Deadline (31 page)

“The purpose of this committee is to be sensitive to minority concerns,” Myra responded. “We know the pain they’re feeling. We’ve seen the rage and we understand why it erupts in violence.” She looked Clarence right in the eyes. “Maybe if some of us here were more in touch with our people we’d understand that.”

Clarence sighed deeply. “It’s now time for my regular reminder that the color of my skin is coal black. In fact, since some of you consider skin color a proof of credibility, a quick look around the room shows I’m the most credible person here.”

Jake chuckled, then stopped abruptly, embarrassed when he realized he was the only one laughing.

“Now, I realize the fact I’m a heterosexual male makes me suspect, but please rest assured this is not shoe polish, and I am truly a black man, the descendent of Kentucky slaves. I grew up three blocks from where Domingo murdered the store owner, and I have two sisters and a brother who still live in that neighborhood. It could just as easily have been them, or one of my nephews or nieces that got wasted. I’m not out of touch with those people. In fact, the ones I know who live there are all
outraged
at the murder. They believe Domingo’s guilty as sin and deserves the gas chamber, what do you think about that? To them Domingo isn’t a political symbol representing the angst of an oppressed people, he’s just a bad apple, a vicious criminal. They don’t want him to be a role model or poster child of black rage. They believe nobody should let ‘racial tension’ justify the murder of innocent people—black, brown, white, or purple.”

“You may be black on the outside Mr. Abernathy, but it’s pretty clear what you are on the inside.” It was Myra again. “Hundreds of years of abuse and oppression and put downs and you act like we’re supposed to forget it all. Well, some people don’t have it as easy as you do.”

Jake could see the tension in the room wasn’t newborn but had picked up where it left off in previous meetings.

“Listen to yourself.” Jake thought he could see steam rising from Clarence’s forehead. “You’re saying we’re entitled to be racist. People were racist against us, so now
we
can be racist, is that it? White people labeled us all bad, so now we can label them all bad. And who suffers for this? Not white people. Good ones and bad ones, they still sleep at night, no matter how much we blame them. It’s
our
people who suffer, that’s who. We’re the welfare society’s permanent underclass, dependent on the doles from every liberal politician, white or black, that comes along. Our women are paid to have children but not be married, then paid to get abortions. Two out of every three black children in this country are born out of wedlock, and don’t give me that look like I’m being judgmental. The fact is, these children need fathers. We teach our men that women and children don’t need them, and they believe us. Our leaders sit and blame everybody else for what their ancestors did to our ancestors, and every time some criminals beat people up and sell drugs and steal a stereo it’s because they’ve been victimized. When are we going to stop the blame and teach our young men to take responsibility?

“Wipe that shocked self-righteous look off your face, Myra. You’re so used to acting like a victim you don’t know how to be anything else.”

Several outraged groans didn’t deter Clarence a bit.

“You know what I want for the black community, for
my
community? I want it to blend in with everybody else. I want it to excel and prosper like the Vietnamese and Japanese and East Indians. They’re not smarter than we are, they’re not better than we are. It’s just that they’re not content to live off welfare, eating society’s leftovers. They’re out there working hard and keeping their kids in school, off drugs, and out of gangs. Exactly like my sister and her family are trying to do in a community where sleazeballs like Domingo are killing kids with drugs and guns.”

Clarence looked hard in Myra’s eyes. “We’ve got to quit talking about our skin color, quit considering it an asset or a liability, and learn how to get color blind and just be good decent citizens, and raise our families to do right and succeed! And let’s quit talking about our ‘African-American leaders.’ First, I’m not African. I’m American. My ancestors were African, but this is my country. Second, I want leaders I can respect and follow—I don’t care what color their skin is. Nobody talks about ‘Japanese leaders’ and ‘Vietnamese leaders’ and ‘Romanian leaders.’ That’s because they’re just Americans. And that’s what I am. Most blacks I know are fed up with being a special interest group or guinea pigs for patronizing liberal programs, as if we had some deficiency and can’t make it like the others. Well, we can, I tell you.”

“Look, Clarence.” This was a light-skinned black man Jake recognized as the Arts and Entertainment department editor. “Misty is with the Native American Journalists Association. And even though you quit the National Association of Black Journalists, I’m proud to still be a member. So don’t go telling the rest of us how to solve the problems of minorities. I think we know a little about that—”

“Amazingly little, if you ask me, Jeremy. And you know
exactly
why I quit the NABJ. It’s because it was the National Association of
Liberal
Black Journalists. I got tired of going to meetings and hearing nothing but moaning and complaining and why people should be hired just because they belong to a certain race. I happen to believe that we really
are
equal, and we can compete on the level of other journalists, without special favors. I’m sick and tired of gender journalism and sexual journalism and race journalism—I just want plain old journalism. And to be honest I’m also sick and tired of being lumped in with the homosexual community, as if being black and committing sodomy were moral equivalents.”

Pamela gasped, Peter blushed. Jake had mixed feelings, but the boredom he’d prepared himself for seemed nowhere in sight.

Clarence now looked around the room with pleading eyes, which occasionally fell on Jake.

“The discussions at these Black Journalist meetings were nothing like the discussions my extended family has on weekends and holidays. The people I know are the backbone of the black community, the hard workers, the people who make no excuses, who stay in school, go to church, work to improve their community rather than collect somebody’s guilt money because their ancestors were persecuted by a bunch of bigots. I’ll say it again—my goal is to be color blind, but the NABJ is nothing but color conscious.”

“Okay, Clarence, we’ve heard this before,” Jeremy said. “It’s got nothing to do with our agenda today. The point is—”

“The point is, this committee is doing exactly what’s at the heart of racism—it’s focusing on differences, on racial identity, as if that was what made a person a person. Well, it isn’t. I’m black and I’m glad to be, wouldn’t want to be anything else, don’t want to be white or act white. But that doesn’t make me worse or better or more needy or less needy than anyone else, and I’m tired of being treated as if it did! All this multiculturalism just emphasizes differences and creates hostilities between people. Remember the melting pot concept? We need to come together as Americans. Anything less is pure racism.”

Several started to respond at once. Sensing the meeting was about to deteriorate into a bar room brawl, Jess raised his hand in a conciliatory gesture.

“Okay, folks, I’m afraid we’re getting pretty far afield. I know we have some philosophical differences, but we’re not going to resolve them here. Let’s move on. Please. Pamela, you wanted some time.”

“Right. A friend in Metro caught wind of an upcoming article that’s going to portray Rape Crisis Centers as some sort of feminist indoctrination center or lesbian recruiting ground.” Several rolled their eyes and laughed.

“I’ve got a friend who works at one of the centers being investigated, and she says the reporter is setting this up like it’s a big time scandal. I don’t know the time table on the story, but I think somebody needs to cool the reporter’s jets!”

“Now wait a minute.” It was Misty, the American Indian reporter. “I’m not sure that’s entirely fair. Have you talked to Heather Ashley? She’s the one doing the article, right? I know Heather. She’s a feminist. She had some friends go to a few of the Rape Crisis Centers and they told her the same thing. She wasn’t looking for this story, she didn’t like it at all, but it came to her. She went to the meetings herself and found this constant inundation with anti-male anti-heterosexual propaganda.”

Several people shot looks at Misty, and she backpedaled.

“Well, I’m not saying it
was
propaganda, just that it sort of seemed like it. Heather told me some women aren’t just getting counseling, they’re being introduced to a sexual subculture. In some cases, women in counseling are ending up in sexual relationships with their counselors. Isn’t that violating professional ethics? Isn’t that exploiting a vulnerable woman?”

“The sexual orientation of the workers isn’t an issue, unless you’re homophobic,” Pamela replied. “And if it seems anti-male, consider the fact that these women have been raped by men. I wouldn’t expect men to be made the hero of the plot, would you? And it’s not like they’re changing anybody’s sexual orientation. Nobody made me a lesbian—it’s just the way I am. It’s irrational and naive to think someone can be persuaded to be gay.”

Jake hoped Clarence wouldn’t jump in, but he did.

“But you used to be married to a man, didn’t you, Pamela? Didn’t you tell us once you were married to this creep, and then you had your first lesbian relationship in your thirties?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you changed, right? I mean, at very least you changed your behavior. The point is, these women have been raped. They’re going to be extremely vulnerable to anti-male sentiment. Is it right to take advantage of their situation to manipulate them for personal or political gain?”

“The stench of homophobia is growing here.” It was Myra. “What’s wrong, Clarence? Afraid we’re conspiring to take over the country?”

Laughter filled the room. Jake noted it wasn’t good-natured and light-hearted, but cynical, almost acidic.

“Do you seriously think the
Trib
could get away with an article like this?” Peter asked. “It’ll fall right into the hands of the right-wing bigots. And the gay community won’t stand for it. Expect boycotts and pickets, loss of advertising revenues, and major loss of credibility among your most loyal readers.”

Peter looked at Jess. “The
Trib
is going to suffer if this thing gets printed.”

“I thought we did stories because they were true and important,” Clarence said. “Who cares what political views they further or don’t further? Who cares about economic threats as long as our research is sound and we stick to the facts? You didn’t care when Christian groups staged a boycott because of what they thought was anti-Christian bigotry in the
Trib.”

You’re not one to give up easily, Clarence, I’ll grant you that
.

“Well, I for one certainly care how the gay community thinks about the
Trib,”
Peter replied. “I didn’t become a reporter to be part of a paper that fuels the fires of prejudice.”

“And I didn’t become a reporter to have important stories stuffed and censored because they didn’t fit somebody’s agenda.” Clarence was adamant. “Are you saying all lesbians are automatically good, that they never do a bad thing just because they’re lesbians?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then what’s so bad about somebody reading an article that suggests
some
lesbians may be doing the wrong thing? I mean heterosexuals sometimes do the wrong thing, and we show that in the
Trib
all the time. And we’ve had a number of pieces showing the wonderful contributions gay people make to our community. Why not show they’re just like everybody else, some good, some bad?”

“Because you’re going to promote bigotry,” Peter said, with evident sincerity. “We have a responsibility for how people interpret what we write.”

“I thought we just had a responsibility to tell the truth and let people draw their own conclusions. Why do we have to make them draw
our
conclusions? Because our conclusions are right, is that it? So we need to make them think like us, even if the only way we can do that is by withholding critical information from them?” Clarence’s tone was blistering, and the overall temperature of the room was stifling to Jake.

“Look,” Jess jumped in again, less a chairman now than a referee. “Let’s take a vote on this thing. I see three options. One is to leave it alone. Two is to have the reporter continue her investigation, but caution her and her editor to balance any negative portrayal with some positives. Three is to recommend spiking the story entirely. Okay, option one, story go on as is?”

Clarence raised his hand, with a sad and lonely look, and didn’t seem surprised no other hand went up.

“Okay. Option two, go ahead but with a caution to balance?”

Jake raised his hand, assuming most other hands would come up too. Only Misty’s hand went up, raised halfway, accompanied by a pained and sheepish look.

“And option three, kill it?” The other six hands went up, minus Jess who didn’t vote.

“Okay, we recommend spiking it. I’ll tell her editor, let’s see, that would be Patsy She can work it through with Heather.”

“Just like that?” Jake asked.

“Well, we’ve got to move on. How else would you like us to handle it, Jake, if not by vote?”

“Maybe we should hear what the writer has to say, why she feels this is an important story. Or just trust the writer and editor to work it out.”

Jess’s eyes implored Jake not to pursue it. “Our job is to represent the multicultural aspect of the issue. We’re looking out for the overall effect on the gay community. Besides, it’s only a recommendation.”

“What he’s saying, Jake,” Clarence interjected, “is that we’re the censorship committee. Get used to it. Killing stories is what we do here. It’s only a recommendation,’ but of the dozens of recommendations we’ve made in my six months on this committee, every single one has been followed. Correct me if I’m wrong.”