The Prologue

Order of the Oppressed Prologue
By Lhea J. Love copyright 2006-2013

Prologue: 2001

　　　　 We were as boys, then, lower lip falling, brows glistened with sweat, standing askance and peeping into manhood. We did not cry but we should have when D’Angello stood naked amongst us. Though I have lived with myself for eighteen years, the night D’Angello bent and bowed with his own penis erect, unclothed was the first time I realized that I, too, had one.

　　　　He was crying but I could not hear a sniffle. The tears blended disguised from the sweat of his face. I doubt anyone could find a single tear or flaw. He was perfect. I only knew he cried from the color of burnt orange that seemed to lead from the depths of his thoughts to the center of his eyes. Blood shot, he grimaced holding his composure though clenched teeth. If he forgot to breath then the six of us – remembered. Our hearts lept with our lungs, waiting for this moment to pass.

　　　　“Stand up, dammit.” Malice barked and we all stood at attention immediately. To be fair, the question that Malice asked D’Angello was the same question that Malice asked me, the same question he asked Check and also the same question that he himself was asked four years ago. Oppressed or not, to be a man of the Order you must first be a man. And to be a man there is only one correct answer to Malice’s question.

　　　　 “Motherfucker if you don’t look me in the eye.” Malice’s chin rocked upwards from left to right his forehead falling inevitably as he spoke with vintriloquy no one knowing the color of his tongue.

　　　　We all moved closer so that D’Angello could be near

　 　　　We weren’t much protection. The six of us signals –  Check, Abdullah,  Lorenzo, Guru, Sherrod Rashard and I – formed our tightest circle, our cipher. We were still fully clothed in our brown jerseys, brown sweats, brown boots. We stood shoulder to shoulder blocking naked D’Angello from everything except Malice’s words. D’Angello stood with a vulnerability semierction that was more erect than semi. With buffed nails and polished toes, he waited.

　　　　“Are you gay?” Malice’s words fell into the empty hush of the void. Three words fell into our mosh pit taking the place of all our thoughts which remained unsaid.

　 　　　It would have been simpler just to say no – so the question would fall onto Arjeet. Or maybe it would have been better if D’Angello had hesitated. But he did not. He confessed to what we already knew and really should not  have given a damn about. But Malice cared. And his care turning, cycling from concern to rage to violence spurred the battle royale of the night.  Each time D’Angello answered yes, Malice reached with dirty nails for an eye, a shoulder, an abdominal. And each time D’Angello was given a second chance to be a man, he still confessed yes. “Yes, I am.” Or yes, I am gay.

　 　　　And for all our twelve hands, twelve knees, twelve cheeks, twelve elbows, twelve feet and twelve shoulders – we did a shitty job of protecting D’Angello from the traditions and rituals of Black homophobia. We stood in front of D’Angello without blocking or we blocked without effort because maybe the six of us were really curious of what being both strong and gay looked like. We expected him to change. To put up the truce flag, the white cloth and say I confess I am confused—I am not really gay. But he did not stutter. Not when Malice came with fist or Mannuel or many, many men who did not want the legacy of their greatness to be in the hands of a man who held hands with men unashamedly.

　　　　There was blood. We watched it fall. From where? We don’t know. But D’Angello never changed his reply.

　　　　The men grew weary before he did.

　 　　　Was D’Angello more of a man than us? I don’t think any man in our cipher had met a single black woman – save our momma – for whom we would take a whipping. I think we didn’t save D’Angello because we didn’t save ourselves. We were paralyzed —- shocked and motivated, both, by his uprightness.

　　　　Every black man in the room bore a history of struggle. Malice's grandparents' grandparents and mine were slaves; Check and Guru’s grandparents were colonized; Abdullah’s parents have been investigated for funding terrorist organizations while sending money to their aunts and cousins and great-uncles; and, both D’Angello and Mannuel's and are decendents of Blacks who decided to own other Blacks once they got free. We have been oppressed by white men and suppressed by ourselves. And we are still trying to figure this shit out.

　　　　So, as we were raised to revere our history of captives who overcame, enslaved who rebelled and martyrs who endured, we have been taught to embrace struggle as a testament to our strength and our salvation.

　　　　The seven of us in my cipher are the personification of struggle. We are judged and thus valued based off of how much we have endured of how well we disguise the effects.

　　　　I am a Man of Oppression. I wear the title proudly and I carry the burden effortlessly as do the men in my cipher.

　 　　　Each person I know holds an opinion of Black secret orders. My girlfriend abhors the thought and cannot bear the sight of the Omicron brand upon my chest. She sleeps, always on my left as not to be scratched or blemished by the raised scar. Since I drafted the blood red, brown bone society, I believe the downtroddenness of oppression no longer courses through my blood.

　　　　Now, I can’t carry the childish impression of orders and societies. The scenes my eyes have now witnessed should be barred from my thought. Still, I would not trade one moment for a different path.

　 　　　It is, admittedly, kind of humorous to watch the transformation of college students like myself that find themselves drafting who are not descendents of members past. Both Gurudas, who has become my most fond comrade, and I were two of those lost souls. Guru’s brilliance and personality attracted the Order to him and his naivete and hopefulness made the Order seem attractive. Guru and I were the kind of signals who were foolish enough to think Black fraternal orders mimicked their white counterparts. He once confessed to me he thought he would sleep with a few women, take a few tests, through back a few beers and be welcomed into private calls and secret handshakes. And yes, all of those events transpired upon our journey but coindentally and completely independent of our walk towards brotherly order.

　　　　It is true, before a boy becomes a man he must face his own reflection and without shrieking back, declare himself changed. Many cultures have rights of passages, but no rite is passed until one face the looking glass and sees another being, until one sees a man.

　　　　My grandfather drove me to college with two suitcases and one milk crate of books. And with one downward nod of the head, with one firm brush across my shoulder blade he left me with one declaration: “do not leave college without finding order in your house.” It took me one year to find order, one year to submit to order and two years to interpret and understand the order in my own home.

　 　　　And so a Black man’s life in America rests and grows from the crossroads between struggle and order. One day Simone’s Sinnerman meets Eshu Eleggua and must decide how to proceed.

　　　　 Proceeding through order without memories of struggle creates men who declare themselves men without actually having an identity; while a procession through struggle without order is the quickest route to suicide or homicide which for the black man, black family and black community are one and the same.

　　　　Since compulsiveness comes to those who those who seek order alone and madness always visits those who struggle by themselves, I sought brotherhood to make sense of the world I have been thrust into or at least brothers to take the edge off of that which does not make sense.