by Sylvester Brown, Jr.
The last
time I spoke with Uncle Ray, I was writing for the St. Louis Post Dispatch,
more than 15 years ago. When first writing about him, in 2000, I explained that
his name was a euphemism for “racism.” I compared it/him to a crazy old uncle that
kin folk hide in the basement when company is over who invariably comes out and
shows his ugly, vile, racist side to everybody. Talking with Ray has been all at once liberating,
frustrating, and depressing. But I cherish our conversations. Instead
of allowing it to eat me up, devour my mind and soul, I can release these feelings with racism.
Recently,
while rousing from a deep sleep, I heard that familiar raspy voice:
“Wake up,
boy. I’m ba-aack!”
“Uncle
Ray,” I reply groggily, “what brings you around?”
“Ain’tcha been watching the news? I been
scoring victory after VIC-TO-RY!”
I knew what the bastard was talking about. That
night, I read where 18-year-old Kyle Rittenhouse had
been exonerated for shooting three men during a Black Lives Matter protest in Kenosha, Wisconsin. The teen, whose mother
drove him across state lines with a loaded semi-automatic, AR-15 rifle claimed
he went to Kenosha to protect businesses from being vandalized and provide medical aid.
Reportedly, out of the 12 jurors and eight alternates, only one
was a person of color.
“Did
ya see what I did there, sonny? Did you see how I had my judge, Brucey,
fix things during the trial?
Yeah, I knew. I was
sickened by Judge Bruce Schroeder’s declaration to the prosecutors that the
people Rittenhouse shot couldn’t be referred
to as “victims” but the defense could indeed characterize them as “looters” or
“arsonists.”
A novice would have
concluded that allowing the jurors to hear this and give a defense witness a
round of applause, supposedly because it was Veteran’s Day, was a clear endorsement
of the type of “patriotism” Rittenhouse represented. That sentiment was highlighted
when Schroeder's cellphone briefly chirped with the ringtone “God Bless the U.S.A., a favorite ditty played during former President
Donald Trump’s rallies.
“Did ya see what I did there, sonny? Did you see how I had my judge, Brucey, fix things during the trial?
“It was downright magical…hee,
hee, ha, ha!” Ray brayed. “It was like the glory days back in good ole’
Mississippi: Innocence by a like-minded judge and a sympathetic jury.”
“Yeah,” I responded
sarcastically, “like in 1955 when you selected an all-white jury to exonerate Emmett Till's killers.”
Ray abruptly stopped laughing and looked at
me curiously.
“Seems to me you don’t see the brilliance in my
moves, boy.”
“You mean Trump, his
followers and the rebirth of racism,” I answered. “Yeah, I see it and I guess
it is 'genius'...in a Hitler-ish kinda way.”
Ray again burst into
laughter:
“Hee, hee. Ha, ha. You killin’
me, son, you are kill-in’ me! You being so melodramatic and all...you’re
missing the genius of my moves these past few decades. Trump wasn’t the start;
he was just a part of my long-term strategery.
“See, you and the rest of
them lily-livered liberals thought ya’ll accomplished something when ya’ll
elected that Nig, Obama. What ya’ll really did was scare white folks; made ‘em think ya’ll was looking for a little git’-back. Shoot, all I
had ta do was use the Intranets and Fox News to speak their fears out loud, whip
‘em into a frenzy, validate what they wuz already holding inside. They just
needed a little proddin’ that’s all. They just needed to hear ‘this here’s the
white man’s country…forever and a day.' God
Bless the U.S.A., know whatI’msayin’? Ha, ha!”
Ray was winning the “argument” if you can call it that. As incredulous as it seems, racism is again mainstream. A vile, sexist, and racist con man was indeed elected president. He won despite using racist tropes to stir up his base. He referred to Neo-Nazis as, “very fine people” after they marched with tiki torches shouting, “Jews will not replace us.”
Since Trump’s victory, other elected racist extremists are loudly and proudly pushing bodacious,
not-so-subtle legislation aimed at snatching the voting rights away from people
of color.
"You’re missing the genius of my moves these past few decades. Trump wasn’t the start; he was just a part of my long-term strategery."
As if reading my mind, Ray
speaks with mock compassion:
“Did it shake you to the
core to see my loyal minions carrying the Confederate flag as they stormed the Capitol
to overturn that sham election?”
I respond bitterly:
“You mean that group of crazies
who pissed and wiped their feces on the walls while beating Capitol police and
threatening to lynch the vice president because he wouldn’t endorse Trump’s
lies ? It was sickening but not shocking?”
“Did it shake you to the core to see my loyal minions carrying the Confederate flag as they stormed the Capitol to overturn that sham election?”
“Whatcha mean, boy?” Ray
replies, seemingly disappointed.
“Because you’re right,” I answer
resolutely. “I been watching you, studying you. This outcome, our state
of affairs; its predictable. We are where we’ve been before. But, if you
recall, we’ve kicked your ass before, too. You may have scored a victory with Rittenhouse,
but you got your ass stomped in the Ahmaud Arbery case. Those crackers who
thought they could also claim “self-defense” after chasing and shooting a black
jogger got a taste of swift justice when they were found 'guilty.' And
remember, buddy, there was only one black juror in that trial, too.
"You see, in your
arrogance, you always go too far. You always go to a point of revulsion. It’s just a matter of time before one of your political
loonies, like Boebert,
Greene or Gosar, does something that reinforces the danger of radical
racism or leads to something even deadlier than Rittenhouse’s crime. Soon,
my old rabid enemy, you’re gonna slip up…again.”
It
looks as if Ray is seriously pondering my words. As if flipping through a mental
rolodex of racism’s rise and decline over the centuries, he stares at
me long and hard. Then, a nasty snaggle-tooth grin slowly spreads across his
face.
“Almost had me there for a second, sonny. Had me thinking my moves were mistakes when they wasn’t. That was jus’ me messing wit’ ya’ll’s minds…making ya’ll think you was making…let’s see what’s that word…oh yeah, 'progress!'
I gives a little to get a lot, knowwhatImean? Again, as Bushy put it 'strategery!'
“Rest on that for a while, boy. I got’s things ta do. The midterms next year and the return of my prodigy in ’24…lots and lots ta do.
"Meanwhile, you gone back to sleep now and keep...hee, hee...hope alive. Hate to break it to ya, boy, but you got a long wait a-coming.”
With
that, Ray disappears. I try to go back to sleep but, in my mind, I hear a
familiar refrain:
“Whoop, whoop.”
Sylvester Brown Jr. is a St. Louis-based writer and author of three books. Two "Uncle Ray" essays have been re-published in his book of short stories, "White Castles with Jesus & Uncle Ray at the Used Tire Shop.
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