It was one of those odd little paragraphs that leap out at you, so filled with unexpected images it was. “What would Al Sharpton do if Bush calls him?” inquired Peter Noel in a recent issue of the Village Voice. Sharpton’s reply was pure deadpan: “I would not meet with Bush alone…. There has to be an agenda that the black collective agrees with. Clearly, I’m not looking to be part of the Bush administration.”
It was inspiring to know that Al Sharpton had seriously thought about what to do if Bush should call him. It was inspiring because I figure there’s at least as much chance of Bush calling me as Sharpton. So if the press is interviewing him about such prospects, then I should be prepared.
First of all, the Bush team needs me. I don’t know how to say this gently, because I know how hard they tried, but most of us in the black community agree that Sister Condoleezza and Brother Colin do not a rainbow coalition make. And since John Ashcroft is backed by the Christian Coalition and Bob Jones University, I know that Bush knows that the fair and unifying thing to do now would be to make a radical lefty critical race theorist like me the head of the civil rights division. Yes, me–the frizzy-haired feminist alternative to Al Sharpton. I offer myself up as Bush’s own personal Lani Guinier.
Since we’re looking ahead here, I must confess that, like Sharpton, I wouldn’t meet with Bush alone. Not that I worry about becoming the next Monica Lewinsky or anything, but all in all, I’d want witnesses. The kind of witnesses I’ll bet Donald Rumsfeld wishes he had to explain those tapes in the National Archives. The ones in which he agrees with Nixon that African blacks are “just out of the trees.” Rumsfeld, who’s heard saying, “That’s right,” “I know” and “That’s for sure,” now has no better excuse to fall back upon except that he was “acknowledging,” not agreeing with, Nixon.
But with me, a Bush White House would never have to worry about such embarrassing moments, because on each and every tape for posterity you’d hear me, loud and clear, exclaiming, “Say what?” and “You’ve got to be kidding!” You’d hear me reciting the Emancipation Proclamation, telling people about the Reconstruction Amendments, chanting passages from international conventions against the death penalty and pointing out Greece on the map.
What of my broader political agenda, you may well ask. Unlike Al Sharpton, I’m not ambitious enough to come up with something with which a presumed “black collective” might entirely agree. Nevertheless, since I was among the 92 percent of blacks who collectively voted Democratic, I’m confident that I’ll be a lot closer to that goal than Republican “civil rights activists” like Abigail Thernstrom.
Like Laura Bush, I’m also a great believer in literacy. So when Lynne Cheney rises up to decry the decadent state of the arts in America, I’ll help out by making sure the National Archives has plenty of copies of that lusty lesbian love story she published before Dick gave her what must have been a really, really good spanking. When librarians ban Harry Potter for promoting witchcraft, I’ll be sure to suggest that they try replacing it with the 1853 edition of The Very Hungry Caterpillar–that children’s book Bush says he so enjoyed reading as a child, but that some bitter liberals insist wasn’t published until the year he graduated from college.
When John Ashcroft waxes nostalgic about the good old days of the Confederacy when “the races” lived together in honeyed harmony, I’ll help set up the Sally Hemings Memorial Genealogical Resource Center so that all of us black folk who were so much happier then can find our way back to our beloved masters. I sincerely look forward to homesteading my own little cabin-in-the-garage, listening to the chilluns tell the neighbors how like family we all are. If the Missus wants to give me a little pocket money, and if I freely choose to do a few small chores like plowing the back forty, then isn’t that precisely the utopian arrangement that former Labor Secretary-designate Linda Chavez, referring to the hospitality she bestowed upon a former slave of her own, described as “an act of charity and compassion”? Indeed, I foresee a mass migration of freedom-weary blacks streaming back to Tara to live with our good white cousins who have been waiting all these years for us to see that home is where the DNA says it is.
Moreover, when failed nominee Chavez continues to attack labor unions for interfering with such good intentions from her post at the Center for Equal Opportunity, I will see to it that she becomes a global role model of free enterprise, and on prime time. I’m pretty sure I could interest Fox in a program called Survivor Too. I see Ms. Chavez and the entire cast of characters of her think tank being transported to a remote tenement building in South Central Los Angeles. There they would have to learn to catch and broil rats, thatch their own roofs, find an open gas station when the toilets overflow and commute to their jobs in Washington, DC, by public transportation. To make it interesting, I suppose we could jack up the stakes with a Wolof-only language requirement. Each week, we the American public would be allowed to call in our votes and kick one resident out onto the street, where, dressed only in skimpy rat-skin jerkins, they would be consigned to begging for food on the mean streets of the financial district. If Chavez gets to Washington within one year of Inauguration Day, she gets that Cabinet post after all.
Finally, when Tommy Thompson succeeds in getting a federal ban on abortion and does away with welfare as we know it, I pledge to resurrect Jonathan Swift’s modest proposal that the nation’s Truly Deserving Rich round out their diets by dining on the plump babies of the Truly Undeserving Poor.
A baby in every pot, a contented ex-slave in every garage. I sit by the phone, waiting to serve.