So according to the running tickertape on ENews... Michael Richards has arranged to meet with Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton. He has also hired a PR expert to help him with this problem. There are two SEVERELY key issues with these statements....
First, WHO ARE JESSE JACKSON AND AL SHARPTON? How is calling them up to apologize helping

The Sheriff's Children by Charles W. Chestnut

The Sheriff's Children

----------------

The Independent, November 7, 1889
THE SHERIFF'S CHILDREN

BY CHARLES W. CHESNUTT.


So as another form of exercise reading and writing, I have picked up "The Best Short Stories by Negro Writers." The first story was written by Charles W. Chesnutt and was entitled "The Sheriff's Children". The FULL TEXT of the story is posted below. The story is about a sheriff as a person mostly. You see him in his role in the city, his role in the household, and his role in the life of an innocent prisoner. The ending is quite interesting considering the dialog between the sheriff and the prisoner. It being a short story I don't quite know how to respond to it. It is a good short read.


Here's the story...


BRANSON COUNTY, North Carolina, is in a sequestered district of one of the staidest and most conservative States of the Union. Society in Branson County is almost primitive in its simplicity. Most of the white people own their own farms, and even before the War there were no very wealthy families to force their neighbors, by comparison, into the category of "poor whites."

To Branson County, as to most rural communities in the South, the War is the one historical event that overshadows all others. It is the era from which all local chronicles are dated--births, deaths, marriages, storms, freshets. No description of the life of any Southern community would be perfect that failed to emphasize the all-pervading influence of the great conflict.

And yet the fierce tide of war that had rushed through the cities and along the great highways of the country, had, comparatively speaking, but slightly disturbed the sluggish current of life in this region remote from railroads and navigable streams. To the north in Virginia, to the west in Tennessee, and all along the seaboard the war had raged; but the thunder of its cannon had not disturbed the echoes of Branson County, where the loudest sounds heard were the crack of some hunter's rifle, the baying of some deep-mouthed hound, or the yodel of some tuneful Negro on his way through the pine forest. To the east, Sherman's army had passed on its march to the sea; but no straggling band of "bummers" had penetrated the confines of Branson County. The war, it is true, had robbed the county of the flower of its young manhood; but the burden of taxation, the doubt and uncertainty of the conflict, and the sting of ultimate defeat, had been borne by the people with an apathy that robbed misfortune of half its sharpness.

The nearest approach to town life afforded by Branson County is found in the little village of Troy, the county-seat, a hamlet with a population of four or five hundred.

Ten years make little difference in the appearance of these remote Southern towns. If a railroad is built through one of them, it infuses some enterprise; the social corpse is galvanized by the fresh blood of civilization that pulses along the farthest ramifications of our great system of commercial highways. At the period of which I write, no railroad had come to Troy. If a traveler, accustomed to the bustling life of cities, could have ridden through Troy on a summer day, he might easily have fancied himself in a deserted village. Around him he would have seen weather-beaten houses, innocent of paint, the shingled roofs in many instances covered with a rich growth of moss. Here and there he would have met a razor-backed hog lazily rooting his way along the principal thoroughfare; and more than once be would probably have had to disturb the slumbers of some yellow dog, dozing away the hours in the ardent sunshine, and reluctantly yielding up his place in the middle of the dusty road.

On Saturdays the village presented a somewhat livelier appearance, and the shade-trees around the court-house square and along Front Street served as hitching-posts for a goodly number of horses and mules and stunted oxen, belonging to the farmer-folk who had come in to trade at the two or three local stores.

A murder was a rare event in Branson County. Every well-informed citizen could tell the number of homicides committed in the county for fifty years back, and whether the slayer, in any given instance, had escaped, either by flight or acquittal, or had suffered the penalty of the law. So, when it became known in Troy early one Friday morning in summer, about ten years after the war, that old Captain Walker, who had served in Mexico under Scott, and had left an arm on the field of Gettysburg, had been foully murdered during the night, there was intense excitement in the village. Business was practically suspended, and the citizens gathered in little groups to discuss the murder, and speculate upon the identity of the murderer. It transpired from testimony at the coroner's inquest, held during the morning, that a strange mulatto had been seen going in the direction of Captain Walker's house the night before, and had been met going away from Troy early Friday morning, by a farmer on his way to town. Other circumstances seemed to connect the stranger with the crime. The sheriff organized a posse to search for him, and early in the evening, when most of the citizens of Troy were at supper, the suspected man was brought in and lodged in the county jail.

By the following morning the news of the capture had spread to the farthest limits of the county. A much larger number of people than usual came to town that Saturday--bearded men in straw hats and blue homespun shirts, and butternut trousers of great amplitude of material and vagueness of outline; women in homespun frocks and slat-bonnets, with faces as expressionless as the dreary sandhills which gave them a meagre sustenance.

The murder was almost the sole topic of conversation. A steady stream of curious observers visited the house of mourning, and gazed upon the rugged face of the old veteran, now stiff and cold in death; and more than one eye dropped a tear at the remembrance of the cheery smile, and the joke--sometimes superannuated, generally feeble, but always good-natured--with which the captain had been wont to greet his acquaintances. There was a growing sentiment of anger among these stern men, toward the murderer who had thus cut down their friend, and a strong feeling that ordinary justice was too slight a punishment for such a crime

Toward noon there was an informal gathering of citizens in Dan Tyson's store.

"I hear it 'lowed that Square Kyahtah's too sick ter hole co'te this evenin'," said one, "an' that the purlim'nary hearin' 'll haf ter go over tel nex' week."

A look of disappointment went round the crowd.

"Hit 's the durndes', meanes' murder ever committed in this caounty," said another, with moody emphasis.

"I s'pose the Nigger 'lowed the Cap'n had some greenbacks," observed a third speaker.

"The Cap'n," said another, with an air of superior information, "has left two bairls of Confedrit money, which he 'spected 'ud be good some day er nuther."

This statement gave rise to a discussion of the speculative value of Confederate money; but in a little while the conversation returned to the murder.

"Hangin' air too good fer the murderer," said one; "he oughter be burnt, stidier bein' hung."

There was an impressive pause at this point, during which a jug of moonlight whiskey went the round of the crowd.

"Well," said a round-shouldered farmer, who, in spite of his peaceable expression and faded gray eye, was known to have been one of the most daring followers of a rebel guerrilla chieftain, "what air yer gwine ter do about it? Ef you fellers air gwine ter set down an' let a wuthless Nigger kill the bes' white man in Branson, an' not say nuthin' ner do nuthin', I 'll move outen the caounty."

This speech gave tone and direction to the rest of the conversation. Whether the fear of losing the round-shouldered farmer operated to bring about the result or not is immaterial to this narrative; but, at all events, the crowd decided to lynch the Negro. They agreed that this was the least that could be done to avenge the death of their murdered friend, and that it was a becoming way in which to honor his memory. They had some vague notions of the majesty of the law and the rights of the citizen, but in the passion of the moment these sunk into oblivion; a white man had been killed by a Negro.

"The Cap'n was an ole sodger," said one of his friends, solemnly. "He 'll sleep better when he knows that a co'te-martial has be'n hilt an' jestice done."

By agreement the lynchers were to meet at Tyson's store at five o'clock in the afternoon, and proceed thence to the jail, which was situated down the Lumberton Dirt Road (as the old turnpike antedating the plank-road was called), about half a mile south of the court-house. When the preliminaries of the lynching had been arranged, and a committee appointed to manage the affair, the crowd dispersed, some to go to their dinners, and some to quietlysecure recruits for the lynching party.

It was twenty minutes to five o'clock, when an excited Negro, panting and perspiring, rushed up to the back door of Sheriff Campbell's dwelling, which stood at a little distance from the jail and somewhat farther than the latter building from the court house. A turbaned colored woman came to the door in response to the egro's knock.

"Hoddy, Sis' Nance."

"Hoddy, Brer Sam."

"Is de shurff in," inquired the Negro.

"Yas, Brer Sam, he's eatin' his dinner," was the answer.

"Will yer ax 'im ter step ter de do' a minute, Sis' Nance?"

The woman went into the dining-room, and a moment later the sheriff came to the door. He was a tall, muscular man, of a ruddier complexion than is usual among Southerners. A pair of keen, deep-set gray eyes looked out from under bushy eye-brows, and about his mouth was a masterful expression, which a full beard, once sandy in color, but now profusely sprinkled with gray, could not entirely conceal. The day was hot; the sheriff had discarded his coat and vest, and had his white shirt open at the throat.

"What do you want, Sam?" he inquired of the Negro, who stood hat in hand, wiping the moisture from his face with a ragged shirt-sleeve.

"Shurff, dey gwine ter hang de pris'ner w'at's lock' up in de jail. Dey 're comin' dis a-way now. I wuz layin' down on a sack er corn down at de sto', behine a pile er flour-bairls, w'en I hearn Doc' Cain en Kunnel Wright talkin' erbout it. I slip' outen de back do', en run here as fas' as I could. I hearn you say down ter de sto' once't dat you wouldn't let nobody take a pris'ner 'way fum you widout walkin' over yo' dead body, en I thought I'd let you know 'fo dey come, so yer could pertec' de pris'ner."

The sheriff listened calmly, but his face grew firmer, and a determined gleam lit up his gray eyes. His frame grew more erect, and he unconsciously assumed the attitude of a soldier who momentarily expects to meet the enemy face to face.

"Much obliged, Sam," he answered. "I'll protect the prisoner. Who 's coming?"

"I dunno who-all is comin'," replied the Negro. "Dere's Mistah McSwayne, en Doc' Cain, en Maje' McDonal', en Kunnel Wright, en a heap er yuthers. I wuz so skeered I done furgot mo'd'n half un em. I spec' dey mus' be mos' here by dis time, so I'll git outen de way; fer I doan want nobody fer ter think I wuz mix' up in dis business." The Negro glanced nervously down the road toward the town, and made a movement as if to go away.

"Won't you have some dinner first?" asked the sheriff.

The Negro looked longingly in at the open door, and sniffed the appetizing odor of boiled pork and collards.

"I ain't got no time fer ter tarry, Shurff," he said, "but Sis' Nance mought gin me sump'n I could kyar in my han' en eat on de way."

A moment later Nancy brought him a huge sandwich, consisting of split corn-pone, with a thick slice of fat bacon inserted between the halves, and a couple of baked yams. The Negro hastily replaced his ragged hat on his head, dropped the yams in the pocket of his capacious trousers, and taking the sandwich in his hand, hurried across the road and disappeared in the woods beyond.

The sheriff re-entered the house, and put on his coat and hat. He then took down a double-barreled shot-gun and loaded it with buckshot. Filling the chambers of a revolver with fresh cartridges, he slipped it into the pocket of the sack-coat which he wore.

A comely young woman in a calico dress watched these proceedings with anxious surprise.

"Where are you goin’, Pa," she asked. She had not heard the conversation with the Negro.

"I am goin' over to the jail," responded the sheriff. "There's a mob comin' this way to lynch the Nigger we've got locked up. But they won't do it," he added, with emphasis.

"Oh, Pa! don't go!" pleaded the girl, clinging to his arm; "they'll shoot you if you don't give him up."

"You never mind me, Polly," said her father re-assuringly, as he gently unclasped her hands from his arm. " I'll take care of myself and the prisoner, too. There ain't a man in Branson County that would shoot me. Besides, I have faced fire too often to be scared away from my duty. You keep close in the house," he continued, "and if any one disturbs you just use the old horse-pistol in the top bureau drawer. It 's a little old-fashioned, but it did good work a few years ago."

The young girl shuddered at this sanguinary allusion, but made no further objection to her father's departure.

The sheriff of Branson was a man far above the average of the community in wealth, education and social position. His had been one of the few families in the county that before the war had owned large estates and numerous slaves. He had graduated at the State University at Chapel Hill, and had kept up some acquaintance with current literature and advanced thought. He had traveled some in his youth, and was looked up to in the county as an authority on all subjects connected with the outer world. At first an ardent supporter of the Union, he had opposed the secession movement in his native State as long as opposition availed to stem the tide of public opinion. Yielding at last to the force of circumstances, he had entered the Confederate service rather late in the war, and served with distinction through several campaigns, rising in time to the rank of colonel. After the war he had taken the oath of allegiance, and had been chosen by the people as the most available candidate for the office of sheriff, to which he had been elected without opposition. He had filled the office for several terms, and was universally popular with his constituents.

Colonel. or Sheriff Campbell, as he was indifferently called, as the military or civil title happened to be most important in the opinion of the person addressing him, had a high sense of the responsibility attaching to his office. He had sworn to do his duty faithfully, and he knew what his duty was, as sheriff, perhaps more clearly than he had apprehended it in other passages of his life. It was, therefore, with no uncertainty in regard to his course that he prepared his weapons and went over to the jail. He had no fears for Polly's safety. [End Page 30]

The sheriff had just locked the heavy front door of the jail behind him when a half-dozen horsemen, followed by a crowd of men on foot, came round a bend in the road and drew near the jail. They halted in front of the picket fence that surrounded the building, while several of the committee of arrangements rode on a few rods farther to the sheriff's house. One of them dismounted and rapped on the door with his riding-whip.

"Is the sheriff at home?" he inquired.

"No, he has just gone out," replied Polly, who had come to the door.

"We want the jail keys," he continued.

"They are not here," said Polly. "The sheriff has them himself." And then she added, with assumed indifference, "He is at the jail now."

The man turned away, and Polly went into the front room, from which she peered anxiously between the slats of the green blinds of a window that looked toward the jail. Meanwhile the messenger returned to his companions and announced his discovery. It looked as tho the sheriff had got wind of their design and was preparing to resist it.

One of them stepped forward and rapped on the jail door.

"Well, what is it?" said the sheriff, from within.

"We want to talk to you, Sheriff," replied the spokesman.

There was a little wicket in the door, this the sheriff opened, and answered through it.

"All right, boys, talk away. You are all strangers to me, and I don't know what business you can have." The sheriff did not think it necessary to recognize anybody in particular on such an occasion; the question of identity sometimes comes up in the investigation of these extra-judicial executions.

"We're a committee of citizens and we want to get into the jail."

"What for? It ain't much trouble to get into jail. Most people are anxious to keep out."

The mob was in no humor to appreciate a joke, and the sheriff's witticism fell dead upon an unresponsive audience.

"We want to have a talk with the Nigger that killed Cap'n Walker."

"You can talk to that Nigger in the court-house, when he 's brought out for trial. Court will be in session here next week. I know what you fellows want; but you can't get my prisoner to-day. Do you want to take the bread out of a poor man's mouth? I get seventy-five cents a day for keeping this prisoner, and he’s the only one in jail. I can't have my family suffer just to please you fellows."

One or two young men in the crowd laughed at the idea of Sheriff Campbell's suffering for want of seventy-five cents a day; but they were frowned into silence by those who stood near them.

"Ef yer don't let us in," cried a voice, "we'll bu's' the do' open."

"Bu'st away," answered the sheriff, raising his voice so that all could hear. "But I give you fair warning. The first man that tries it will be filled with buckshot. I'm sheriff of this county, and I know my duty, and I mean to do it."

"What's the use of kicking, Sheriff," argued one of the leaders of the mob. "The Nigger is sure to hang anyhow; he richly deserves it; and we 've got to do something to teach the Niggers their places, or white people won't be able to live in the county."

"There 's no use talking, boys," responded the sheriff. "I'm a white man outside, but in this jail I'm sheriff; and if this Nigger's to be hung in this county, I propose to do the hanging. So you fellows might as well right-about-face, and march back to Troy. You've had a pleasant trip, and the exercise will be good for you. You know me. I've got powder and ball, and I've faced fire before now, with nothing between me and the enemy, and I don't mean to surrender this jail while I 'm able to shoot." Having thus announced his determination the sheriff closed and fastened the wicket, and looked around for the best position from which to defend the building.

The crowd drew off a little, and the leaders conversed together in low tones.

The Branson County jail was a small, two-story brick building, strongly constructed, with no attempt at architectural ornamentation. Each story was divided into two large cells by a passage running from front to rear. A grated iron door gave entrance from the passage to each of the four cells. The jail seldom had many prisoners in it, and the lower windows had been boarded up. When the sheriff had closed the wicket, he ascended the steep wooden stair to the upper floor. There was no window at the front of the upper passage, and the most available position from which to watch the movements of the crowd below was the front window of the cell occupied by the solitary prisoner.

The sheriff unlocked the door and entered the cell. The prisoner was crouched in a corner, his yellow face, blanched with terror, looking ghastly in the semi-darkness of the room. A cold perspiration had gathered on his forehead, and his teeth were chattering with affright.

"For God's sake, Sheriff," he murmured hoarsely, "don't let 'em lynch me; I didn’t kill the old man."

The sheriff glanced at the cowering wretch with a look of mingled contempt and loathing.

"Get up," he said sharply. "You will probably be hung sooner or later, but it will not be to-day, if I can help it. I will unlock your fetters, and if I can't hold the jail, you will have to make the best fight you can. If I am shot, I will consider my responsibility at an end."

There were iron fetters on the prisoner's ankles, and handcuffs on his wrist. These the sheriff unlocked, and they fell clanking to the floor.

"Keep back from the window," said the sheriff. "They might shoot if they saw you."

The sheriff drew toward the window a pine bench which formed a part of the scanty furniture of the cell, and laid his revolver upon it. Then he took his gun in hand, and took his stand at the side of the window where he could with least exposure of himself watch the movements of the crowd below.

The lynchers had not anticipated any determined resistance. Of course they had looked for a formal protest, and perhaps a sufficient show of opposition to excuse the sheriff in the eye of any stickler for legal formalities. But they had not come prepared to fight a battle, and no one of them seemed willing to lead an attack upon the jail. The leaders of the party conferred together with a good deal of animated gesticulation, which was visible to the sheriff from his outlook, tho the distance was too great for him to hear what was said. At length one of them broke away from the group, and rode back to the main body of the lynchers, who were restlessly awaiting orders.

"Well, boys," said the messenger, "we'll have to let it go for the present. The sheriff says he'll shoot, and he's got the drop on us this time. There ain't any of us that want to follow Cap'n Walker jest yet. Besides, the sheriff is a good fellow, and we don't want to hurt 'im. But," he added, as if to re-assure the crowd, which began to show signs of disappointment, "the Nigger might as well say his prayers, for he ain't got long to live."

There was a murmur of dissent from the mob, and several voices insisted that an attack be made on the jail. But pacific counsels finally prevailed, and the mob sullenly withdrew.

The sheriff stood at the window until they had disappeared around the bend in the road. He did not relax his watchfulness when the last one was out of sight. Their withdrawal might be a mere feint, to be followed by a further attempt. So closely, indeed, was his attention drawn to the outside, that he neither saw nor heard the prisoner creep stealthily across the floor, reach out his hand and secure the revolver which lay on the bench behind the sheriff, and creep as noiselessly back to his place in the corner of the room.

A moment after the last of the lynching party had disappeared there was a shot fired from the woods across the road; a bullet whistled by the window and buried itself in the wooden casing a few inches from where the sheriff was standing. Quick as thought, with the instinct born of a semi-guerrilla army experience, he raised his gun and fired twice at the point from which a faint puff of smoke showed the hostile bullet to have been sent. He stood a moment watching, and then rested his gun against the window, and reached behind him mechanically for the other weapon. It was not on the bench. As the sheriff realized this fact, he turned his head and looked into the muzzle of the revolver.

"Stay where you are, Sheriff," said the prisoner, his eyes glistening, his face almost ruddy with excitement.

The sheriff mentally cursed his own carelessness for allowing him to be caught in such a predicament. He had not expected anything of the kind. He had relied on the Negro's cowardice and subordination in the presence of an armed white man as a matter of course. The sheriff was a brave man, but realized that the prisoner had him at an immense disadvantage. The two men stood thus for a moment, fighting a harmless duel with their eyes.

"Well, what do you mean to do?" asked the sheriff, with apparent calmness.

"To get away, of course," said the prisoner, in a tone which caused the sheriff to look at him more closely, and with an involuntary feeling of apprehension; if the man was not mad, he was in a state of mind akin to madness, and quite as dangerous. The sheriff felt that he must speak the prisoner fair, and watch for a chance to turn the tables on him. The keen-eyed, desperate man before him was a different being altogether from the groveling wretch who had begged so piteously for life a few minutes before.

At length the sheriff spoke:

"Is this your gratitude to me for saving your life at the risk of my own? If I had not done so, you would now be swinging from the limb of some neighboring tree."

"True," said the prisoner, "you saved my life, but for how long? When you came in, you said Court would sit next week. When the crowd went away they said I had not long to live. It is merely a choice of two ropes."

"While there's life there's hope," replied the sheriff. He uttered this commonplace mechanically, while his brain was busy in trying to think out some way of escape. "If you are innocent you can prove it."

The mulatto kept his eye upon the sheriff. "I didn't kill the old man," he replied; "but I shall never be able to clear myself. I was at his house at nine o'clock. I stole from it the coat that was on my back when I was taken. I would be convicted, even with a fair trial, unless the real murderer were discovered beforehand."

The sheriff knew this only too well. While he was thinking what argument next to use, the prisoner continued:

"Throw me the keys--no, unlock the door."

The sheriff stood a moment irresolute. The mulatto's eye glittered ominously. The sheriff crossed the room and unlocked the door leading into the passage.

"Now go down and unlock the outside door."

The heart of the sheriff leaped within him. Perhaps he might make a dash for liberty, and gain the outside. He descended the narrow stair, the prisoner keeping close behind him.

The sheriff inserted the huge iron key into the lock. The rusty bolt yielded slowly. It still remained for him to pull the door open.

"Stop!" thundered the mulatto, who seemed to divine the sheriff's purpose. "Move a muscle, and I 'll blow your brains out."

The sheriff obeyed; he realized that his chance had not yet come.

"Now keep on that side of the passage, and go back up-stairs."

Keeping the sheriff in front of him, the mulatto followed the other up the stairs. The sheriff expected the prisoner to lock him into the cell and make his own escape. He had about come to the conclusion that the best thing he could do under the circumstances was to submit quietly, and take his chances of recapturing the prisoner after the alarm had been given. The sheriff had faced death more than once upon the battle-field. A few minutes before, well armed, and with a brick wall between him and them he had dared a hundred men to fight; but he felt instinctively that the desperate man in front of him was not to be trifled with, and he was too prudent a man to risk his life against such heavy odds. He had Polly to look after, and there was a limit beyond which devotion to duty would be quixotic and even foolish.

"I want to get away," said the prisoner, "and I don't want to be captured; for if I am, I know I will be hung on the spot. I am afraid," he added somewhat reflectively, "that in order to save myself I shall have to kill you."

"Good God!" exclaimed the sheriff, in involuntary terror; "you would not kill the man to whom you owe your own life."

"You speak more truly than you know," replied the mulatto. "I indeed owe my life to you."

The sheriff started. He was capable of surprise, even in that moment of extreme peril. "Who are you?" he asked in amazement.

"Tom, Cicely's son," returned the other. He had closed the door and stood talking to the sheriff through the grated opening. "Don't you remember Cicely--Cicely, whom you sold, with her child, to the speculator on his way to Alabama?"

The sheriff did remember. He had been sorry for it many a time since. It had been the old story of debts, mortgages and bad crops. He had quarreled with the mother. The price offered for her and her child had been unusually large, and he had yielded to the combination of anger and pecuniary stress.

"Good God!" he gasped, "you would not murder your own father?"

"My father?" replied the mulatto. "It were well enough for me to claim the relationship, but it comes with poor grace from you to ask anything by reason of it. What father's duty have you ever performed for me? Did you give me your name, or even your protection? Other white men gave their colored sons freedom and money, and sent them to the free States. You sold me to the rice swamps."

"I at least gave you the life you cling to," murmured the sheriff.

"Life?" said the prisoner, with a sarcastic laugh. "What kind of a life? You gave me your own blood, your own features--no man need look at us together twice to see that--and you gave me a black mother. Poor wretch! She died under the lash, because she had enough womanhood to call her soul her own. You gave me a white man's spirit, and you made me a slave, and crushed it out."

"But you are free now," said the sheriff. He had not doubted, could not doubt, the mulatto's word. He knew whose passions coursed beneath that swarthy skin and burned in the black eyes opposite his own. He saw in this mulatto what he himself might have become had not the safeguards of parental restraint and public opinion been thrown around him.

"Free to do what?" replied the mulatto. "Free in name, but despised and scorned and set aside by the people to whose race I belong far more than to that of my mother."

"There are schools," said the sheriff. "You have been to school." He had noticed that the mulatto spoke more eloquently and used better language than most Branson County people.

"I have been to school and dreamed when I went that it would work some marvelous change in my condition. But what did I learn? I learned to feel that no degree of learning or wisdom will change the color of my skin and that I shall always wear what in my own country is a badge of degradation. When I think about it seriously I do not care particularly for such a life. It is the animal [End Page 31] in me, not the man, that flees the gallows. I owe you nothing," he went on, "and expect nothing of you; and it would be no more than justice if I were to avenge upon you my mother's wrongs and my own. But still I hate to shoot you; I have never yet taken human life--for I did not kill the old captain. Will you promise to give no alarm and make no attempt to capture me until morning, if I do not shoot?"

So absorbed were the two men in their colloquy and their own tumultuous thoughts that neither of them had heard the door below move upon its hinges. Neither of them had heard a light step come stealthily up the stair, nor seen a slender form creep along the darkening passage toward the mulatto.

The sheriff hesitated. The struggle between his love of life and his sense of duty was a terrific one. It may seem strange that a man who could sell his own child into slavery should hesitate at such a moment when his life was trembling in the balance. But the baleful influence of human slavery poisoned the very fountains of life, and created new standards of right. The sheriff was conscientious; his conscience had merely been warped by his environment. Let no one ask what his answer would have been; he was spared the necessity of a decision.

"Stop," said the mulatto, "you need not promise. I could not trust you if you did. It is your life for mine; there is but one safe way for me; you must die."

He raised his arm to fire, when there was a flash--a report from the passage behind him. His arm fell heavily at his side, and the pistol dropped at his feet.

The sheriff recovered first from his surprise, and throwing open the door secured the fallen weapon. Then seizing the prisoner he thrust him into the cell and locked the door upon him; after which he turned to Polly, who leaned half-fainting against the wall, her hands clasped over her heart.

"Oh, Pa, I was just in time!" she cried hysterically, and, wildly sobbing, threw herself into her father's arms.

"I watched until they all went away," she said. "I heard the shot from the woods and I saw you shoot. Then when you did not come out I feared something had happened, that perhaps you had been wounded. I got out the other pistol and ran over here. When I found the door open, I knew something was wrong, and when I heard voices I crept up-stairs, and reached the top just in time to hear him say he would kill you. Oh, it was a narrow escape!"

When she had grown somewhat calmer, the sheriff left her standing there and went back into the cell. The prisoner's arm was bleeding from a flesh wound. His bravado had given place to a stony apathy. There was no sign in his face of fear or disappointment or feeling of any kind. The sheriff sent Polly to the house for cloth, and bound up the prisoner's wound with a rude skill acquired during his army life.

"I will have a doctor come and dress the wound in the morning," he said to the prisoner. "It will do very well until then, if you will keep quiet. If the doctor asks you how the wound was caused, you can say that you were struck by the bullet fired from the woods. It would do you no good to have it known that you were shot while attempting to escape."

The prisoner uttered no word of thanks or apology, but sat in sullen silence. When the wounded arm had been bandaged, Polly and her father returned to the house.

The sheriff was in an unusually thoughtful mood that evening. He put salt in his coffee at supper, and poured vinegar over his pancakes. To many of Polly's questions he returned random answers. When he had gone to bed he lay awake for several hours.

In the silent watches of the night, when he was alone with God, there came into his mind a flood of unaccustomed thoughts. An hour or two before, standing face to face with death, he had experienced a sensation similar to that which drowning men are said to feel--a kind of clarifying of the moral faculty, in which the veil of the flesh, with its obscuring passions and prejudices, is pushed aside for a moment, and all the acts of one's life stand out, in the clear light of truth, in their correct proportions and relations--a state of mind in which one sees himself as God may be supposed to see him. In the reaction following his rescue, this feeling had given place for a time to far different emotions. But now, in the silence of midnight, something of this clearness of spirit returned to the sheriff. He saw that he had owed some duty to this son of his--that neither law nor custom could destroy a responsibility inherent in the nature of mankind. He could not thus, in the eyes of God at least, shake off the consequences of his sin. Had he never sinned, this wayward spirit would never have come back from the vanished past to haunt him. And as he thought, his anger against the mulatto died away, and in its place there sprang up a great, an ineffable pity. The hand of parental authority might have restrained the passions he had seen burning in the prisoner's eyes when the desperate man spoke the words which had seemed to doom his father to death. The sheriff felt that he might have saved this fiery spirit from the slough of slavery; that he might have sent him to the free North, and given him there, or in some other land, an opportunity to turn to usefulness and honorable pursuits the talents that had run to crime, perhaps to madness; he might, still less, have given this son of his the poor simulacrum of liberty which men of his caste could possess in a slave-holding community; or least of all, but still something, he might have kept the boy on the plantation, where the burdens of slavery would have fallen lightly upon him.

The sheriff recalled his own youth. He had inherited an honored name to keep untarnished; he had had a future to make; the picture of a fair young bride had beckoned him on to happiness. The poor wretch now stretched upon a pallet of straw between the brick walls of the jail had had none of these things--no name, no father, no mother--in the true meaning of motherhood--and until the past few years no possible future, and then one vague and shadowy in its outline, and dependent for form and substance upon the slow solution of a problem in which there were many unknown quantities.

From what he might have done to what he might yet do was an easy transition for the awakened conscience of the sheriff. It occurred to him, purely as a hypothesis, that he might permit his prisoner to escape; but his oath of office, his duty as sheriff, stood in the way of such a course, and the sheriff dismissed the idea from his mind. But he could investigate the circumstances of the murder, and move Heaven and earth to discover the real criminal, for he no longer doubted the prisoner's innocence; he could employ counsel for the accused, and perhaps influence public opinion in his favor. An acquittal once secured, some plan could be devised by which the sheriff might in some degree atone for his neglect of what he now clearly perceived to have been a duty.

When the sheriff had reached this conclusion he fell into an unquiet slumber, from which he awoke late the next morning.

He went over to the jail before breakfast and found the prisoner lying on his pallet; his face turned to the wall: he did not move when the sheriff rattled the door.

"Good-morning," said the latter, in a tone intended to waken the prisoner.

There was no response. The sheriff looked more keenly at the recumbent figure; there was an unnatural rigidity about its attitude.

He hastily unlocked the door and, entering the cell, bent over the prostrate form. There was no sound of breathing; he turned the body over, it was cold and stiff. The prisoner had torn the bandage from his wound and bled to death during the night. He had evidently been dead several hours.

White Rage Strikes Again

Wanna see something messy? Click play below.

But wait... it gets even messier....


Atrocious, inexcusable, an utter mess.... but who in the black community is going to call him out on it?

No one.

And that is what is so sad about this.

Gifted Hands by Ben Carson, MD

On my plane ride back to DC I decided to pick up a book at Borders... only because it was the first time I had seen a Borders at an airport... unbelievably there were two! The mini-Borders had an African American section and I decided to browse it knowing there was a book over there that I had not read that I absolutely need to read. I came across the title GIFTED HANDS and I knew it sounded familiar and I picked it up realizing it was the autobiography of Dr. Benjamin Carson.. an absolute must read for a black people.

On this blog I am striving to stay away from my own personal convictions and experiences but you may gather what you will from what I essential share on this page.

This book was an excellent read. It took me one day to read and I absolutely had to read every detail of the book. I read a lot (for a college student)... translation, I read for pleasure when I have the time. This story was one of the most inspirational that I have ever come across. For blacks, it is inspiring to read and understand what struggles can be overcome with persistence and hard work. For Christians, its a great testimony of what a strong faith in the Lord will do for an individual. A friend of mine told me today that she noticed those pepole who do put their trust in God never worry about anything, things always work out in the end This book is going on my must read list.

Inspiration -
This man understands wholly is God given talents and what others are able to see through him. That man has the ability of presenting humble inspiration. For those individuals that are blessed with extreme talents they often are inspiring for others because they want to imitate them. However, there are a select few who are able to take those talents and inspire more than just imitation. They inspire a work ethic, a creed, a belief in others to achieve.... not just what has already been but whatever that individual has the potential to achieve on their own level.

My favorite concept is THINK BIG... taken directly from the book
Talent: Our Creator has endowed all of us not just with the ability to sing, dance or throw a ball, but with intellectual talent. Start getting in touch with that part of you that is intellectual and develop that, and think of careers that will allow you to use that.

Honesty: If you lead a clean and honest life, you don't put skeletons in the closet. If you put skeletons in the closet, they definitely will come back just when you don't want to see them and ruin your life.

Insight: It comes from people who have already gone where you're trying to go. Learn from their triumphs and their mistakes.

Nice: If you're nice to people, then once they get over the suspicion of why you're being nice, they will be nice to you.

Knowledge: It makes you into a more valuable person. The more knowledge you have, the more people need you. It's an interesting phenomenon, but when people need you, they pay you, so you'll be okay in life.

Books: They are the mechanism for obtaining knowledge, as opposed to television.

In-Depth Learning: Learn for the sake of knowledge and understanding, rather than for the sake of impressing people or taking a test.

God: Never get too big for Him.

This concept is not too over the top for kindergarten students and is not too elementary for PhD candidates. It's simple and IT IS TRUE.

This theory needs to be applied to our public school systems across this nation. This type of refocus on personal achievement would be extremely beneficial for students and communities as a whole.

Achievement -
taken from THIS AWESOME SITE

In 1987, Carson made medical history with an operation to separate a pair of Siamese twins. The Binder twins were born joined at the back of the head. Operations to separate twins joined in this way had always failed, resulting in the death of one or both of the infants. Carson agreed to undertake the operation. A 70-member surgical team, led by Dr. Carson, worked for 22 hours. At the end, the twins were successfully separated and can now survive independently.

Carson's other surgical innovations have included the first intra-uterine procedure to relieve pressure on the brain of a hydrocephalic fetal twin, and a hemispherectomy, in which an infant suffering from uncontrollable seizures has half of its brain removed. This stops the seizures, and the remaining half of the brain actually compensates for the missing hemisphere.

All I could say was wow. This type of personal achievement is almost unheard of. By reading the book you can see exactly why Dr. Carson was able to achieve all of these things. He took pride in himself, what he did, and what he represented. Personal pride. REAL GENUINE personal pride in not only what we are but in what what we do as well. Realizing this pride and realizing its potential ensures ACHIEVEMENT especially PERSONAL ACHIEVEMENT. Dr. Carson reinforces the fact that personal achievement was so much more important than impressing others. It is what you do for YOU.

GOD IS NUMBER ONE

Dr. Carson, at least through his book, constantly gave thanks, praise, and glory to God for his crowning achievements. The title in of itself was a homage to what God graciously blessed him with. Dr. Carson was a neurosurgeon who participated (not performed) miraculous surgeries numerous times. He could have easily taken the credit, but because he realized that he was merely the hands that God chose to work through he represented a well respected sense of humility and self actualization.


So... concluding thoughts tomorrow...

THIS IS NEEDS TO STOP ---- A CALL FOR ACTION

As college EDUCATED students who have studied exactly the impact violence has had on the black community there is no reason why we need to continually resort to its treacherous use in the streets, on campus, with our friends, in front of families. Tonight as I right this, I have a friend who is in the hospital suffering brain injuries because of a fight at a college party. We are too bright for this, way too intelligent, way too smart to be involved in this situation. However, it continues to happen every weekend. We don't need to do this to ourselves. Its an absolute tragedy that you come miles away from your family to attempt to get your degree and do something for your community and have to fight to live because of one evening at a party. It is not worth it... one night of fun isn't worth your safety, your friend's safety or any of your brother or sisters safety. We have to change things.....

"yall should all get lynched"

WATCH AND DIGEST THE VIDEO ABOVE

My Opinion:
There ain't nothing wrong with what NYOIL is claiming in this song. It might be explicit, but its making a point. We don't denounce explicity when a rapper is trying to convey how good his sex is so we shouldn't denounce when it is being used to convey how much of a detriment hip hop has been to the community. visit the myspace page... there is a blog about the science behind the lyrics of the infamous "lynched" song.

How can anyone knock a brother for once again stating the blatantly obvious truth? It doesn't take a genius to understand what the artist is trying to say in this song... the sad thing is that many have done so before him and many will continue to do so after words, but will there ever be any action taken by the black community to make things better for themselves economically, politically, and socially....

the future seems incredibly bleak for the black community, we are not united, we do not have a voice, we don't believe in each other, we don't invest in one another.... we do not forsee a future for ourselves, how can we possibly blame others for overpowering us???

If we are not doing what we can do advance NOT ONLY OURSELVES but our entire community forward... maybe we should be lynched.

completed essay - extremely weak

1. Is crime a rational choice? Give specific examples for your discussion.

Rational Choice Theory states that offenders seek to benefit in some way from their offending behaviors. Rational in this case means proving to be more beneficial than detrimental to the offender. In other words, the offender would see the crime as worth the risk. It is impossible to do things without thinking, even though we commonly state that we do so. Every action that we commit has a thought pattern associated with it. Rational Choice is founded on the belief that there is a right and a wrong and rationality is the ability to make things seem as right so they can be committed with “good” or rational conscience.

Crime can be considered rational when it comes to means of survival. It has been said that it is within human instinct to survive, so in certain situations there may not be any other options than to commit crime in order to survive. For example, survivors of Hurricane Katrina needed food in order to survive. They did not have the means to pay for food so they took what they needed in order to survive. The committed a crime, but in the eyes of the offender and outsiders that would be considered highly rational.

When an offender is about to commit a crime, such as a store robbery, there are often many decisions and considerations that the offender has thought about beforehand. Which store is easiest to rob? Which store has the most money in its cash register? How will I get into the store? How will I get the money away? When considering the answers to these and other questions, the offender is trying to provide a rationality for the crime that is about to be committed. The rationality of crime can not be determined without taking into account the psychological state of the offender. Their personal determination of rationality may not match up with what is considered normal and in that case the offender should be considered for psychiatric evaluation, particularly in issues in which the offender has harmed someone else or themselves.

Crime, in essence, is a rational action. Before an offender commits a crime, some sort of rationality is played through the mind and agreed upon before committing the act. Even when considering crimes of passion, a rationale is created within the mind of the offender. The label “crime of passion” simply means that emotion played a huge part in the offenders’ rationale that perhaps under other circumstance the offender would have come to a different rationale and made a different decision. All crime is rational in the eyes of the offender. The irrationality arises between the eyes of the law and the eyes of the offender while committing the act of crime.

Best Wisdom comes from Cartoons

"Tear down the walls of convention with the wrecking ball of creativity and rebuild the walls of innovation with the mortar of collaboration."
- Sunny Baxter (Andre 3000, Class of 3000)

While watching my absolute favorite, Cartoon Network, last night I caught the premiere episode of highly anticipated animated series Class of 3000 from Benjamin Andre of Outkast. The show was pretty good, a light hearted comedy that will most likely be enjoyed by elementary age students.The whole episode is based upon the quote that I have posted above. Sunny Baxter, the picture character above, attempts to teach the kids how to apply the quote to their music lessons and planning for the school pageant. Of course, in true cartoon fashion, the kids confuse the quote, Sunny forgets to teach them to work together and everything becomes a huge mess until the last minute when everyone pulls together to allow the pageant to succeed. The funny thing is.... I fell in love with the quote... I felt that it was applicable to many things particularly the life of a college student. I needed to find out who said this quote, in what context, and when.... so while googling the quote I come to find out that the quote is from the script of the show. No philosopher, no activist, no PhD.... writers for a television show, perhaps even Andre 3000 himself. The beauty is that even in cartoons one can find someone else's passion for creativity, wisdom, and inspiration.

Is crime a rational choice? Give specific examples for your discussion.

Rational Choice Theory states that offenders seek to benefit in some way from their offending behaviors. Rational in this case means proving to be more beneficial than detrimental to the offender. In other words, the offender would see the crime as worth the risk. It is impossible to do things without thinking, even though we commonly state that we do so. Every action that we commit has a thought pattern associated with it. Rational Choice is founded on the belief that there is a right and a wrong and rationality is the ability to make things seem as right so they can be committed with “good” or rational conscience.

When an offender is about to commit a crime, such as a store robbery, there are often many decisions and considerations that the offender has thought about beforehand. Which store is easiest to rob? Which store has the most money in its cash register? How will I get into the store? How will I get the money away? When considering the answers to these and other questions, the offender is trying to provide a rationality for the crime that is about to be committed.

This is what I have so far.... (essay question from class, everything I write will be shared!)
Rational Choice Theory is quite interesting now that I have taken the time to actually read about it. As I was browsing someone said that rational choice theory doesn't take into account those things that are irrational, such as emotions. My argument would be that an individuals rationale does not have to adhere to convention, what is considered normal, or what someone else would consider rational in a given situation.

For example: Tanya sees her boyfriend of three years walking into a hotel room with a girl that has mentioned how much she adores Tanya's boyfriend. Tanya's reaction: Chase them down, beat down the girl until she in unconscious, and later get her brother to beat her (now ex) boyfriend till he is unconscious. Tanya's Rationale: He hurt me, she hurt me, I must make them feel this same pain the only way I know how.
See how Tanya definitely acted through her emotions? Yet, she did it rationally... well, what she felt was rationale. Tanya's boyfriend (Jason) would react in quite a different way by immediately leaving the relationship and the city and never speaking to Tanya again. However, that would not say that Tanya was irrational and Jason was rational. Someone could say they were both irrational! The weakness in my argument would be that from my point, there would be no room for irrationality. Everyone could explain their own rationale for any situation. "Hi, my name is Bonnie, I killed my father Clyde because he killed my dog." Bonnie definitely provides a rationale for her action, but I would say that it was quite an irrational action....
however... where is the line between rational and irrational??
PHILOSOPHY! Another day! I am going back to work on my paper...

Some days I just wanna write

So I'm Blog-happy.... what can anyone do!? It's my freakin blog!

Some days I wanna write.
Poems...essays....novels....short stories...news reports
just some thing
A written expression to express passion
not just of my own
but that of others
passion to change, inflict, create
passion to be, do, see
passion to write
So maybe one day I'll be a writer
write what?
Who knows...
a book maybe
a news article
an obituary? hopefully
its some other things before that
but some days I just wanna write
maybe a play about
me? a friend?
a courageous woman?
a quintessential black man?
ha. Es posible, no?

Genesis 3:16

On a personal note:
Cramps suck.
Genesis 3:16
Unto the woman he said, I will greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; in sorrow thou shalt bring forth children; and thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.
....so thanks to Eve I have to endure gutwrenching pain as the outer layers of my uterus peel off informing me that in a few days I will be ripe for planting by the seed of a male. thanks Eve. thanks alot.

Sad face Sad face. Sucky Sucky ick.

'Girlfriends' has drama offscreen

My very first blog.

I decided to start writing this so that I could practice my writing skills. A law student should write daily. A law student should also read daily. I am trying to improve and I hope this will help me do so. So hopefully, I will use this blog daily to comment on what is going on in the world.

My topic for today comes from the fact that today I am watching Girlfriends reruns on BET. I really really really enjoy watching Girlfriends. As a college student there aren't many shows that I make time to watch but Girlfriends is something that I attempt to catch every week. Anyhow, if you have the chance read about the recent "lack of love" that Girlfriends has been getting at the CW, you can see why I might have chosen this as my topic. Apparently, since the merger of the WB and UPN, Girlfriends hasn't been getting the respect it deserves from the CW. The president of the CW decided to move the night of the show right before the season started but did not create any advertisements/billboards/commercials to assure that the audience would know about the new night of the show. That type of thing is typical for popular shows when they switch nights. I did not realize the apparent success of Girlfriends. According to the article, "The comedy is one of the longest-running series featuring a predominantly black cast since "The Cosby Show," surpassing the runs of ABC's "My Wife and Kids," Fox's "The Bernie Mac Show" and NBC's "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air." The show is beginning its seventh season... The Cosby Show only had seven seasons.... I almost wanted to say that black audiences should be pushing to make sure this show stays on the air... but if anyone in the general audience loves the show they should be doing the same. Basically, this show is very important in the history of blacks on television and I can understand the frustration of all those involved with the show with the lack of respect from the executives of the CW. Not to mention, the new night that Girlfriends is now on is the night which all the black shows on the network are on.... the network has created a "black night" of television. Smart move? Racist move ? arguable from both standpoints I believe. Also, the adored Toni Childs played by Jill Marie Jones unexpectedly chose to leave the show at the end of last season and apparently will not come back for a farewell episode. Alot of drama of course.... has to be expected, it is network television.