THE SPEECH
After Na-Na reveals to me his plans for his next graphic pictures, it inspires me (in a revolutionary way - this IS the 70s -of course) to erect my own epic monument - an almost lifesize mural dedicated to the beauty of Esperanza - on the back of the art room wall, no less! However, the art teacher, Mr. Silverstein, adamantly denies me!
As I storm through the hallways after class seething with vengeance, I plot my next step. This was going to go down, one way or another. I descend the stairs, and then another flight, and another, until finally arriving into the bowels of the school - the boiler room.
I gingerly step through the darkened steam, as I reach my destination. There sits Na-Na Johnson on a wooden bench, a study in concentration. Sharpening the point on his umbrella to a magnificent finish with what appears to be some type of contraption from the wood shop or mechanical drawing class.
“Yo, Na-Na…whassup?” I half-whisper tentatively, not wanting to disturb him.
He immediately jumps up into some sort of Kung Fu stance! His umbrella at the ready to defend, before recognizing me through the dim lighting.
“Damn, Strong! Why you gotta be creepin’ up on mofuckas like that, and shit? Damn…”
“S-sorry Na-Na- I didn’t mean to scare you-”
“Ain’t nobody ever scare my ass, man. Never!”
“Awright.”
I don’t know if he is going to pounce on me, or what, so I just stand very still and calm. A few seconds of strained silence pass.
“Whassup, man - why you be down here?”
“Na, man…check this out. Remember yesterday when you hipped me to your idea? Of how you wanted to capture that look on a dude’s face, when he’s just about to kick it?” He eyes me with a mixture of intense suspicion, and guarded interest.
“Yeah man, I dug that shit man! I mean, that’s –that’s the joint…check it out, man. I got an idea! I wanna do something with you…remember that drawing I made of Esperanza? My female?”
“Yeah, that be tight an’ shit, man-”
“Dig this, Na-Na…I wanna do this mural on the art class wall of her! Maybe full body, but check this out…I wanna mix it up… my thing, with your shit.”
He looks me over calmly.
“Solid.”
“But Silverstein, man, he don’t – he won’t - let me execute it, man! He don’t wanna listen to nothin’! Wants to do some corny-assed shit from, like, the 1950s an’ shit! Then he threatens me, man, says he’s gonna bring in one of his punk-ass boys to do it if I won’t…”
“Here’s the thing, man – it’s always like this! That’s why I’m fired the fuck up. It’s like, the Man, he always wants to repress shit, see? Whatever don’t fit in with his system – he wants to shut it down! Know what I’m saying?”
“Right, right.”
Na-Na is becoming increasingly enthused.
“The Man wants everything to be safe, don’t disturb the status quo, keep the true artist down, keep the people down-”
I am suddenly possessed with the spirit of Nat Turner, as I launch into a diatribe with the fervor of a cross between Patrick Henry’s, Give me Liberty or Give me Death, and, like, The Gettysburg Address.
“It’s – it’s – check it out – it’s like the same way the White man has always oppressed the Black man! Shackled him – because – because – he’s afraid! That’s right – afraid of the black man’s creativity! We can’t let him do it, man, we gotta stand up!” I pause for his reaction.
“Na-Na, man, if he – if Silverstein – won’t allow the artist to express himself…then fuck it! We take it! We break in and do it!”
I passionately bang on the lockers with my fist, finishing up with a flourish.
His eyes glisten with murderous resolve.
“Yo, Strong – tomorrow night, man. We be steppin’ out! Port Elizabeth. Savoy Lounge. Always be some bugged out shit goin’ down there, man. Niggas always be getting’ capped, sliced…all kind a’ shit. Yo, take your pad, man! We gonna capture that shit!”
He smashes his umbrella against the lockers, setting off a metallic rumble throughout the cavernous boiler room.