The Foggy Bottom Storytellers at The Port of Poets

By Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta

The beginning of this story highlights the most loving and positive side of a very close knit family who built and resided in one of the most Southern Southland parts of America known as Arkansas. The time captured the beautiful autumn season made up of perfect warm fall colors and cool springs. In spite of it being the era of “Jim Crow,” with innovation and hard work, The Black Family gained much wealth and success as well as constructed and built a well-managed Village called Blackville.

The main part of this book is centered around the life of a young man named Damon Brazwell, Jr. who grew up in another area of the same Southern Southland part of America called Newport, Arkansas. Damon, Jr. and his family struggled through the hard times of the “Jim Crow” era as well, but here again, with the sole support of his family, young Damon also made it through with an abundance of education, knowledge, talent, experiences and success. This story is based on more of a spiritual aspect through the dreams as well as the real life events that Young Damon, Jr. endured.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664127883

Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta

DAMON WILBUR BRAZWELL, JR. was born in the small town of Newport, Arkansas to the union of Wealthy and Damon Wilbur Brazwell, Sr. on August 24, 1931, whereby he then began his journey through life. However, for cultural and philosophical reasons, he legally changed his birth name from Damon Wilbur Brazwell, Jr. to Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta. Spanning from 1976 to 2006, Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta retired from Delaware State University as a 30 year tenure Professor of English and Theatre. Damon/Damus is lovingly called “Doc” by many students, friends and family. He is the eldest of seven siblings. In 1951, Damon graduated from the “Newport Colored School”…later renamed “W. F. Branch.” Upon graduation, he joined the United States Air Force and served for four years. Afterwards, he received a bachelor’s degree from Philander Smith, a small Black College in Little Rock, Arkansas, where he majored in Philosophy and English and also sang in the College Chorus. Later, Damon relocated to Cleveland, Ohio, where he experienced unexpected hardship. Finally, a much better life emerged, which led to his writing of an Autobiographical Novel entitled Brecht, Weill, and “Three Penny” at Karamu House. In this book, he tells how he worked his way up to getting acting jobs there at Karamu without having any prior formal training or experience in theatre or music. Damon credited his teachers at the Newport Colored School for giving their students the opportunity to be surrounded by art, dance, music and theatre in a broader sense with assignments to participate in the Friday evening class play performances and annual play festivals. With his theatrical knowledge and expertise, he graciously gave back to his hometown school by using local talents and putting on play productions written by him in support of the school’s reunions. At Karamu, Damon acted on stage as well as performed in Opera productions, which opened up many doors for him to receive more acting jobs and opportunities to work with many well-known professional actors and actresses, such as Adolph Ceasar, Chris Christopherson, and John Hillerman, just to name a few. After Karamu, Damon studied theatre at Howard University in Washington, D. C. In 1979, he received a Doctorate of Education at Teacher’s College from Columbia University in New York, New York. Doc was also privy to become Head of the Department of Theatre Arts at the Montgomery Community College in Maryland. This later led him to teaching and directing at the New York Shakespeare Festival and then on to being a Professor at Delaware State University in Dover, Delaware. During Doc’s journey through life, he wrote, produced, directed and presented a multitude of poems and plays. Many manifested as class productions at Delaware State University. One production in particular, Aristophanic Broads, gave homage to women and received noteworthy accolades as it was so magnificently performed in New York City at the Apollo Theatre!! As a true Iconic Figure with a mind of Pure Brilliance in the theatre and all around, Doc’s retirement from Delaware State University left an Astounding Legacy and Huge Footprints as a Professor in their Theatre and English Department.

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Copyright © 2021 by Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta.

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 04/14/2023

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Dedication

The Prelude

Acknowledgements

One: OUT There

Two: Down in Foggy Bottom

Three: The Amanuensis

Four: Crossing Paths

Five: Kinesics and Secrets

Six: Thespians In This Ol’ World

Seven: Imps, Paper Tigers, and Bubbah

Eight: Carnal Nocturne

Nine: Another Port

Ten: The Port of Poets

Eleven: Big Chitown

Twelve: Toughbrand

Thirteen: Fork in the Road

Fourteen: Dark and Swift Shadows

Fifteen: Trying to Get Ready

Sixteen: The Vicissitudes

Seventeen: The Juju Continuum

DEDICATION

W ith heartfelt sincerity, this book is dedicated to the following family members, special friends and their extended families: Daughters, Wytantia Gail Walker, Jackie Blake, and Afrika Kenjyatta; sons, Claybron Brazwell, Sikani, Eusi, and Njombe Kenjyatta; siblings, Montrula Brazwell, Millie Brazwell Wilkes, Vonzell Brazwell Hood, and Mark Brazwell; longtime special friends, Zenobia Chisholm, Lillian Gregory, Yohance and Tiffany Maqubela, Kamau and Mwange Lumumba. This book is also dedicated in loving memory of the following family members, colleague and friend, all of whom have been laid to rest: Parents, Damon Wilbur Brazwell, Sr., and Wealthy Brazwell; son, Udomo Kenjyatta; sister, Marilyn Brazwell Brooks; brothers, Douglas and Manuel Brazwell; son-in-law, Donald L. Walker; colleague and friend, Dr. John Mtembezi Inniss.

THE PRELUDE

T he two of ~Us~ over here on the other side and in the spiritual world are a team. ~We~ have been strongly together for a long time. One of ~Us~ is female, and one of ~Us~ is male. ~We~ have been assigned to tell you a story that comes out of the long time ago. ~We~ are spiritual entities who were once living and breathing as human beings; ~We~ crossed over (died) some centuries back and in the place that is the central place from which this story comes. ~We~ are then the Foggy Bottom storytellers, and ~We~ are soul, heart, and spirit mates. ~Our~ lives, ~Our~ last incarnation in that Earth dimension began in slavery. That incarnation was the final one there. The dimension in which ~We~ now live is the place from which ~We~ move, graduate, if you will, and progress to a higher dimension as ~We~ work to return home to the inner sphere and to where God lives. Parenthetically, when you, the reader, encounter this symbol (~) before and after such pronouns as ~We~ and ~Us~, you will know that it is ~Us~ over here speaking.

Now that ~We~ have introduced ~Ourselves~ to you, let ~Us~, the storytellers, move on and tell you the story.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A s the eldest and daughter, Wytantia Gail Walker, it gave me great pleasure and was truly an honor to take the responsibility of acting on behalf of my father, the late Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta, in taking on this very special and most important role of fulfilling his lifelong dream to publish this very special manuscript he wrote entitled " The Foggy Bottom Storytellers at the Port of Poets. It was truly a blessing that God allowed me with the privilege and opportunity to extend myself in gracing such a dynamic and super exhilarating project of this nature and to put forth my best efforts to reach my father’s goal of making this particular written work of his a publication!! I have enjoyed being the long term editor, interior and exterior images galley coordinator, informational material provider, researcher, contact person for all communication with the publisher, composer of the Author’s Biography, Dedication, Acknowledgements, and all other correspondence related to the betterment of publishing this great manuscript. That said, on behalf of my dad, the late Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta, I would like to give a very special thank you to Zenobia Chisholm, Bill Clemons and the late Dr. John Mtembezi Inniss for assisting with the proofing and editing in the early stages of my dad’s writing of this awesome piece. Again, to Zenobia Chisholm, a special thanks from me for always being there and willing to step up to the plate to proofread and/or edit when needed throughout the making of this project. Also, giving special recognition to Yohance and Tiffany Maqubela along with Zenobia Chisholm for their hard work and loyalty in researching, retrieving the manuscript materials and providing me with that information for the purpose of getting the publishing project started. Thanks to Eusi, Afrika & Sikani Kenjyatta for their contributions in providing some manuscript information, and to Afrika specifically for assisting with the title comfirmation. Much appreciation goes out to Renee Frasher for sharing many pictorial images for the galley areas of the manuscript as well as other very interesting historical knowledge and information for this book. Giving exceptional recognition to longtime special friends, Kamau & Mwange Lumumba for their support, encouragement, and motivation toward the making of this outstanding manuscript. I would like to also give very special acknowledgement to my late husband, Donald L. Walker, for his willingness to get on board to help launch this publication of " The Foggy Bottom Storytellers at The Port of Poets " Book. He gave outstanding support and inspiration throughout the journey of this magnificent publication up until his time on this earth came to an end. RIP Don!!

Also, a special thanks to the Xlibris Publishing Team for their professionalism, expertise, and assistance in making this publication possible as well as a very successful one.

BECAUSE THERE ARE SO MANY PEOPLE TO RECOGNIZE

FOR THEIR LOVE, CARE, SUPPORT, ENCOURGEMENT,

AND ASSISTANCE IN THE PUBLISHING PROCESS OF

THIS POWERFUL MANUSCRIPT, IT IS UNFORTUNATE

WITH DEEP REGRETS THAT WE ARE UNABLE TO LIST

ALL OF YOU. NONETHELESS, WE STILL WANT YOU TO

KNOW THAT YOU ARE IN THE HEARTS OF OUR FAMILY,

AND WE THANK GOD FOR EACH AND EVERY ONE OF

YOU WITH PRAYERS OF CONTINUOUS BLESSINGS!!

"RIP OUR BELOVED ONE, DR. DAMUS

AMAZULU KENJYATTA!!"

FOR YOUR WORK IS NOW DONE ON THIS EARTH

ONE

OUT There

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Dr. Damus Amazulu Kenjyatta

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T hen came October, the Queen among seasons. And following in October’s footsteps, the great parade of Indian summer stridently yet quietly strutted, high stepping softly in its time, and then like the kind of brand-new life that autumn is known to bring, and on that October day, autumn seemed to have burst into music. It burst into a song and a dance that celebrated in every step where Kailene M. Johnson walked as she and her brother, Pickens W. Black IV, meandered down through the woods, out among through the tall tan grasses, down by the flowing springs and the pond at dear ol’ Blackville, Arkansas.

We are blessed, truly blessed. Blessed because the two of ~Us~, over here on the other side and in the spiritual world, have both earned and awarded the power to share all these thoughts, these actions, these experiences with you. Allow ~Us~ to take a further step forward in introducing ~Ourselves~, explain who ~We~ are and what ~We~ are. ~We~ are a team. ~We~ have been strongly together for a long time. One of ~Us~ is female, and one of ~Us~ is male. ~We~ have been assigned to tell you a story that comes out of the long time ago. ~We~ are spiritual entities who were once living and breathing as human beings; ~We~ crossed over (died) some centuries back and in the place that is the central place from which this story comes. ~We~ are then The Foggy Bottom Storytellers, and ~We~ are soul, heart, and spirit mates. ~Our~ lives, ~Our~ last incarnation in the earth dimension began in slavery. That incarnation was the final one there. The dimension in which ~We~ now live is the place from which ~We~ move—graduate, if you will—and progress to a higher dimension as ~We~ work to return home to the inner sphere and to where God lives. Parenthetically, when you, the reader, encounter this symbol (~) before and after such pronouns as ~We~ and ~Us~, you will know that it is ~Us~, over here speaking.

Now that ~We~ have more fully introduced ~Ourselves~ to you, let ~Us~, the storytellers, move on in continuing with the story.

That the tenth month had always brought beautiful things down to the deepest parts of Kailene’s sense of feeling was mystical, even to her. To say then that the woman had witnessed pleasure during the autumns of her years would be to understate, for as far back as she could remember, Kailene M. Johnson had never been less than nudged as summers moved closer to fall, and she had always been filled with romping anticipation from the slightest hint of a new October to come.

Out there in what had once been fields of prolific crops, treasured images continued to flow in Kailene’s mind. Out there when once upon a long time ago, Kailene and her brothers and sisters and cousins and friends had run up and down, and among the rows and rows of corn and potatoes and cotton (and cotton was indeed king), Kailene’s soul shouted. Out there where once upon that long time ago, where strong and willing hands tilled and planted and reaped, Kailene’s heart shed a happy tear. Out there, in every way, Kailene was at home. Her heart celebrated then as she and her brother continued with their casual walk. She, in fact, felt as beautifully childlike as at anytime during her many returning visits. An adolescent-like giddiness tickled within her bosom.

She and sibling Pick, now standing on the small homemade wooden bridge and looking down into the clear and swift-running stream below, enjoyed the images as the two paused in silence. The contrasting sight among thousands of tadpoles as they swam downstream moved the two siblings, and the patch of tall tan grasses that stood across from the narrow stream stood dramatically out. The tadpoles’ swift and rhythmic wriggling of their tails in contrast with the slow back and forth swaying of the grasses spoke of a unique choreography. Out there beneath the fast-falling sun of the late afternoon, within the sweet ancient-like country smell that lazily floated in the breeze, the two were comforted. The voices of various animals, the crackling of dried leaves, and other aged remains of autumn time as their sounds popped out and gently from under Kailene’s and Pick’s footsteps and out to some distant edges within that wide country quietly complemented all. With bittersweet nostalgia—longings in her heart and mind for the days of yesteryear—Kailene shed another tear there on those treasured grounds, for Kailene, in every way, was back home.

So where are you now in your study thang, sis? Pick’s words abruptly rushed in on his sister’s thoughts.

Well, Pick, Kailene answered after taking a quick breath, making an attempt to recover from the abrupt burst of her brother’s interruption, I guess you could say I’m moving kind of steady-like.

Ah, chill, we know you’ doin’ a thang widdit ’cause if anybody can do a thang widdit, we know it be’s you, Pick replied, complimenting and encouraging his sister in that playful and soulful way. But just where are you? Better than that, jus’ where ’zactly the hell is you in yo’ study thang? Pick again joked, moving in and out between two languages as brother and sister lovingly, playfully punched and pushed on each other about the arms and shoulders.

Well, Kailene then answered, I’m now definitely on the real rough part of the trip, and there’s more ahead.

Say what? You mean there’s rougher stuff to come?

Do a cow got a tail?

Sho’ ’nuff, and so do a bull. So what you’ sayin’ is that in the pasture, there’s more dooky ahead?

Um-hum, yeah.

A dog, huh?

Yes, sir, Kailene answered, and you know what, bruh?

Talk to me, sis.

Well, this dog’s done come charging in real rough-like and done jumped straight up in my chest.

Stop! Breathing on you, huh?

I swear.

Ain’t that just like a dog? Now go ’head and ’laborate on it. ’Xplain it, chil’.

Well, Kailene said as she shifted into a conversational gear, let me put it to you straight up. Now I’ve completed all of the required classroom work, so presently, it’s about moving on with this paper—the old butt-kicking thing known as the dissertation.

No play thang, huh?

No play thang.

The stuff you rilly got to watch, huh?

For real.

Pull my coat. Hip me further.

Well, the dog must be bad in light of the fact that everybody who’s spent any kind of real time around doctoral academia swears that the writing—finishing the dissertation and getting it approved by the department of one’s major and the Office of Doctoral Studies is—

A real, real dog, huh?

Exactly. In fact, I know personally of one candidate, a history major, who became traumatized.

Some of ’em jus’ flip out?

Plum out. Well, it’s a dog, ain’t it?

Bowwow and ruff-ruff, Pick again joked. But looka he’e, how long do you think its goin’ to take you to, you know, like find the right leash or something so you can tame the you-know-what?

Oh, I don’t know, Kailene answered, but my guess is that it could take as long as a year or two.

Got dog! Girl, you jus’ made my head swim ’cause all I had was one nerve left when we started this conversation, and now you come down in he’e messin’ wid dat one. But listen, you done any of the writing yet?

Um-hum, Kailene answered. Some, but it’s time for me to—

Git down to real ‘bidness.’

Precisely. Kailene smiled.

Then there was a pause, after which Pick again questioned.

But tell me, sis, Pick asked, is there anything else on the matter of this dissertation thang you think I might want to know ’cause this is some interestin’ stuff? So can you take me fu’ther?

Well, you might want to know a little something about what is referred to as ABD.

Hip me to the ‘ABD’ thang.

ABD simply means ‘All but the Dissertation,’ which has to do with the fact that the candidate has completed all of the required classroom work but has not, for one reason or another, completed the paper and has the paper approved. So all around the country, there are people who are ABD. Finishing up, from all I’ve heard, is heavy.

Therefore, the dude or the chick who is ABD is the one who has been tackled and knocked down by the canine and ain’t been able to git the hell up and out from under the thang.

Yep.

Well, we do know that give ’em a chance, and them canines will sho’ ’nuff do it to you, especially if the canine be’s one of them cantankerous female varieties, you know, one of them dirty, honery, and barkin’ ’itches—

Okay, Pick, you made your point. No need to be any more explicit than that ’cause even out here in these woods, vulgarity goes against the village rules.

Nah, nah, I’m jus’ sayin’. Pick laughed.

Nah, nah, you ain’t jus’ sayin’ nothin’. I got your ‘I’m jus’ sayin’’ in my hip pocket, so just back on up, Kailene quipped, at which point the two shared in one of the many little laughing rituals they’d had during their lives together. In fact, Kailene continued, I’d kinna like to jump to the side a little taste at this point and follow up on the idea of pursuit.

Okay, Pick agreed, go ’head and jump.

Well, where I am at this particular time on the matter of pursuit is the thought of you and me driving over to Newport within, say, the next few days, going, as we say, ‘Up Town Down on Front Street and in the Colored Block.’ I mean, we can just ease on into the back of Gemimah’s Place, grab us a couple of cue sticks, get us a table, and shall I say, ‘hit ’em out’ so that I can, once again, whip your hind parts on the pool table.

So you want to hurt me, huh?

Oh, no—Kailene smiled—because you know I love you.

Oh, no, you don’t! Pick jokingly replied.

Oh, yes, I do. Let me tell it to you like the old song says.

And how is that?

It’s like ‘If I don’t love you, baby, eggs ain’t poultry, grits ain’t groceries, and Mona Lisa was a man.’

Ah, Pick responded as they both laughed, you think you slick, don’t you?

I’m jus’ trying to keep up with you. I’m jus’ saying—

Nah, you ain’t jus’ sayin’ nothin’, remember? Pick then said, There’s a lot of junk goin’ on up underneath that ‘I’m jus’ sayin’’ stuff, remember?

Part of the game, remember?

Pick, in a kind of quasi manner within the playful digs and the laughter that followed, chose to ignore his sister’s further invitation to banter, for to have done otherwise would have been to deny himself the weapon of surprise, one of the main weapons the two often used in those little playful word wars.

Kailene, after a moment of silence, sensed her brother’s need for quiet. Instinctively, in fact, she knew he wanted some time in which to further think. Kailene fully knew how her brother liked to daydream. ~We~, in fact, can tell you the two, brother and sister, were much alike. Their minds and thoughts often go off in left field, so to speak, like we all tend to do. Additionally, in fact, their intuition was rhythmically synched in identical twin-like manner. They grew up that way. Kailene, right away, became silent. She left her brother alone with his thoughts as she began to settle with further thoughts of her own.

The two, now walking in silence and at a slow pace, went into pensive mode. Where Kailene’s thoughts now became surrounded by her further research and dissertation tasks, Pick’s thoughts floated into remembrances, those of the blessed history of the family and the land on which brother and sister now walked, the land on which the two had been born, bred, and reared—the land of Blackville, Arkansas.

Now decades following overt slavery and on this day of Pick’s privately celebrating his sister’s progress, Pick thought of the many stories that spoke of how the family Black had come out through slavery, out of the state of Alabama, and into the state of Arkansas (the latter naturally as sociocultural ilk-like as the former). Blackville now had moved on to become one of the most spacious and enviable lands in the state of Arkansas. It was highly rich then, so rich that it deserved to become that highly respected village known as Blackville. And so out of sharecropping and with skilled thrift, the land had been bought by the family Black. Businesses grew; a prolific village had been born.

Pick thought on all that. He reflected on how, after overt slavery and in the state of Arkansas, his great-great grandfather and his great-great grandmother had met, fallen in love, and become man and wife. Pick thought on how his great-great grandparents had created a family and a business that had grown into a tribe—a large body of blood relations coupled with platonically related people who farmed, grew crops, and peddled their abundances. From wagons pulled by horses and, later, to those pulled by trucks. They parked on the sides of dusty and rocky roads, and from there, the Blacks bartered, sold, built Blackville—a true Villanova. The tribe worked hard all through and following those punishing times of the 1800s and the early and mid-twentieth century.

A group of especially haranguing thoughts suddenly popped into Pick’s mind; he thought of his enslaved people not being permitted to become legally married in a system that became known as jumping the broom. It must have been excruciatingly painful, insulting, Pick thought. But then within that thought, a smile began to cover Pick’s face, for right on top of the jumping the broom thought came the Ebonically created term broad into the picture. Within those images, Pick’s mind took him to when, after the slave had gone through a long history of not being permitted to openly worship or to belong to an openly serving religion, more pressure was added. The added pressure resulted from the slave to pray—to spiritually serve the creator, to place their heads under narrowly raised openings such as tubs or buckets in communicating to the creator. That thought took Pick’s mind to the emergence of the Ebonic term broad, which refers to a Black woman specifically. The term broad, in the generic and in the later years of its emergence, began to refer to all females.

Now in the vast and predawn age of the American Civil War, many slaveholders found themselves facing a nagging dilemma as Black people, the enslaved, came out openly and expressed their desire and need to become legally yoked/married. You see, much of what was in the request had to do with those Africans and their need to show the fact that they, too, were a thinking people. That their culture was as civil as any on the planet Earth. That they, the Africans, were far above the less than four-fifths theory—the Three-Fifths Compromise of 1787. But ~We~ (the spirits) again diverge. So let ~Us~ (the spirits) move on with the thrust.

The request for legal marriage within the slave system was eventually granted. Slave couples could now become legally married, but if the couple belonged to owners who managed separate plantations, and if those slaves resided on those separate plantations and were each considered to be too valuable (were too good at working) to be sold—to be let go, an extension was granted, according to law, that the male slave could be permitted to visit—to commune, to sleep—with his wife but only on the weekends. If both slaves were in good standing with the slaveholders, the arrangement was deemed workable as long as the male slave returned to his proper and designated plantation by the break of dawn on the following Monday morning. Out of this dreaded arrangement, which pervaded throughout the American south, the Black man and his natural bent to have laughter and to have a good time, no matter how horrible the times or the situation, came to the following Ebonic and age-old expression, which was the 6 Ms, which translated to mean Meet My Mule Monday Morning, ‘MF’. The tragic-comic element within that expression becomes clear when Ebonic approaches to the language are comprehended.

And so as soon as the enslavers began to refer to the female slave as an abroad wife (since she and her husband were not permitted to live together since she was not living with her husband on the plantation where he resided/worked/was enslaved), the Black man began to refer to his wife as my broad. The wife then, who had been called an abroad wife by the slaveholder since she was away, became a broad within the Ebonic language created by the Black man and his age-old fashion and traditional way of dealing with language and ideas. The Black man simply elided some space by dropping the words an and wife and referred to his wife as my broad. Ergo, my broad became the Black expression used to refer to a wife or a coheart or a woman, generally from within the culture. The term broad has lasted for over two centuries within the Black culture. Now further with the thrust, further with Pick’s thoughts.

My family has been blessed. Pick smiled as he continued to think. "My family began and lived as slaves and survived the brutality. My family was blessed to be able to rise even higher than many slaveholders within that bitter system that they, the slaveholders, had created and instituted.

"After overt slavery was abolished, my family, with the understanding that humility is real strength, successfully moved to become ‘sharecroppers’ only to strongly move upward and outward from that slave labor conundrum, a nasty trick for, within was a kind of renting of overly priced land. My family felt some uplifting in that it was working for itself.

My family worked beyond hard, beyond diligently in clearing the land, planting, tending and picking, and pulling and selling. And there was no shortage of fresh and healthy meats, for my family raised numbers of farm animals. What the state of Arkansas has gained by way of what my family and its friends—its workers—its tribe have contributed to this state is underrecognized. The contribution is rarely mentioned outside of quiet and private conversations of Arkansas Black people as well as many Whites. But that’s alright. Pick again thought.

Parenthetically, let ~Us~ tell you this: The treatment of Black people in the American diaspora is still and seriously sub. Arkansas, historically, has carried quite a bit less overt cruelty in its system toward Black people than most other deep Southern states, and Arkansas still has a better racial history. It still has its abundance of haters. And that’s all right, as Pick would say. But what ~We~ really want to tell you at this point is the following little piece of history, a piece of support for the theory that the state of Arkansas was the least racist of the Southern states. And let ~Us~ do that by way of asking two rhetorical questions on the subject:

1. Why was Central High School of Little Rock, Arkansas, after scores upon scores of meetings and discussions among America’s mainstream, specifically chosen as the launching ground for desegregation and integration of public schools in America?

2. Why was it speculated, and correctly so, that there would be less violence from the mainstream if desegregation and integration began in the state of Arkansas?

Now after having asked the two questions, let ~Us~ add an observation—a little piece of history, a little piece of further insight.

For decades and on large billboards all over the state, Arkansas’s nickname was Arkansas, the Land of Opportunity.

Now during the period of the late 1950s struggle and, finally, the success of desegregation and integration at Central High School and in the American Southland, there was much added stress and pain, especially in Black communities all over the country. We Shall Overcome was the song that rose from the minds and hearts of Black people. The stress, nationally, especially from the pressure that came from those Black communities and upon America, brought Arkansas’s nickname to change. The nickname became the Natural State. Ergo, another upward move then, yet the thoughts and the feelings of superiority remained in the heads and in the hearts of so many of the mainstream folk. The delusions of grandeur still resounded as though it danced—stomped in the DNA of those objectors. But all is improving. And that’s all right because it all is a part of the movement—the evolving of God’s universe—its design.

Now again at this juncture, ~We~ thank you for your patience and your remembrance of the fact that when the pain is removed, all but indescribable beauty begins to take over. Thank you for remembering the fact that one begins to find it less difficult to make further moves toward freedom. And please remember that the purpose here in this story is not to offend but rather to express love.

With thoughts and feelings of love and understanding having run through Pick’s mind, his soul and his spirit, tears had arisen inside him. All that was within him spoke of love—love for family, love for life, love for all people. Love even for those who hated him—his people. Pick had been raised that way.

It was specifically from love that Pick could smile as he and his sister continued to walk. His remembrances at that juncture took him back to a big family gathering that was held in the yard and under the shade of the big and tall pecan tree that stood in the back of the house, in the spacious backyard. The subject in discussion had taken the family to an episode that centrally involved Pickens Black III.

Pick III had designed a crop duster on his own, an airplane that he had successfully built as he, back in those early days, used to spray the many flourishing and fruitful crops of the village of Blackville.

In fits of anger over the success of the family Black, these particular bitter and racial factors of the cultural mainstream dramatically reacted with their jealousies, moving out further toward the edge of acid-like behavior.

They gathered themselves in pacts, loaded their shotguns and high-powered rifles, and from the ground, fired up at Pickens III. From behind trees and in bushes, the upset and advancing hoard let go with their bullets as Pick circled the fields, flying to avoid his plane being hit, and went about the business of flying—dusting his crops.

Pickens III was blessed to have never been