Dust Has No Color: The Jazzrah Chronicles

By David L. Cain

David L. Cain was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He has served on numerous civic boards and church based organizations across the country and has helped create several civic organizations including The Minority Enhancement Network and the Nehemiah Project of Alabama.

His previous books include The Spiritual Reflections of a Black Man, The Making of an Eagle, Know Ye Not This Parable, Ye Shall Know Them By Their Fruit, and Dust Has No Color.

He currently resides in Houston, Texas with his wife Wandra and has three children David II, Christina, and Nia Gabrielle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 19, 2004
• ISBN: 9781462836635

David L. Cain

David L. Cain was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He has served on numerous civic boards and church based organizations across the country and has helped create several civic organizations including The Minority Enhancement Network and the Nehemiah Project of Alabama. His previous books include The Spiritual Reflections of a Black Man, The Making of an Eagle, Know Ye Not This Parable, Ye Shall Know Them By Their Fruit, and Dust Has No Color. He currently resides in Houston, Texas with his wife Wandra and has three children David II, Christina, and Nia Gabrielle.

Book preview

Dust Has No Color

The Jazzrah Chronicles

David L. Cain

Copyright © 2004 by David L. Cain.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

23835

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my parents,

Dilisha Twiggs and James Cain Sr.

You gave me the best you had to give and

nurtured me to be a better man;

God took that which you gave . . .

and nurtured me to be a better Christian.

It is an honor to represent you in general and

God in particular through the following words.

This story may be fictional, but His grace is real.

God bless you both.

And the LORD God formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life;

and man became a living soul

Genesis 2:7

Introduction

In 1994 I worked as a production manager for a large company in the South. Along with my administrative duties, I provided leadership to about three hundred people. Black, white, young, old, and mostly female defined the demographics of the workforce. On most days, the labor-intensive operation worked like a charm; everybody and every machine worked without flaws. Unfortunately, the law of human nature dictates that there will be days when man and machine refuse to cooperate. Nine times out of ten, it’s usually the superficial differences between two people that fuel every friction . . . at least that is the way it was for me on that fateful Saturday.

I woke up that morning like every weekday . . . early. Sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and the television screen in front of me, I started munching and surfing the channels. The ringing phone interrupted the ritual forcing me to stop munching with a mouthful of cereal.

Hello?, I mumbled.

Hey Dave, sorry to disturb you this early and on a Saturday, but I got an issue here for you, the voice on the other end said. I recognized the voice as one of my shift supervisors.

It’s okay. What is it?

I’ve got two employees here, Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Smith. They were fighting each other.

Mrs. Williams was white and middle aged and Mrs. Smith was black, widowed, and middle aged also.

What? Fighting over what?, I fumed continuing to munch.

Apparently, one of them called the other person a racist name. The next thing I know, fur was flying everywhere. What do you want to do?

Company policy says that they should be fired. Plain and simple, I stated scratching my head. Keep them in your office until I get there. I should be there in about thirty minutes.

Okay. I’ll see you in a few minutes.

As I got dressed I tried to string the words of their firing together in my mind. I wanted it to be swift and impersonal so that I could get back home as fast as I could. When I got inside the plant office area, I could hear people shouting. I turned the corner and looked inside the glassed door where they sat. Two supervisors sat between the women trying to keep them quiet and separated.

I walked into the office and they looked up briefly and continued yelling without catching a breath. They ignored my authority and me and kept trading racial epithets with ever increasing decibels. The two supervisors looked at me for guidance and struggled with all of their might to keep the women apart.

Frustrated with the moment, I slammed my fist on the table as hard as I could.

Shut up!, I yelled at the top of my lungs.

Surprised, the two women and the two supervisors all froze and turned their attention towards me. I walked into the middle of the two women and motioned for the two supervisors to release them.

Do you think you are a better person because you are white?, I yelled at Mrs. Williams so loud that the veins in my neck expanded making them visible.

And do you think you’re better because you’re black?, I switched over to Mrs. Smith.

Both women remained frozen in place and quiet.

Well, I got news for the both of you. In the book of Genesis in the bible, it states that God made us all out of dust and that when we die, we all return back to dust. I don’t know about you but the last time I looked at dust . . . it had no color.

Both women kept quiet while looking down at their feet.

I paused trying to decide how to get the words you’re fired out of my mouth.

The two women knew that the words would sooner or later come out and I could tell that they were bracing themselves for the inevitable. After several minutes of awkward silence, I finally opened my mouth.

Close your eyes . . . everybody!, I ordered.

They looked at me puzzled and shrugged their shoulders at the same time.

Trust me, close your eyes, I demanded again but in a softer tone.

They closed their eyes and I did something that even surprised me. I started praying.

Dear Lord, our Father and Creator. You are the author and designer of every living thing. It was you that reached down into a pile of dust and created this thing that we call our bodies. No matter where we live or what race we think we come from, at the end of this life we know that our bodies will go back to what we started out as . . . dust. Teach us to look at each other and see all that is good on the inside of every person we encounter. We may be black and white on the outside dear Lord, but beneath the color we are nothing more than colorless dust. Teach us to be better samples of the one example that you gave us, your Son Jesus Christ. This we pray in Jesus’ name. Amen.

When I opened my eyes, I was shocked at what I saw. The two women that were threatening to do bodily harm to each other were hugging and crying on each other’s shoulder as they hugged each other. Fifteen minutes later, they were still sobbing and apologizing to each other. I walked out of the office and headed back home while the women went back to work.

Today, they are still employed by the company and probably exhibit the best morale of any employee that I have ever seen.

Dust Has No Color is the concluding episode of the Jazzrah Chronicles; the storied life of a fallen angel named Jazzrah. It is through him and his attempt to win back God’s grace that we re-discover how vain we can be when we judge people based on the color of their skin.

God’s word speaks clear and plainly that He has no respect of any person, no matter their color, which begs the question why do we put so much emphasis on it. My prayer is that God will give you special vision to look at all people and see dust, not color, in every person you meet. God Bless. David L. Cain

Chapter One

Half a century old brick homes and abandoned commercial buildings were randomly spread across the Chalmer’s street landscape like pockmarks in the heart of Detroit’s east side. Vacant lots, run down houses, and one-story buildings alternate half-acre parcels on the street. To the trained eye, the blighted exterior of the buildings are nothing more than de-valued skeletal remains of the beautiful architectural flesh that once blanketed the block. Back in the early days, the street flourished with a variety of successful shops and businesses that helped pace the heartbeat of the eastside community. Every necessity required to pursue happiness existed back then within a three block walking distance. Three grocery stores, a dry cleaner, a pharmacy, a large bank, and other mom and pop establishments thrived as models for small business. All that’s left from that era is a small grocery store. It stands accompanied by a vacant lot on one side and a dilapidated house on the other. The front of the building hid behind thick black security bars on wheels. Over the glass entry door hung an aged faded sign.

Chatwood Groceries . . . Since 1952, the sign read.

As the sun peeked over the horizon, a male figure approached and pulled back the iron curtain revealing the full glass storefront. Just as his father did every morning for 30 years, 52-year-old George Chatwood stood alone at the front door dangling keys in the lock on the door. Before opening the door, he looked around in both directions. There had been many early morning robberies in the neighborhood that summer by crooks that caught storeowners either opening or closing. He didn’t know it but he wasn’t alone.

Across the street from George’s store, two men hid behind a huge oak tree. After he disappeared in the store, they emerged from their hiding place and stepped out into the open. One looked white, middle aged, and wore a dark blue suit. The other was black, younger, and wore an over-sized plaid shirt and baggy jeans. Even though they had white and brown skin respectively, up close their facial features were not rooted in Anglo-Saxon or African heritage. Black waves of hair crowned their heads. Its texture was neither rough like African descendants nor thin straight like Anglo-Saxon descendants. It looked like soft wool.

The early morning breeze whistled around their ears making their wavy hair appear to move. They both had narrow noses that rested above near perfect sets of lips that were not too thick and not too thin. Their skin looked smooth and absent of any facial hairs or defects. The younger man pointed his finger at the store.

Atrea, that’s the store I was telling you about and that was our boy George.

Zaphir, Are sure he is the right person for the job?

Yep, I’ve been on his case for at least twenty years now and if there is one thing that I’m sure of . . . it’s that he hates all black people.

What have you done to drive him to this point you little devil?, Atrea smiled.

It’s a long story, but I’ll summarize. First I made his father’s store prosperous and dependant on what was then a mostly white neighborhood . . .

I see . . . made them think they were being blessed?

Yep, then I slowly drained the neighborhood of white people and replaced them with poor black people. They shopped at the store too but . . .

Let me guess, the store’s revenues slowly decreased and the family waited too late too move and became dependent on poor black people to survive?

Oh it gets better. Then the father gets sick and 20-year-old George here is forced to take over the family business. You know the last thing his dying father said to him?, Zaphir paused.

Whatever you do son, do not lose the store, Atrea surmised.

You’ve done this one before haven’t you?, Zaphir quizzed.

At least half a dozen times. I bet old George here doesn’t have a strong relationship with God, doesn’t attend church, and blames his failures secretly on all black people?

Zaphir exhaled into the cool air a long plume while shaking his head and smiling. You nailed it right on the head.

Hmm, you know what? This could be like taking candy from a baby. Atrea patted Zaphir on the back.

Since you’ve done this one before, tell me exactly why you needed a white man that hates black people?

It’s a recipe that is as old as time, but it still is quite potent. Look at what we got; an old white man from a white suburb who doesn’t like black people but has to depend on them to make his living. Getting his soul will be too easy, Atrea said rubbing his hands. All we have to do is find a black counterpart and we can get what I call a two for one special.

Don’t worry about that. I got that covered too, Zaphir offered.

Oh really?

Yep, I’ve got the perfect soul. It’s an old black man that hates white people.

What’s his story?

Grew up in South Carolina during the turbulent civil rights days.

At the battlefront of racism.

Oh better than that, his grandfather was hanged in the middle of the town square and his family lived as sharecroppers.

So far so good. Continue.

Zaphir rubbed his hands and blew his breath into his palms as he rubbed.

Well he moved to Detroit during the great automotive migration . . . .

Atrea gave Zaphir a puzzled look.

You know, when black people left the South in large numbers and moved north to work for the car companies.

Oh yeah, that migration. Okay please continue.

He gets to Detroit and falls madly in love with the first woman he meets. He gets a nice job, they get married and plan to raise a family.

What about their relationship with you know who?

In was there with her and she was working hard on getting him there. It got complicated because they had trouble having a child. It was so bad that they took in a little boy, but it didn’t soothe our boy because he wanted to have his own.

So bad that he was willing to sacrifice his relationship with God.

You got it. After he became so driven by that desire, it finally happened.

They had a child?

No, she got pregnant.

"Atrea became restless with Zaphir’s slow pace.

And then they had a child!, he said throwing his hands up in the air.

Just slow down, I’m getting to the point of the story. When it was time to deliver the baby, he took her to the hospital and they sent her back home. He took her back again and again they sent her home. He took her back a third time and they still didn’t admit her.

They sent her back home again?

"No not this time. This time they let her sit in a waiting room on a bed and monitor just to keep our boy from going crazy on them. After a few minutes, his wife went to shock and the hospital had to do emergency surgery. Now this is where it gets good.

Keep going.

They couldn’t save both.

What do you mean they couldn’t save both?

The doctor told the father that he had to decide who would he save . . . . the wife or the baby, but he couldn’t have both.

Surely the man saved his wife.

No, remember he had placed a child above every relationship he knew. He chose the baby.

What?

Yep, his wife died on that table and the baby boy survived.

That’s a good story but that has little to do with racism.

More than it appears my friend. The nurse that waited on them at the hospital was racist. The doctor that turned them away three times was racist. And you want to know the best part?

Go on.

Walter has had to look in the face of the same doctor five days a week for the past twenty years. He has a practice in the building where Walter is a security guard.

Atrea admired the plot and gave Zaphir a complimentary gesture.

Now that’s a good setup. He’s bitter after all of these years because he realizes the error of his choice and he quietly blames the white doctor.

Not just the white doctor, but he blames all white people.

Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. We’ll get started right away.

Zaphir rubbed his hands together and exhaled another long plume of air. This is great! A two for one. You’ll get your last soul and I’ll get closer to my last.

"Hmmm, this has been a long time coming and no one on earth can stop me from finishing. I can taste victory