ those books man? John asked Martin, as they shot ball with the other inmates.

Yeah, man. Martin answered, with a coy smile on his face. Knowing class was in session. He flung the round ball in the air, sinking a shot. Them cats really know what they’re talking about.

Damn straight! John answered in a thick southern drawl. Determined to see his young pupil grow. The Muslims been cleaning up things across the country. ‘Specially in Detroit, where my cousin lives. He says jus’ ’bout everybody on his block been going to Temple.

That right? Martin answered, thinking for a second John might be looking for a convert.

However, he knew the man wasn’t Muslim, and they continued their discourse while shooting hoops. Intending for the other inmates to hear.

When the call came to end recreation, the two dropped their ball and headed in. All the while, continuing to converse. See man, this struggle ain’t just with the white man. John continued, noticing the blonde hared guard turn his head. It’s with ourselves. We got to break free of this slave mindset we got.

Martin nodded his head. Yup. Heading back to the cell, the two gathered in the cramped cell-block and found a mattress to sit on. Picking up where they left off, they read and discussed information.

The more they shared and learned, the more the other prisoners listened in. They developed sort of a gathering. And the white guards didn’t like it at all. One tall, menacing looking officer came to the cell.

Now you niggers know you can’t read. What you tryin’ to do with them books? His heavy southern accent imploding the area.

Now Stacey (the guard’s name) John placated. We jus’ passin’ the time. Even in 1968, like in modern times, those without rights at the hand of the system suffered.

Back in his neighborhood, Martin’s friend Charles Dubois, leaving his seclusion, paid a visit to his home. As Mabeline opened the door, she smiled when her inviting action revealed the longtime friend of her wayward son.

Hello Mrs. Johnson. Charles said. Looking expectant to see his childhood friend.

Charley! She replied, with a large smile. You’re back! She had not known he’d returned from Vietnam.

Yes ma’am. He answered. Praise the lord.

It seemed to Mabeline that Charley, as they called him, had gotten religion. And the two talked a long time, over tea.

How is your mother? Mabeline asked as she sipped from her cup.

Fine. Charles answered. She’s glad that I’m home now.

I’m happy for the both of you.

Then Charles sort of leaned in over the small coffee table in the Johnson’s living room.

I wanted to see Martin, do you know where he is?

A blank look came across Mabeline’s face, and she started to fill him in on the details of her son’s recent brush with the law. Startled that his friend had gotten in trouble with the law, Charles became concerned as to Martin’s condition. He’d heard he’d been out partying a lot and been seen with several people who were involved in minor illegal activities, but fighting white people was something that he couldn’t picture him doing. He held two jobs he thought, and from last he knew of him, had ambitions and goals in life.

Maybeline looked at Charles, who appeared to be in heavy concentration.

I didn’t mean to worry you any. It’s just that this whole mess has gotten me very upset. Martin is a very good boy, but I think he got involved with the wrong crowd.

It was what all mothers usually say when trouble besets their children.

No ma’am, you didn’t worry me none. Charles answered her. But deep down inside he felt as if he’d let his friend down somehow, and that Vietnam had helped him to do this.

The phenomena of his experience in Southeast Asia was something he could not or chose not to relate to Mrs. Johnson at the moment. And she didn’t ask. But both could understand the effects of racism, the southern brand in particular. And knew that what had happened to Martin was unfortunate and definitely unjust.

Charles decided to work his way back into the Mobile social circle he’d left when he served his country. It was a world that he shared somewhat with his incarcerated friend. Usually the ticket in was a small drug buy from one of the local dealers they all knew. Tremain Hawk Williams was his name, and he’d been at the beach when Martin was assaulted, but miraculously escaped prosecution.

On the block around the corner from the Johnson’s home, Charles made contact with the man. What’s up slim? Hawk called out to him as Charles approached the barbershop where he hung out.

What’s up man? Charles answered with a grin and gave the man some dap. After the five the two talked about life in the beachfront city and of what was going on in Vietnam.

You cats were gettin’ tore up over there. Hawk said, with little sensitivity. An’ the army looks like it wasn’t tryn’ to let y’all at ’em. He continued.

Yeah, man. Charles redressed him. Charlie, that’s what we called the Cong, was a bitch to fight. But we did what we were told and got our pay.

So you want some grass man? I heard they even let you cats get down over there.

Yeah, could use a little, you know, to ease the pain.

Well, I got dat. Walk with me to the pad.

The two searched for a chance to get reacquainted over a good session of weed smoking. Which both enjoyed, but Charles hadn’t done very much of on his tour, as Hawk had alluded to earlier.

The time passed as the two looked out of Hawk’s dual residence home in a lower-income section of the city. Watching the folks go by on their daily missions, down the street of his neighborhood, the friends conversed about life in the increasingly turbulent times they were in. The brothers wore afro’s and paisley shirts with long, skinny bellbottom jeans. They had sideburns and walked like a Shaft impersonation. Much of their day-to-day experiences were colored by the fact that they were a limited minority fighting a struggle against a vast majority. It was where the failure of the democratic form of government was evident. A tyranny of the majority began to be seen. It was do or die for the oppressed. They had to fight back now.

What was it like over there man? Hawk asked Charles as they smoked their drug and watched the parade of life through the house window.

Pausing a little, Charles answered. You don’t want to go.

Naw, I just want to know. Hawk retorted.

A lot of killing man. Seen a lot of dyin’. Charles told him. It ain’t nothin’ like it is over here. ‘In the world’, as we call it.

That right? Hawk chimed in.

The only thing that’s the same, is blacks stickin’ wit blacks and whites stickin’ with whites. But when you in the field, and the war is on, you all the same.

Damn, makes it sort of a good thing right?

Yeah, if you want to look at it that way, but you kind of miss that shit when you come home. You know?

As the two continued to smoke, a few other friends of Hawk’s dropped by: a tall slim brother named Chico, and a friend of his, Dino. Chico was very light skinned, with curly hair, hence the latino nickname. Dino was shorter, with a close cut, and both enjoyed to smoke marijuana.

Seeing Charles, for them, was a treat. And they all had questions for him. Making him wish he hadn’t stopped by at all, a little.

Ain’t seen you in a while. Chico said. Who knew him by acquaintance.

Yeah, man. Where you been hidin’. Joined Dino. The two were sort of bound together. Forgetting that Charles had served.

In the ‘Nam. Answered Charles. Bringing back their memory.

With widened eyes, Damn. They said in unison.

It was rather awkward for Charles to be in the room with all of the memories of his past life in the world. But he knew he had a duty to explain what it was like over there, and he tried his best to convey that to the brothers in the room.

I was drafted man, and went through basic training and all that shit. When I got over the vets there knew I was ‘green’. New. It wasn’t before long I was in the field. Rice paddies, jungles everything. It won’t nothin’ like you see on T.V. Niggas gettin’ shot up all the time and shit. Naw, we spent a lot of time in the barracks, jus’ playin’ cards and shootin’ the shit. Like now.

Glad you made it back man. Chico hedged in. Pass that joint? The marijuana cigarette made it’s way around the circle of friends, but Charles knew he had more to tell. He was saved before he returned home, by an army Chaplain who was very spiritual. It used to confuse him, while in the field; how a man so close to God could serve amidst the carnage that was South Vietnam. But the more questions he asked, the more he found himself getting closer to the man, who gave him Jesus.

Then the question came. How’d you survive that shit?

My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He answered. It was a tough time then. But God is never out of style. Many young blacks were discovering new paths in life, and all kinds of alternative religion were being offered. Many of the various deities being presented were leading all types of people astray in the world, and all kinds of suffering was evident.

For those in the room, status quo American religion, i.e. Christian Protestantism, did not strike a chord. ‘Though most in the room were raised that way. They, for most part, had rebelled against the teachings of their parents. And followed a course that revolved around drugs and the teachings of the street. Hippies were doing similar things in the liberal white areas of the country. And the brothers on the street were following their hearts to a destination that no one knew.

In cell-block E, Martin could ponder all of these things. He had plenty of time to reflect on what was happening in the country. Armed with the teachings of revolutionaries who had paved the way for the events occurring in the present, Martin was developing a focus that would lead him out of incarceration into the struggle that was enveloping the nation, and others.

When he left the Mobile jail, Martin was determined to change the course of his life. He returned home to see his mother was busy making sure hers continued. She had been dating more, since he was behind bars. He hadn’t seen his father in years; who had left him and his family when he was 8. He entered the house, placing his few belongings on the coffee table; i.e. watch, wallet and keys to the car, which was confiscated when he was arrested. And walked into the kitchen where his mother was sitting, eating her breakfast and looking outside of the window.

Hello mother. He said very solemnly. She did not reply. Instead she kept on eating and staring out of the window.

I’m home. He continued, trying to break through to her.

I know. She answered, showing a hint of a smile. Try to keep it that way. She thought.

I got my car back. Thank goodness. Pausing. I’ll be upstairs if you need me.

Don’t go too far! She blurted, causing him to freeze a bit. Correcting herself. We need to talk soon. Your friend Charley came by to see you, and—

Charley! he exclaimed.

Yes, he wanted to talk to you, but I don’t—. And with that he ran up the stairs. The news was very welcome for him. But it did give him some pause, and once he reached the top of the stairs he thought a minute about what the nature of his visit was.

He and Charles hadn’t seen each other in a long time. It wasn’t until after Charles had left for Vietnam that Martin had gotten involved with more seedy aspects of the black, Mobile social world. Charles was sort of his rock, and when he was drafted Martin’s world sifted apart. The two were tight in High School. Sharing thoughts with one another, double dating, getting into mischief in the halls and terrorizing the teachers. But for the most part they were good students. Each had a 3.2 G.P.A. And were expected to go to college. But when the draft board called on Charles, Martin felt very despondent. Charles, on the other hand, took it rather well. He saw it as his duty to serve. Both had done well in history and learned the story of the triumph of freedom, as lead by America, in the world.

They had also learned somewhat of their own history. Largely, black history was left out of the books, but black teachers filled in where they left off. The good ones did, that is.

Around 7 P.M. that evening Charles called Martin and the two talked for a while.

How you doin’ man? Charles asked, with much enthusiasm in his voice.

How you doin’? Martin fired back. Playfully.

Long time no hear from, huh? his friend answered.

Yeah, slim. It has been a long time. Before things got too serious.

Look, I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. But I’m kinda’ caught up in somethin’. I’ll blow by to see you some time?

That’s straight. And the two hung up.

Charles’ hasty departure from the phone left an uneasy feeling in Martin’s stomach. He wondered if Charles had fallen back in with the crowd he just left. From the sounds of it, it seemed as if he had. And doing drugs and partying like he had done before, and both had approached before leaving High School.

They had had their introduction into the life that revolved around them in the Mobile youth culture. Sort of a training session that all High Schoolers go through. An introduction into manhood, or boyhood depending on the point of view. If one didn’t go to college and certainly not all did. It could be dangerous navigating the course of young adulthood.

Sex, drugs and rock-and-roll, is what the whites came to term it. But if one was not a rocker or white then one had to watch where one was going.

Martin sat in his room with the door closed, going through more contemplation. His mother gave a polite knock to let him know she was coming in.

Hello, Martin. She said, giving a hint they both knew what was coming next.

We need to talk. I know. He said sarcastically. What’s up?

I was talking to Charles. She said.

I know, and he called. He injected.

He did?

Yeah. But Martin did not want to go into the details of their dealings with one another.

Well I know you two had lots to talk about. What do you want to know about him? He thought.

What are your plans for yourself? You know you lost the job at the factory.

Yes, I know. Pausing a bit. What about the grocery store? Have you talked to them?

I did. And they said you could continue on there.

So what’s the problem?

Well, you’ve got to do something else, right? Do I? He thought.

What about the army? Martin fell silent with that. It was almost as if she had let him down. And, frankly, she had.

From what he’d learned in prison, the army was no place for a black man. It was as if the system wouldn’t let him go still. Damn! He thought further.

2

Caged in his room, like the prisoner he was in jail, Martin pondered on what his mother had to say. All he thought about while incarcerated was getting his freedom back, and enjoying life. To contact his friend Charley seemed like going back to the life that led him behind bars. His mother’s hurtful, though well meant, words had him thinking that the army was the only way to go, and maybe Vietnam was where he should be.

But should he be there? I, mean the teachings he was given in jail lead him to be free, right? If only he knew what the experience was like? I should have asked Charley. He thought.

Charles was well woven back into the social fabric of young black Mobile by now. Although, he knew he had to teach what he’d learned. He found himself enjoying immensely what he had missed while serving. Sheer fun. In the clubs he was almost a wild man. Drinking, dancing, messin’ with the ladies. He was having a ball.

Mabeline met a service man while dating, and obtained from him pamphlets and various information on the army. She was determined to see Martin do something with his life. Other than sit at home. She was oblivious to the fact that he might be killed in action. She only wanted him to do something with himself. Having not yet sorted out her feelings on the pressures facing black America, she was caught up in the frenzy called the rat race. And busy hoping her son would win.

The army pays well. Mabeline thought. There are great benefits to serving. And Martin would be well cared for. Basically, off of her hands. What Martin thought. She only wants to get rid of me so she can see her boyfriends.

Those friends would come by often to the house, and Martin was becoming angry at his mother’s apparent philandering. They would bother him with their hints and looks, as if he were some sort of bum or no-good freeloader. For escape he would go to the library and read some similar material as what he had in prison.

At the store, he cleaned up at night and did stock. His normal routine. Every now and then he would see some of his friends stop by. But they did little more than talk a bit. He was beginning to see the world differently. He knew he could not afford to mess-up like he had before. He was becoming responsible.

He had to check in every-now-and-then with his parole officer. Who made sure he was clean of drugs and staying out of trouble. Though he felt himself growing as a man, he still felt as if a kid in the care of the government.

His parole officer, Milton Delhomme, was a down home sort of man. He was white and retained an aspect of being a good-ole’-boy. But did his job in a manner that seemed to say he cared.

Overall it was an enormous affair with the state that Martin was experiencing. From his mother, to his veteran friend to his p.o. Even his future seemed to be headed towards more government service.

What did black vs. white have to do with any of this? He knew, somewhere, that all young American males were experiencing something of the sort. However, all that flashed across the T.V. screen was race issues and the war. He saw his experience as a microcosmic crucifixion. He was martyred for the black cause. When would he be resurrected?

As Martin Luther King began his war on poverty, he looked around at his own surroundings and saw that he and his black neighbors weren’t faring as well as their white counterparts. He was what is now termed as working poor. So was his mother. Although she tried her best to avoid that trapping.

Another date she brought home, Rex Lawson, was a well-to-do pharmacist. And she felt as if she had struck gold. Rex kept his distance from Martin, and made him feel more at ease. However, he could see that the time was nearing when he would have to strike out on his own.

Why’d you choose pharmacy? Martin asked Rex. On one of the rare occasions that they saw each other.

When I was in college, I decided that would be the best road to take to build some security. What you need in life right? The hint was obvious to Martin. All around him there were those who thought like Rex, and sought to make the best for themselves, in spite of the rough conditions surrounding them. That word security resonated with him, and he knew the grocery store could not provide that.

Rex drove a Cadillac, and Martin liked that. Maybe he could own one day? Of course, he’d thought about these things before. Owning a business, being self made. Essentially, the American Dream.

Now that dream seemed lost. Peering between the lines of the volumes he’d read, he saw the epicenter of a catastrophe that was brewing. That had been brewing for 360 years. The struggle of his people to be free was reaching a climactic point.

Now that he had fallen at the hands of that tool used to oppress every man. The government. He had no desire to serve them. But the state did have the desire to be served.

You thought any more about what we talked about? His mother asked, one day as he returned from the library. She had become aware that she might have been pushing him too hard. And she didn’t want him to relapse and have another violent episode.

A bit. He said, cautiously. You seem to want me to go away. He added, raising the tension level in the house.

Martin, she jabbed. I just want what’s best for you.

With his mother dating more frequently, Martin decided to see one of his girlfriends who he’d missed while behind bars. Elise Young was her name. And she, like most of the girls he dated, was fine. She lived not too far from him, so he took the short walk over to her house to see if she was in.

Her father, like him a while ago, was a factory worker. He was all right with him, and didn’t bother the two much when Martin came around. Elise smiled as they entered her bedroom, and kissed him with her soft lips. She was glad he was back home, and decided to pay her a visit. They could fool around a little with her father there. He was usually in the basement of the house, drinking or watching the small black and white television set he had.

As Martin undressed her top, he pulled slightly down on her baby blue bra, kissing the upper portion of her breasts and then moving slowly down to her revealed nipple. Ureaka He thought. At last, true freedom.

Staff Sergeant Raymond Duaghtery had dated Mabeline Johnson a couple of times now, and from her explanations of her son’s situation, figured that military service might help him out now. Martin now had become a prey of the system, which was homing in for the kill.

The decade that saw Martin become a man was also a decade that saw the successive advancement of the Civil Rights Movement. In 1963 in the north, hundreds of activists marched in Pennsylvania, protesting police brutality. Also in that year Charles Cobb created Freedom Schools in Mississippi, combating brainwashing which was occurring in the public schools. The March on Washington was held. Where Martin Luther King gave his famous I have a dream speech. In 1964 President Johnson signed the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Which outlawed literacy tests for voting, guaranteed all Americans ‘equal access’ to all public accommodations regardless of race, color, religion, or sex. It declared unconstitutional any discrimination in all businesses open to the public and gave the attorney general the power to sue segregated school districts.

SNCC, or SNICK (the student nonviolent coordinating committee) created the Mississippi Freedom Democratic Party. Fannie Lou Hamer defended political independence on national television. After the march from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 Congress passed the Voting Rights Act of 1965. It outlawed any qualifications, poll taxes, or literacy tests that denied voters access to the ballot. Asserting federal control over voting in the United States, the act established a federal monitoring system that prevented former Confederate states from altering their voting districts or qualifications for five years without the approval of the attorney general. In September of that year Johnson issued Executive Order 11246 establishing affirmative action.

In 1966 the Black Panther Party was started by Huey Newton, Bobby Seale and David Hillard. Based in Oakland, they pledged to provide for self-defense against police brutality in the Black community, to sponsor programs to help impoverished citizens, and to advance a revolutionary vision of a post-racist America. Their Ten Point Program contained ideas, like full employment for Black people in America, fair housing, release of Black political prisoners, reparations, and community control of technology, that later activists would embrace. They also offered a breakfast for school children program to combat poverty. In June of 1967 the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that a Virginia law banning interracial marriage was unconstitutional.

However, there were some setbacks during the 60’s. In 1962 a woman, Marion King, was attacked and beaten by police in Albany Georgia. Her unborn child was murdered as well. NAACP field director Medgar Evars was assassinated in Mississippi. He had just desegregated Jackson’s lunch counters. In the fall