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The Color of Heaven, 1961


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Thirteen African-Americans had been rotting in a Chicago prison for two weeks now. What had been their crime? It happened on a sunny Monday afternoon; it was 3pm, and the city was gently bustling. The thirteen black men had met up outside a diner, and steeled their nerves together. They knew each other well, as they all came from the same parish. They had eaten together the day before, sharing fried chicken around a long table set with a white tablecloth after the Sunday service. It was during that meal that they had collectively decided to take a stand for their rights. And so they walked into the diner and sat down on the fake red leather stools, at the bar that shone like the grill of a Chevy or around little Formica tables, and ordered cups of coffee. The white clientele grimaced at seeing a troupe of African-Americans desecrating their favorite diner. One woman almost choked on her donut, and powdered sugar sprayed from her nostrils. She looked like a cartoon bull, thought one of the thirteen rebels. A little girl knocked over her vanilla milkshake, but was too stunned to cry at its loss. She had lost her appetite. Her mother wrapped her arms around the girl, shielding her from the indecency. Finally, a big man with a blond moustache and thinning hair stood up. He rolled up his sleeves and pulled up his pants, ready to fight. The thirteen black men did not react, remaining impassive, calm and pacifist. All they wanted was a nice cup of coffee on a Monday afternoon.

 

“What the hell’s going on here?” cried the owner of the diner. “Could someone tell me why there are colored folks in my restaurant?” he went on, louder. A waitress called the police to come and put a stop to the whole circus. The cops were soon on the scene. They swaggered like cowboys, hands on their pistols. They were hard men, and what they said was law. Two German shepherds were leashed by their sides, baring their teeth. The thirteen black men turned as one. They had crossed their arms, their expressions stony. “We’re staying here,” one of them said. The cops released their dogs. One particularly keen officer dealt the first blow with his nightstick. Another fired randomly to scare the intruders, shattering the milkshake machine. A dog jumped at one of the men and sank its teeth into his cheek. He struggled silently against the animal, refusing to cry out in pain. The little girl began to cry. The man with the mustache sat down again, aghast. One woman even protested: “My God, such violence! You can’t treat people like that!” Her voice was shaky, but resolute. A few minutes later, the thirteen men had been handcuffed and were escorted from the diner, their shirts torn and their faces bloodied. Still they refused to make a sound. The cops escorted them proudly to the wagon. They were heroes. “Nice work, fellas!” said the manager, wiping milkshake off the counter.

 

It had been over two weeks since the scene unfolded. Edward Hann could not sit idly by. He would not allow the police to act with impunity. He had a brother, a cousin and a longtime friend behind bars right now. He had no doubt they were being abused, starved and deprived of water. Of course, no-one could get in to see how they were doing. No one knew when they would get out. Their wives were sick with worry, pacing their floors and trying to reassure sobbing children. The image stuck in his throat. The poor men were at the mercy of the police, and there were people who would like nothing better than to get at them in prison. Thinking of all this, he made a sign and threw it in the trunk of his car, then set off in the direction of the diner. He had taken the time to make a few calls in order to gather as many people as possible to call for the thirteen rebels to be freed.

 

Around twenty men and women, black and white, protested outside the diner. Their signs read “AMERICA FOR ALL,” “GOD CREATED WHITES AND BLACKS,” and “NO COLOUR LINES IN HEAVEN.” Behind the counter, a waitress was picking up the phone again.

 

Alan Alfredo Geday

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