A Black Quixote

A Black Quixote

To each his Dulcinea…

Though she’s naught but flame and air!

—Man of La Mancha, lyrics by Joe Darion

You may remember this advice I received from my training officer.

“Black guys can have a lot of hate in them. You’re gonna meet some who would be happy to chop your head off.”

To make his point, he assigned me Jesse Coleman. I learned from Jesse’s case that justice varies with time, place, presiding, judge, even which attorneys, but that was not the full lesson. It was several years later when Chinanu Rozier taught me the rest. How the hate festers and corrupts. How it can twist morality, can justify perjury. Or worse. I inherited him from an officer who left for another job. His offense was possession of stolen property. He sold property stolen in home burglaries. Experience told me persons involved in nonviolent economic crimes rarely change. I expected he would be a problem. He wasn’t. He was too smart.

* * *

On top of his file was a letter from a probation officer in Palm Beach County. Rozier had been there a few weeks before, testifying in a trial. The officer wanted to know if we granted him permission to leave Dade County. He also wondered if we knew the defendant was Rozier’s cousin. I found no entry in the case notes granting Rozier permission to leave the county. I went to his address; he wasn’t there. I left word for him to contact me the next day. He did and I told him to come in.

He was average size, close-cropped black hair, silver chain with a closed-fist “resist” pendant around his neck. He wore sharply creased black slacks, a green-and-white-checkered short-sleeved shirt, two buttons left open revealing the pendant, gold wristwatch, and manicured nails. He sat down across from my desk, rested his elbows on his thighs. Leaning forward, he fixed on me an intense stare and asked, “What’s this about?”

“About you being in Palm Beach County without permission. You were there, right?”

“Yes, and I came back. That’s obvious. So, I asked again what’s this about?”

“Why you left without asking permission.”

“I tried. I called here. Twice. Left a message. He never answered, so I went. And I came back. What’s the problem?”

He spoke in a calm voice, made eye contact, his sarcasm subtle, but I could feel his anger. “Why did you go?”

“My cousin got jammed up over some robbery of a 7-Eleven. They were trying to put him away. Couldn’t let him go down like that so I helped him out.”

“How did you help?”

“Told them he was with me down here. Worked too. They let him go.”

“Was he with you, here?”

A subtle sardonic smile crossed his face. “That’s what I told them.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I know. But the Fifth Amendment applies to me. Even if I am black. Or at least that’s what you guys want us to believe.”

I sat back in my chair. If I tried to violate him for leaving without permission, the defense would immediately point out that he came back voluntarily. As for what he did, if it was perjury, it happened in Palm Beach County. Nothing the Dade judge can do unless there was a Palm Beach conviction.

Our eyes locked. I could almost hear him say, You can’t violate me, and we both know it. “Okay, you win that round. Well played. But, call it professional curiosity, I would like to know more, off the record.”

“More what?”

“More about how you feel. And why.” I put away his file. Laid my casebook on the floor. Put my pen in the desk drawer. “Just you and me, man to man. You have the courage for that?”

He raised his eyebrows. Then his eyes narrowed. His gaze went to my desk drawer.

“No, I’m not Nixon. There are no recording devices here. But if it makes you feel better, I acknowledge that any recording cannot be used against you in any probation violation hearing.”

He stared at me for several seconds. “Can I close the door?”

“Go ahead.”

He went to the door, looked outside. Satisfied no one was there, he closed it. He sat down, leaned back in his chair, put his fingertips together in front of him.

I asked, “You really think I had somebody listening?”

“Sure. The white liberal is more deceitful than the white conservative. Anyway, mänō ä mänō?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll deny this conversation ever took place.”

“It didn’t.”

He put his index fingers on his nose, lowered his head slightly, glared.

“I’ve got more courage in my little toe than you can imagine, whitey. We all do. You guys have been killing and raping us for four hundred years. We couldn’t have lived through that without courage.”

“Slavery was an evil thing. But no one alive is a slave or ever owned one. What do you gain by dragging the past around with you?”

“Incentive. A spur to prick the sides of my intent.”

My surprise at hearing Shakespeare must have been obvious and hurtful.

“Us niggers, we ain’t ’sposed to be speaking no white man’s English, now is we?”

“I was surprised because you are a high school dropout, right?”

He put his elbows on his knees, never moved his fingers, leaned forward. “Damn straight, whitey. Smart enough to know bullshit when I hear it. But then niggers are dumb as a rock, right? We’re supposed to swallow this liberty-and-justice-for-all crap without question.”

“Did you go back to school? You sound like you did.”

“You mean I sound like an uppity nigger.”

“No, I mean exactly what I said. You speak like you had the benefit of a good education.”

“My alma mater was books. Most of us can read despite the fact that once it was illegal to teach us how. Took a war to change that.” He sat back, rested his arms in the chair arms.

“Times change. So do techniques. Note Dr. King’s nonviolent protest.”

“Worthless! He was a Sambo. It is criminal to teach a man not to defend himself when he is the constant victim of brutal attacks of white oppression.”

The phrase had a familiar ring. Then I remembered. “You’ve read Malcom X?”

“Every word.”

“So, your history justifies robbery and perjury?”

“Yes. But more importantly, those ideas are white constructs, legal and moral principles designed to keep the black man down. That store in Palm Beach is an example. It was in our neighborhood. A white devil owned it, charged twice as much at that store as he did at his store in the white neighborhood. But we’re expected to be grateful for his exploitation. Like he did us a favor by allowing us to buy from him.”

“Okay, you’re bitter, angry, resentful, filled with hate. You use that as motivation. To do what?”

“Throw you bastards out, every white devil we can lay our hands on. Gone, one way or another. This is our land. We farmed it. We built what’s on it. Millions of us are buried on it. We’re going to take it; one way or another.”

“Not going to happen.”

He put his index finger on his cheek. Stared at me for several seconds. Then as if addressing a student, “Perhaps not. But a man does not fight merely to win.”

“Why do you fight?”

“Because you hate us.” He leaned forward, interlocked his fingers. The veins in his neck and his arms bulged. Breathing hard, he snarled, “We see it, feel it, hear it, every fucking day from every damn one of you.” He glared at me for a few seconds. Then looked away and muttered under his breath, “Enough bullshit.” He looked back at me and in a conversational tone said, “Can I go now?”

“One more question. What hate have I shown?”

“You dragged me in here hoping to send me to prison for helping my cousin.”

“Your cousin committed a robbery.”

“No, he only took what was rightfully ours, as we all will. Now, can I go?”

“Sure.”

He left my office door open. In a few seconds, I heard applause coming from the waiting room. I went to see what was happening. There were two other blacks in the waiting room. Rozier was standing at the street door, facing inside, his left arm raised, his fist clenched. He shouted, “Never give up the struggle, brothers!”

* * *

That was the only meaningful conversation I had with him. For the rest of the eighteen months of his probation, he reported as instructed. His answers were brief. I had to prompt him for any additional details. He went through several jobs, usually fired because he saw other black employees as possible converts. Most resented his recruiting, complained to management. I learned that only from discussion with his employers. His explanation was that his employers disliked him personally.

On the last day of his probation, he came in. Said he wanted a certificate of discharge. I pointed out that such a document came from the clerk. He still wanted a letter from me. “Just being sure I never have to come here again.”

“I’ll mail it to you.”

“I’m here now. You have some wage slaves up front. Assign one of them to type it for you.”

I did as he asked. When I handed him the letter, he raised his left arm, fist balled, “May we never meet again, honky.”

We didn’t. Nor would I remember him for several years.

My wife and I saw the film version of Man of La Mancha sometime in the eighties. She suggested that Malcolm X was a kind of Don Quixote. With that remark, I remembered Chinanu Rozier and immediately saw the similarity. Now, whenever I hear any of that music, I am reminded of Rozier. He had his Dulcinea, and she was “only flame and air.” His “Impossible Dream” never came true. Did he regard his life as a failure? Or did he feel the pursuit of his dream was sufficient? Will his heart “lie peaceful and calm” when he’s laid to his rest?

I hope so.