Distant+Whispers

Chapter 28
MY GOD! WHY ARE THERE SO MANY CARS?
Mikell had no way of knowing that today, nearly three weeks after his arriving in America was
the eve of one of the country’s largest celebrations – The Fourth of July. Highway 17 was stacked up
with a stream of July 3 rd tourists: golfers heading to the resorts of Hilton Head Island, black families
returning to the South to family reunions and hordes of college students, free for the summer, flirting
with each other as they road-raced towards the clubs in Myrtle Beach.
Initially, Mikell did not mind the slow pace of traffic, especially as he left St Helenas Island that
afternoon and edged his way from Beaufort towards Charleston. Turn around on your road and see
who’s waving and who’s waiting for you to come back. He kept twirling those words of Obey in his
head. Who’s waiting for you. For most of his life he had seen himself as others saw him: the
auslander—the outsider! He measured his life by his ability to survive, or the ability of others to
protect him. Papa, mama and Tina. Yet in spite of those who had made fun of him, he hadn’t lost
himself. He hadn’t shriveled up in some corner. Mikell smiled at the way Tina had shut up some of his
tormenters years ago. Half-breed? My brother? You are all just jealous. He is Black AND he is
German. He is not half. He is two! You are just one!
I am large. I contain multitudes. Mikell mouthed the words to a poem Obey had mounted among
the paintings of his make-believe children. “I am large. I contain multitudes,” Mikell said, wanting to
hear his own voice speak the verses into reality. As he walked his road in life there were people
cheering him on, waving at him: his family, the children in his art classes in Berlin, even some new
friends he had met in the black German group, ISD. That August they were having their yearly
Bundestreffen, a weekend retreat with the objective of strengthening the ties among Afro-Germans.
They had asked if he could put together a painting workshop for the youths who would be in
attendance.
There was another cheering for him. Another waiting for him by the side of the road. Another
whose life he had touched, and whose life had touched his. Probably from the instant she had entered
that barbershop in Georgetown.
She was a pixie who lived in a magical cottage in a magical forest.
Her image filled his head. Toni, smiling in the blackberry patch, wearing her broad straw hat tied
with a blue satin ribbon. Toni in Winyah Bay, gazing out over the horizon, her arms folded across her
breast, the blue waters slapping against the curves of her brown legs. Toni and the way her face
dimpled when she ate sweet potato pie. Toni’s eyes lighting up as she talked about the children she
taught. A giggling Toni walking across the wet sands of the bay, gingerly avoiding the small fleeing
fiddler crabs. Toni, with her hands dusted white with flour, placing fillets of catfish into a crackling
skillet. Toni’s head resting softly against his leg. Toni’s soft kiss on his cheek.