-X- X-Men: Foundations part 2: Changing World Summary Chapter 1: Bright Stars Chapter 2:Stand Still Chapter 3: Empire State University Chapter4: Distant Early Warnings Chapter 5: Brand Annex Chapter 6: Open Secrets Chapter 7: Change of Faith Chapter 8:Winter Breaks Chapter 9: Healing Breaks Chapter 10: Ice Skate Eve Chapter 11: Razor's Edge Chapter 12:Last Call Chapter 13: Thoughts Ignite Chapter 14: Red Tide Chapter 15: The Pass Chapter 16: Spring Breaks Chapter 17: Kid Gloves Chapter 18: Second Natures Chapter 19: Prime Movers Chapter 20: Moving Parts Chapter 21: Barriers Fall Chapter 22: Hand Over Hand Chapter 23: Hand Over Fist Chapter 24: Open Hand Chapter 25: Open Hand Closed Fist Chapter 26: Racing Heart -XX-
X-Men: Foundations part 2: Changing World
Chapter 7
-X-
Change of Faith
Upon their return to campus after the short holiday break, ESU’s students seemed in a collective panic to realize there was now less than a month of classes remaining until final exams. Scott had arrived early at the radio station to raid S.J.’s periodical collection for research on his history term paper. He was still working when Emory arrived for his shift on air. “I have a current events paper due for Western Civ.,” Scott explained as he cleared a space among collected books, notes, and reference materials to make room for Emory. “Mind if I hang around to finish up?” “Na,” Emory responded as he put his own books down in the spot Scott had just cleared and pulled up a chair. Both of them tended to use the station for study hall space. Aside from the constant background noise of the radio broadcast, and S.J. often cursing some unruly piece of equipment he was working on, it was quiet and empty around here. “Have a good Thanksgiving?” Scott nodded. “You?” “First time I was home since summer. Ate enough to last me another month.” Scott laughed and went back to his paper while Emory concentrated on reading through today’s news copy, fresh off S.J.’s desk. Landing this job really had been a great stroke of luck. In addition to it being a master class on current events, S.J. had retained firsthand documentation of every major news story of the past thirty years, which now lined the station walls like his own private library. Not to mention, Scott had gained Emory as a friend. Emory finished reading copy and checked the time. Ten minutes ‘til air. Summers had gone back to S.J.’s Reporting Civil Rights: American Journalism, using that volume as a reference to toggle between various 1960's-era periodicals, matched with recent newspapers chronicling John Lewis’s run for congress, along with a short biographical write up from the Atlanta paper: “John Lewis in the Lead: From Freedom Rider to Congressman.” Emory had noticed Scott’s spending a lot of time at the radio station, devouring the boss’s library, which was heavy on modern history, and especially heavy on the history of the Civil Rights movement. He hadn’t really known what to make of his new friend’s interests in the material up ‘til now. Also, Emory had to admit, the events of the Brand protests – specifically the Church of Humanity protesters – had shaken him a bit. In an open notebook beside him there were at least a page’s worth of hand-copied quotes. One caught his eye: “Ours is the struggle of a lifetime, or maybe even many lifetimes, and each one of us in every generation must do our part. And if we believe in the change we seek, then it is easy to commit to doing all we can, because the responsibility is ours alone to build a better society and a more peaceful world.” In retrospect, Emory realized the protestors hadn’t seemed to shake Summers. Cool, calm, and collected, and yet completely clear-eyed (so to speak, of a guy whose glasses pretty effectively blocked his eyes from sight) in reporting out facts. That much went with the territory. You couldn’t do this job without staying cool under pressure and having a good memory for facts. But once they’d moved outside and Dr. MacTaggert had arrived, Summers had walked straight through the picket line to get to MacTaggert’s car and help escort her safely inside: back through the protestors, hardly giving them a second thought. At the time, Emory had thought the instinctive reaction impressive. Somehow it made perfect sense to find Summers, today, copying down John Lewis quotes. The last in a long list of notes concluded in Scott’s neat handwriting: JL believed that hate and fear were to be answered with love and hope. Of course, alongside the notes he was making on newly-elected Congressman Lewis was a seemingly ever-present copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. “Are you still reading that?” Emory asked. “Always reading it again,” Scott answered agreeably. “Sometimes I don’t know about you, Summers,” Emory decided with a shake of his head. But the words were offset as Emory sat down beside Scott and paged through the book in question, pausing to skim over a few of the dog-eared pages as if looking for clues, before he set the book back down beside Scott. “John Lewis would be the first to tell you to go back to the source.” Emory offered, “Trade in the The Art of War for a book on nonviolent strategy: King, Thoreau, Gandhi, even Buddha.” “I’ve read them; this is the one I keep coming back to... though I am partial to John Lewis and his ‘good trouble’. I know it seems a strange choice for recreational reading,” Scott conceded of The Art of War. “But it’s not so much the content as the structure; the familiarity of it calms me.” “I guess I have one of those too,” Emory confessed. “I was rereading it again over the break, decided to bring it back with me.” He pulled from his backpack a tattered copy of, Strength To Love: A Book of Sermons on God’s Divine Laws As Mirrored in the Gospel, by Martin Luther King Jr. “In this case, I think I needed a palate cleanser after reporting out the Church of Humanity’s protesters.” “I can see why. Think I might borrow that when you’re done with it?” Scott added. Emory made to slide the book toward Scott, then held on to it thoughtfully. “What’s your angle, Summers?” “Angle?” Scott questioned. “What’s a private school kid from Westchester County need to worry about any of this? So your roommate’s a massive jerk, that’s a given. But that’s a problem only for one year, tops. Then he’s outta sight outta mind.” “We saw with the Church of Humanity protestors, it’s a lot bigger than one jerk. They can do a lot of damage, especially if no one stands up to them.” Scott paused thoughtfully. “And then there’s the fact that this stuff doesn’t get taught, not in public school. My private school was better than average on covering modern history, but I think that was an exception to the rule, based on our headmaster’s preferences. Before that, it was barely mentioned, maybe a sentence or two. I never learned these stories in any AP history class.” Emory gave him a knowing look and a nod toward Scott’s copy of The Art of War. “I wonder why. You know that old saying about the victor and the spoils. The winner writes the history books; why would people still in charge ever choose to make themselves history’s villains?” “You’re right.” Scott motioned to Reporting Civil Rights: American Journalism. “The Civil Rights movement’s success came, in part, because of its TV coverage. We have the newspaper accounts and the photos, but it was television that brought living history into people’s homes every night on the local news, let them see for themselves the brutality in support of injustice. Without that, peaceful protest could easily have been rewritten as violent rebellion that was justifiably put down by heroic law enforcement. “Now, just a few decades later, we’ve already gotten far enough past those times to see it completely differently. Through modern-day hindsight, segregation was blatantly morally wrong. As a result, its end seems inevitable. It’s easy to overlook how, at the time, even nonviolent protestors were not seen as good or right by a majority of society. Simply for challenging the established way of doing things, they were seen as wrong and dangerous and deserving of the violence set upon them. More trouble than good. That’s why I find John Lewis, in particular, fascinating. The trouble was always certain. The positive outcome was not, except in Lewis’s mind.” Scott paged through his notes, looking for another quote: “Release the need to hate, to harbor division, and the enticement of revenge. Release all bitterness. Hold only love, only peace in your heart, knowing that the battle of good to overcome evil is already won. Choose confrontation wisely, but when it is your time don't be afraid to stand up, speak up, and speak out against injustice. “As far as Lewis was concerned, good was a matter of conviction: equal parts necessary and trouble. After the trouble, the good would come.” Emory was silent for a moment before the countdown to on air light began flashing. Scott wordlessly went back to his work while Emory read out top of the hour news copy. After he was done Emory found Scott taking more notes, this time from a library copy of Raymond Arsenault’s, Freedom Riders: 1961 and the Struggle for Racial Justice. “Did I ever tell you my parents went on freedom rides?” Scott put the book down and sat back in his chair. “Seriously? Here I am, prattling on like I know something about something, and you have family who were there, on the ground for this.” Emory only shrugged and grinned. “Why’d you let me do that?” “Like I said, I wanted to figure out where you were coming from. My Gram says, ‘White folks railing on about bigotry and injustice is like cutting down a weed. Until you’re willing to get down on the ground and get your hands dirty, dig that thing out by the roots, all you’ve done is make it look nice and neat on the surface. The yard may be pretty to look at but the weeds are still there, growing and spreading out of sight.’ It’s easy to complain about how ugly the weeds are, once in a while, when they pop up in the grass.” Scott paused by a beat. “Do you think that’s my angle? Complain about how awful Cam is, make myself look good by comparison?” “I might have thought that, at the beginning. Now, I think you’d rather have something to do about it, but maybe you don’t know what that something is yet.” “That’s fair. So, what do you think the ‘something’ is, for somebody like me?” Scott asked earnestly. “When you dig down to the roots of racism you find a lot of practical things that can be fixed. Housing. Education. Hunger. Crime. Poverty. Those problems have been built and reinforced over generations; they can’t be fixed overnight, but people in need can always be helped. It’s up to all of us to dig down to the roots of what people like the Hodges are doing to society and start undoing it.” Scott waited a couple moments to see if Emory wanted to continue. “I’ve given you my take; I’ll ask it again, What’s your angle?” “I’m not just railing against Cam – or even all the things he stands for that I find appalling – to make some sort of statement on my own values. I’m not just studying history for its own sake, no matter how important I find it. I need to know, as best I can, what happened to us in the past. I’m trying to understand my own place in the world going forward.” Of course Scott did have an angle that was slightly more specific to that one. As he studied bigotry and injustice in recent history, he was doing so with a mind to understand how the world might one day react to mutants. That part of his story he couldn’t tell... but there was a lot he could tell. “Growing up, I absorbed – as an absolute and universal truth – that the average person was good at heart and willing to help those in need. I never considered the inverse. Never imagined that for some people, actively pushing others down is how they think they stay on top. And they justify that to themselves by believing in some kind of innate natural order that exists for them to be on top. I’ll admit, it’s still hard for me to wrap my head around that mindset, and I feel a bit of a fool, honestly; I never thought of myself as being overly optimistic or naive. But Cameron Hodge is like nothing I ever imagined before. He has no desire to see any perspective other than his own. I don’t think he’ll ever want to change, much less try to.” “My Gram has similar opinions on people like that. She says, ‘Conversion is for Sunday mornings, and there are some souls whose saving comes down to God’s job, not Man’s.’ Sometimes our job on Earth is to save the living from the already dead.” Scott took that realization to heart, even while it gave him a shiver to hear it put that way. Emory saw his reaction and rephrased. “At this point, lack of self-awareness is not the problem. For people who have no doubt and no regret for the harm they actively cause... when the wrong is there to see for anyone who’s willing to see it.... I have no idea if someone like that can be saved. But I’m more inclined to count him among the already dead.” Scott nodded. “Jean says, ‘People only change when they want change– when they think they can, and when they know they have to.’ I know, it’s not all about changing hearts and minds, and conversion may not always be possible. But I have to believe that most people can change and are worth the effort at conversion... still, effort is no guarantee of success. And we can’t afford to endlessly repeat the lessons of the past....” Scott waited a couple moments for Emory to respond. “My folks met each other in the 60’s, doing freedom rides out of Harlem. They’re proud of the work they did back then, but they also look back on it with a lot of mixed feelings. My dad, he says ‘Maybe they needed to see that we bleed red too to stop seeing in only black and white’. He became a civil rights lawyer. My mom became a doctor. She doesn’t talk about it much, but I think making a decision to save lives does a lot of her talking for her. “Like John Lewis, and a lot of others, they were willing to make human sacrifices of themselves. Brave and selfless. Never flinching, with the ability to use self as shield. Neither courting nor backing away from trouble. Maybe that level of sacrifice was necessary to stand up against such a deeply entrenched unjust society and expose it to itself, like an open wound. My folks were always adamant to my sisters and me that we not romanticize the idea of suffering for any cause. It always came through to us that they were proud of their service, but resolutely unwilling to see their children sacrifice in the same manner. “I’d like to think their methods won for me the privilege to use my own body and mind as more than an injustice pinata, something beaten and broken to prick the conscience of white America. Either way, one generation’s blood sacrifice should be more than enough.” Emory pushed his book over toward Scott. “You just brought this from home. Sure you won’t miss it?” “I know it nearly by heart already. Read it repetitively, all through high school, same way you do The Art of War.” “Jean calls that a security blanket read. When you keep going back to a book so well-read you already know it by heart.” Remembering that made Scott grin. Jean’s description of his fascination with The Art of War was not always so polite. Scott paused for a moment. “I didn’t start wearing these glasses until I was fifteen. My eye condition went untreated until then, until I came to the Xavier Institute.” He shrugged. “You can only have so many doctors tell you there’s absolutely nothing wrong with your eyes before people start to assume it’s a psychosomatic illness or a kid acting out for attention. Most of my teachers would give it about a month, letting me take breaks or leave class when I needed to. After that they assumed any time I got a headache I was just trying to get out of class. “Ironic, because I really wanted to be in class. Sometimes I just needed to close my eyes or get out of the light for a few minutes to get the pain under control. But they couldn’t let me get away with taking breaks the other kids didn’t get. No putting my head down, or even wearing regular sunglasses inside – I tried that for a while. From their point of view I was just a troublemaker, disrupting their classes. The only thing I had going for me was that, when I could ward off the headaches and read enough to study properly, I could get good grades– sometimes perfect grades. So they couldn’t write me off as stupid, but they didn’t know how to deal with my being smart either. Xavier Institute was the first place that ever tried to figure me out, both medically and academically. It was the first time I ever took a math placement test I didn’t have to cheat downward on – making sure I intentionally missed enough questions so I wouldn’t be accused of cheating.” Scott slid The Art of War over to Emory in trade. “It’s not just about explicit things like the lay of the land and movement of troops, or weather and conditions on the ground. It’s about proactive decision-making and planning ahead for the next challenge, or for multiple challenges. Whenever I get too caught up in the moment, stressed out focusing on a task that feels like it’s eating up all my time and energy, I come back to this. It reminds me to take a step back and look at the big picture, see what I’m missing.” Emory shook his head agreeably. “I have a hard time even picturing you stressed. You look so calm all the time, it calms me down.” Scott laughed. “Only on the outside,” he conceded. “Inside, it feels like my mind is on a treadmill most of the time, with the rest of me trying to keep up.... Reading that book for the first time, was the first time in my life I remember thinking: Even the things that seem beyond our control can be made to work for us – and not against us – if we take time to study and plan. “Before Xavier Institute, I never really thought it anything other than bad luck that my folks died in a plane crash and I lived... those were just the cards I got dealt. After I came to Xavier’s, I realized, it’s anything but bad luck that any kid sits in an orphanage for half their childhood. Year after year, growing desperate enough for change that the streets start to look like an improvement over institutionalization. “But that doesn’t happen through fate or bad luck; it happens through indifference. Top to bottom indifference. People looking the other way when they see suffering and injustice. Maybe they think the problems are so big they can’t make a difference. Maybe it scares them, or maybe they just don’t want to see the ugliness. Maybe the hopelessness of people who have nothing makes them feel vulnerable. I realize now what a miracle it is, what Charles Xavier has done with a fancy prep school in Westchester County. I’ve seen the enormous difference that even a handful of committed people can make when they really want to help. “Growing up, it was drilled into me, my dependence on the charity of generous benefactors. I also absorbed a sense of helplessness at being subjected to the whims of people I’d never meet, people I resented as a result of their power over my life. But, still, I assumed that they were good people with good and generous intentions. Maybe they just had too much to understand the needs of those who had nothing. It never occurred to me that their actions were never about me at all, only about themselves. I never thought to imagine that there were people in this world to whom I wasn’t a real person, just a convenient prop to suit their purposes. A means to a tax write-off, or an excuse to attend a fancy charity dinner, an article in the local paper to rehabilitate a tarnished image.” Scott paused heavily. “I’m glad I didn’t understand people like that back then; it would have crushed me. No matter how cynical I ever felt as a kid, I never doubted that I was just as human as anybody else. I never saw myself as ‘underprivileged’ or ‘disadvantaged’ and I certainly never imagined people like the Hodges, willing to hate me for that. At surface level, the Xavier and Hodge families are exactly the same. Old money, and a status and privilege that comes with being at the top your whole life. But looks can be deceiving. Like with The Art of War, the difference is vision and planning. “People like the Hodges can’t see the big picture. They will never see a world that is big enough for everyone to have a share in comfort and prosperity. So they focus on taking and keeping as much for themselves as possible. Not fighting for anything as noble as life, liberty or equality, but simply to preserve the narrow status quo of a society that benefits and favors them. “When I came to Xavier Institute, Charles Xavier told me it was okay that I was different. That didn’t make me any greater or any less than anybody else. To him I was special; I was gifted, and all I really needed was the right set of circumstances to let me live up to my full potential. He saved my life with that place, no question about it. I don’t expect many people to do what Charles Xavier has done with the Xavier Institute, but I really didn’t expect to find others, like the Hodges, who would oppose it so vehemently, who would fight to stop all manner of progress, simply to protect their own self-interests.” Emory nodded. “It’s hard for the rest of us to wrap our heads around, and I would argue that it’s meant to be. The very powerful benefit from our desire to believe that all people are good and all people are equal. You said, as a kid, you assumed people were good and generous. That’s likely because you were told – over and over – that people were good and generous, and that you should be quietly grateful. We’ve been told – all of us, over and over – that this country was founded on freedom and equality for all, but that system was never meant to include all people. Not in 1776 and not now. “They do such a good job of hiding the ugly truths behind other truths we want to believe that it becomes hard for us to believe what we see with our own eyes. If I read a little between the lines, I doubt you ever really thought, growing up, that the system was working in your favor, but you were likely told – over and over – that it was, and that you should be grateful for what little you were given. “The system is built for those at the top and it requires suffering by those at the bottom. So they actively, collectively, keep a boot to the neck of those who have nothing and no way to fight back. Rather than working to create a level playing field where everyone has a fair chance to stand on their own two feet and prove themselves, they choose to keep people pinned to the ground with poverty and injustice. It’s no wonder they actively hate those who promote opportunity and equality because – in their minds – opportunity and equality for more people means less for them. “The good news is, it’s a fight they can only win temporarily. History is full of examples where human beings create systems founded on a need to have the many suffer while the fortunate few are allowed to play the role of their generous benefactors, indefinitely. As long as there is suffering. In that way, they are the heroes, generously wielding their wealth and power for good, rather than the villains whose hoarding of resources allows peasants to starve in the first place. “No one likes to hear the comparison; we like to think we’ve evolved past imprisoning the poor and conquered for labor, past vassal and slave states. But, probably from the beginning of time and human nature, there have always been those who think themselves a ruling class, and those upon whose backs they stand to rule with ever-increasing cruelty. Until the citizens finally revolt. And they always revolt for the same reason. In the end, people will always fight to keep the only thing they ever really had. Basic human dignity.” A brief silence fell before Emory’s attention was pulled away by the flashing of the countdown to on air light. Scott busied himself by returning S.J.’s periodicals to their places and packing up his own books and notes for his next class. “So,” Scott offered conversationally, once Emory was safely off the air, “Ororo said you two are going to see the sights in Harlem this weekend.” Emory grinned. “Any advice?” Scott shook his head. “Ororo’s one of my best friends in this world; I’m tempted to say something stupid like, ‘You’d better take good care of her.’ But I know that would only piss her off immensely. So I’ll just say, Ororo’s one of a kind; treat her that way and you two will get along fine.” Scott shouldered his backpack and headed for the door. “Hey, Summers. One more hard question.” Scott paused in the doorway. “Like pulling up those weeds, it’s easy to go all in against the Hodges – they’re terrible. But what about your Professor Xavier? Your plan is to go back and teach at his school, right? Don’t you ever wonder if his perspective, his view of the world, is just as deluded by a lifetime of status and privilege as the Hodges? Sure, he’s using his power for good– but he’s still using his power. Eventually, it may not always be for good.” Scott nodded. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t had moments where he wondered if Xavier’s hopes might be unfounded, especially considering the gap between the world as it was and the world the way Xavier wanted it to be. And more than once, Xavier’s ability to do what he thought was necessary, sometimes at the expense of others, had raised Scott’s hackles. “I’ve asked myself that a lot over the past few months. From what I’ve seen here, I’m not sure the world works the way he thinks it does either... but maybe, if we keep trying, we can make it work a little better, be a little fairer for those who have been left out and have fallen behind.” Scott smiled. “I definitely think we’re going to meet more resistance in that than I did the day before Cam moved into my dorm room. But at the end of the day, I still believe one hundred percent that it’s worth the effort.” “Good trouble?” Scott grinned, nodding back. “Necessary trouble.”
-x-
“I wish I could come along. I’ve been dying to see more of the city....” Jean slumped in her seat, radiating disappointment. It was early Saturday morning in a coffee shop on the edge of campus, called Halo Beans, one very popular with students in Jean and Ororo’s dorm. “The only thing I’m going to see this weekend is the lab,” Jean concluded. As much as she loved her research, she too was feeling overwhelmed at having just a month left in the semester. And that on top of having lost almost a whole week of work time between the holiday break and preparations for the Brand Annex opening. “Another time,” Ro promised agreeably. “Of course, I wouldn’t want to get in the way...” Jean couldn’t help teasing her friend over a possible budding romance. “Much like yourself, I have no time in my schedule to sort through prospective beaus.” “Well, if you won’t do it, that outfit certainly will,” Jean responded with her best Groucho Marx impression, complete with waggling eyebrows and imaginary cigar. It was an understatement to say the two young women had polar opposite tastes in fashion. While Jean tended to follow the latest trends and carefully accessorize, Ororo had never developed a liking for Western fashion. Not only did she have no use for the concept of modesty, Ororo tended to countervail her distaste for covering herself with useless fabrics by picking light-weight (or skin-tight) items so as not to unnecessarily restrict her movement. Rooming with Ororo had also taught Jean that showers were a thing that could happen at any time and place when one controlled the weather. This morning Jean had forgotten, momentarily, that Ororo would likely not infer (from the Marx reference) that her comment was meant to be taken as a joke. “Jean Grey,” Ororo responded with a rare flash of offense, “I may not have your flair for fashion but I am more than capable of screening my own suitors.” Jean fell silent in surprise, which immediately filled Ororo with regret for snapping at her. “I apologize. I suppose I am nervous. Not over the young man; he is charming and I expect he will be fine company. The nerves are for nothing so simple as the start of a new romance. I am uncertain of what to expect from this homecoming. “When I was a child in Cairo I wanted to learn all I could of my father’s legacy. Now I have the opportunity to experience firsthand his inheritance to me in this land of my birth. But I am no longer the same person I was when this city was my home. Can a place be your home when you are a stranger to it and it to you? I want to understand what it means to be both African and American, to claim full inheritance as daughter to both of my parents. Already, knowing what I know of New York City, I wonder if such a thing is possible for me.” Jean didn’t have a chance to respond to Ororo’s worries before a chime over the front door sounded a new arrival. The door opened to allow Emory inside. “Good morning, ladies,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Are we up for adventure today?” “I was just telling Ro, I wish I could come along, but she’ll have to have fun without me.” “Everyone’s welcome,” he insisted. “Actually, I thought for sure Summers would be around here, obnoxiously bright and early.” Ororo frowned slightly. “I am surprised that he is not.” Jean gave a slight shrug. “If he’s feeling as stressed as most of us are, his morning run probably went longer than he planned.” Jean’s gaze flitted around the room. She suspected there were a few of their fellow dorm residents here this morning who harbored their own interests in seeing Scott fresh off his morning run. She didn’t mind their disappointments. “Still, he knows we’ll each be occupied for the remainder of the day,” Ororo persisted. Emory, feeling like he wasn’t completely in the loop on this exchange, noted that Ororo and Jean each had their coffees already. So, after neither of them took him up on his offer to buy them a pastry or bagel, he excused himself to get his own coffee. A look held between Jean and Ororo. Ororo, with a slightly raised eyebrow, silently reminded Jean that she could check on Scott’s whereabouts if she chose to. Jean, just as discreetly, declined. Given her shaky control over Thanksgiving, she thought a little extra restraint was in order. Besides, Scott was entitled to enjoy his Saturday morning without having her popping into his head to check up on him. Before Ororo could counter, and seeing Emory’s return, Jean stood and gathered up her things. From across the room, Emory noticed a similar flurry of motion ensuing. As soon as he saw Jean Grey stand, Ted Roberts rushed to gather his own things, coffee cup gripped precariously in his teeth. Maybe Summers was missing in more ways than one this morning... or maybe that explained Summers’ absence. Either way, seemed he had some competition. Ted Roberts managed to intercept Jean on her way out, just in time to hold the door and then walk out alongside her. That girl was a looker, no doubt about it, and personality like a firefly. Emory could totally get why Summers was hung up on Jean Grey. “Are you ready to go?” Emory asked Ororo. Ororo nodded and got to her feet, graceful as always, coffee in hand. “Just a moment, please.” On her way out she paused at another table, the one Ted Roberts had just vacated. While Ted had rushed to follow Jean Grey on her way to lab at the Brand Annex, Calvin Rankin had stayed behind along with Amanda and Meggan. “Amanda, thank you for agreeing to take my work shift today at the museum.” “I should thank you,” Amanda countered cheerfully. Emory exchanged a smile with Meggan, who was otherwise looking even more glum than Cal. He wasn’t making eye contact with anything other than his coffee cup at the moment. “There’s a new job opening for next semester,” Amanda explained. “Now that building renovations are finally done, they’ll be opening the paleontology wing for display again,” she continued. “I talked to Dr. Lykos about it and I might be able to get that job, if today goes well.” Again, Emory was left shaking off the feeling of not quite being in the loop for a second or two before Ororo said her goodbyes and he held the door for them to leave. Then she smiled at his polite gesture and any remaining worry was chased from his mind. Jean Grey had absolutely nothing on Ororo Monroe, not when it came down to looks or personality. Ororo was pure sparkling delight and the two of them were off to spend the whole day together. Emory felt like he was on top of the world.
-x-
A short cab ride later, Emory and Ororo got out at 515 Malcolm X Blvd. in Harlem. “I figured we’d start here.” They had arrived at the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture. It was a Harlem institution, a simple brick and glass facade housing all manners of art, history, theater, music, along with a massive research library and archives. A shrine to Black culture and identity, from all over the world and all throughout history. “Goddess,” Ororo whispered softly, looking up to take in the building’s five story height, “I never knew there was such a place.” “They house a large collection of African art and artifacts. Of course, I have no idea if I’ll be showing you, or if the reverse will be true,” Emory quipped playfully. Once inside, they joined a clutch of school kids and some tourists, along with a handful of locals, mostly older men, their Saturday morning newspapers at the ready. There were little candies, toys, and crafts for the kids. The crowd sipped at various samples of African-blended coffees and snacked on Sfenj – Moroccan fritters – while they chatted amongst themselves and waited their turns to begin guided tours. The atmosphere was warm and inviting, but what struck Ororo most was the way everything, from the sights and smells to the carefully curated art and decor, evoked a sensation of being surrounded by one’s own history. They didn’t have long to wait before Emory was approached by a tall and stunning African-American woman who greeted him with a warm hug. Ororo thought her impressive in stature even without an equally impressive Afro or the platform heels protruding from under brightly-colored bell bottom pants, a fashion holdover from the American 70's. “Emory Holmes. It’s about time!” She scolded him playfully. “Ororo Monroe, this is Misty Knight. We went to high school together before my folks moved to D.C. Misty is a student at New York City College now, and I promised to look her up once we both got settled in the city.” Emory added to Misty, “I wanted to show Ororo the Schomburg; she works at ESU’s Natural History Museum.” “Very nice to meet you, Ororo. Don’t tell me, now. Ororo.... Essence of delicate beauty. Right?” Ororo smiled widely and gave a slight bow, warmly taking Misty’s hands in her own. Since she had arrived in America, she had been asked occasionally, the meaning and origin of her given name. No one she’d met here had known it already. It was a small thing, but it made her feel comfortable in Misty’s presence immediately. “Working here has made me want to learn African languages. I know a little Swahili from my family, but my Kenyan is very rudimentary.” “I am sure you will learn it with time. I learned Kenyan as a girl; of course I learned it being surrounded by the language.” “Sink or swim.” Ororo nodded. “I envy you in working here. This place is truly unique.” “Well, today you both get the special friends and family treatment. Full tour of the museum, then lunch, and we can plan out a walking tour for the afternoon if you like.” “That all sounds wonderful. Thank you.” “I hope you don’t mind that I recruited Misty to help,” Emory admitted a little sheepishly once Misty had excused herself. “I talk a good game but, truth is, after my family moved to D.C. we don’t get back here much anymore. Short visits, mostly. Misty, on the other hand,” he shook his head, smiling. “Her working here is just the beginning. She’s got her finger on the pulse of Harlem.” A few minutes later Misty collected them and a handful of other patrons to lead them into the heart of the museum. “Can you imagine being told that you have no history? Your people have no history; they have no heroes, no great accomplishments to speak of. That is precisely what this museum’s founder was told as a boy. As a young man growing up in Puerto Rico in the late 1800's – son of a free black woman from the Danish West Indies and a white man whose German family had immigrated to Puerto Rico – Arturo Alfonso Schomburg knew that what his teacher said was not true, and he decided to prove her wrong. Schomburg made it his life’s passion to collect everything he could find to show the accomplishments of Africans, both on the African continent and everywhere throughout the world where African peoples had been dispersed. “Now, you might ask yourself, why is any of this important? Why does it matter to us today, artifacts that were buried in the ground thousands of years ago, writings from hundreds of years ago, songs sung by generations of slaves, or art and music from just a few decades past? It is important now for the same reason it was important to young Mr. Schomburg. Because history is reality, and history reminds us that time flows ever forward. If there is a history then there is also a future. When we understand the past, we better understand the present, and we are then better able to shape our own futures as we see fit. The future becomes open space, filled with endless possibility. “Throughout history, tyrants, dictators, and corrupt governments have tried to close off the future to populations that threatened them. Like Schomburg’s teacher, they will tell you, you never had anything, never were anything – they say this with the expectation that you will never be anything, at least nothing greater than what they would make of you. They want to make your future hard: hard to see, hard to imagine, hard to change. They want you to be content with a hidden history, an unreal reality, and a bleak, limited future. But even before he saw the truth for himself, young Mr. Schomburg recognized the lie. His people had a history. “Carry that truth with you as you walk these halls today. And when you leave here, let no one tell you that you are unimportant. You have a past, present, and future, all three – and the future is yours to make your own. You will shape and change the future, all the time, with your every action and with every choice you make.”
-x-
After their tour of the Schomburg, Misty insisted on taking them out to lunch, for an official Harlem lunch special at Sylvia’s. The weather was nice and they could easily walk the half mile down Malcolm X Blvd. to Sylvia’s Restaurant. “I asked Luke to meet us at Sylvia’s.” Emory grinned before explaining to Ororo, “Misty, Luke, and I used to be thick as thieves back in the day. How is he doing now?” “Good. Back on track. Happy, as he gets these days, anyway,” she amended with a laugh. “He’s a bit grumpy, overall,” she told Ororo, “but we love him anyway.” “Emory paused to catch Ororo up. “Luke got into trouble with the law, right before my folks moved us to D.C.” “Luke was always brilliant in school. Natural leader, kind of kid everyone knew was going places,” Misty insisted. “Misty was too, for that matter,” Emory countered. Misty ignored the complement. “Luke more so than me. He was like an older brother to everybody in our neighborhood. Then he dropped out of school to work, his senior year, after his father died– killed in an armed robbery. Just doing his job, driving delivery, got shot for whatever cash he had on him at the time.” “That’s terrible.” “It is,” Emory agreed, “but unfortunately that kind of thing wasn’t rare in our neighborhood. Mr. Cage’s death was the last straw for my folks. As much as they wanted to stay, they decided it was time to go, at least until me and my younger sisters could finish school.” “I always wanted to be a cop as a kid,” Misty remembered. “But months went by and those cops never caught the robber who killed Mr. Cage. Worse, they never much seemed to care about it; far as they were concerned, that kind of crime just happened in our neighborhood.... For a while I thought I’d go into law, like Emory’s dad, but by the time I started at NYCC, I’d decided on Criminal Justice. Least this way I can work on putting bad guys in jail and keeping the good guys out. Anyway, once we all realized that the cops weren’t going to catch Mr. Cage’s killer, Luke started trying to solve the case on his own. He got caught with some bad actors in the process, ended up in jail himself.” “Unjustly accused. Drug possession.” “Absolutely.” Misty concurred. “If you ask me, it was bad cops trying to stop Luke from poking around in their cold cases. After he got out he still wanted to change things, clean up his old neighborhood. He thought he’d start a PI agency, but he never quite got his idea off the ground until a few months ago. “What happened?” “He found a business partner. Luke helped the guy out of a pretty big jam, apparently, and he wanted to repay the favor. Guy named Daniel Rand. Very deep pockets. He helped Luke get himself licensed for PI and security work, and Rand started a small business the two of them could incorporate together. Luke called it: Heroes for Hire. Rand got lawyers, a business manager, even an office with a secretary – the whole deal – and set it all up over on Park Ave.” Emory chuckled at that last bit. “Let me guess, Luke hated it.” “Exactly. What he really wanted to do was set up Heroes for Hire, Inc. as a nonprofit, something to help the neighborhood. When he asked me to come in on that part of the project this fall, really shake things up, I ran hard with the opportunity.” “Here is the man,” Emory announced. Standing ahead of them, waiting under a storefront sign proudly proclaiming, “Sylvia’s: Queen of Soul Food since 1962,” was Luke Cage. Luke was well over six feet tall and built like a tank, but the big man was grinning widely having sighted an old friend. “Emory Holmes,” Luke replied, with a bear hug for his friend, “been way too long, man. How’s ESU treating you?” “All good so far. Luke, meet my friend, Ororo Monroe. She’s bravely letting us show her around Harlem today.” Luke greeted Ororo with a handshake. “Don’t let this fool even give you directions,” he goaded Emory as they made their way inside, prompting Misty to laugh raucously. They were soon seated and the guys ordered their weights in fried chicken and pork barbecue with collard greens and black eyed peas. Misty settled on okra and tomato gumbo with a side of candied yams and pickled beets. Ororo tried the fried catfish with buttered corn and string beans. For a while there was more eating than talking. But Luke did manage to tell Emory and Ororo about how Danny Rand had stepped up to finance Luke’s fledgling PI operation. “Of course the first thing I had to do was move out of those fancy digs and back into Harlem!” “Instead of an office, Rand owns the whole building now,” Misty offered. “Or at least his family money does. Likely a tax write-off,” Luke groused. “Rand would bankroll the whole venture if he’d let him, but Luke has his limits.” “Rand covers our overhead, the property and support staff. But everything we take in in payment goes back out to the community. That’s my rule,” Luke insisted. “But it was Misty’s vision that transformed the place. I saw a little business that could help serve the community. She saw a place that could be a one stop shop for anything the community needed. She called in favors, recruited every volunteer she could find to make it work.” “Starting with another PI to split the case load with Luke. Colleen Wing. She’s amazing.” “Then she convinced Drs. Noah Burstein and Claire Temple to run a volunteer medical clinic for us a couple of days a week. Gathered teachers and community leaders willing to donate their time to work with kids after school, and started drives for everything from food, to books, to winter clothes.” “It’s only a beginning,” Misty countered as she and Ororo split a Strawberry Bread pudding for dessert (while the guys fought off dueling food comas). “I want this place to be the heartbeat of the community, the first place people come to when they need help. I guess the simplest description for what we’re doing is ‘community organizing’ but, for the long run, I want us to be on the front lines of everything that really affects people’s lives in the community: school boards, policing and public safety, voting– even supporting candidates for local government. “Rand is helping me file paperwork to create a political arm of Heroes for Hire: The Progress ‘68 Project.” “68 Project?” “I was hoping you would ask!” Emory chuckled. “Uh oh, I know that look.” “68 will focus on the plight of kids in Harlem. Basically challenging the pace of progress since the ‘68 Harlem protests. “Right now we’re a nonprofit funded by community-based PI and security work. This move would allow us to properly fund-raise and build support for local candidates who want to make real differences in Harlem... no more useless, lazy, fat cat politicians, only claiming to care about the little people come November.” “Speaking of fat cats, I’m stuffed,” Luke added. “I’m surprised you’re still awake!” Misty shot back agreeably. With lunch finished, Luke picked up takeout boxes for the support staff back at Heroes for Hire, then they all headed back outside into a crisp, clear New York City afternoon. Misty handed Ororo a hand-written itinerary of sights to see, starting with the Apollo Theater, which they’d pass by with Luke on their way back to Heroes for Hire. Luke assured Ororo that, back at the offices, he’d be able to find an address and phone number for her Monroe relatives in no time. Then, after hugs all around, Misty was off to work her afternoon shift while Luke, Emory, and Ororo walked up 125th from Sylvia’s, past the Apollo, and caught a train headed north along St. Nicolas Park to 135th.
-x-
The Heroes for Hire building was a six story dating back to 1901, originally housing twelve apartments. Now barely one step ahead of the wrecking ball, and yet still charming with its beautifully old-fashioned, ornate, turn-of-the-century architectural flourishes. Dark red brick was offset by stone facing and a fire escape running down the front middle of the building, where it faced the park. There were children at play in St. Nicolas Park across the street, and parts of NYCC’s campus were visible in the distance beyond. “It’s a fixer-upper,” Luke decided gruffly, ignoring the matrix of repair scaffolding outside to hold the door open for Emory and Ororo. “Lots of room for expansion,” he explained. “We’ll make the second floor into office space, then open the upstairs apartments so Misty and the other staff can live on-site if they choose.” The whole bottom floor had already been gutted and renovated for work space: converting one former apartment’s living rooms and bedrooms into a lobby with adjoining office spaces. A second former apartment served as all-purpose meeting and storage: rooms for donated supplies, and a couple of kids’ study/play rooms. Everything was open and spacious with hardwood floors, exposed brick walls, and high ceilings. “This place is amazing, Luke,” Emory told his friend. Luke brushed off the complement but Emory could tell he was proud of it anyway. Ororo crossed the lobby to peruse a table featuring a selection of free books and pamphlets. Ororo picked up one called “Teaching in an Unteachable World.” Luke dropped off lunches for Rand’s people, attorney Jeryn Hogarth and business manager, Jennie Royce. Then, with a nod and wave, he disappeared into the elevator up to the second floor where he lived and worked, over the shop, as he liked to say. A short time later he returned, as promised, with a name, address, and phone number for Ororo. Ororo used the Heroes for Hire phone to make a quick call and was able to set up a meeting for late afternoon. That feat accomplished, Emory and Ororo thanked Luke and his staff then set off to further explore Harlem.
-x-
Mount Morris Park and the surrounding neighborhood was designated an historic district in 1971, famous for its “Doctor’s Row” and Marcus Garvey Park. Of course none of that was of great concern to Ororo Monroe at the moment. She and Emory had spent a delightful afternoon roaming about Harlem, soaking up the sights, sounds, people, and atmosphere of the place. But this last stop was different. Ororo stepped out of a yellow cab across West 121st Street from the address Luke Cage had given her for a woman named Patrice Monroe Honore, her father’s sister. Ororo’s aunt. Emory dropped Ororo off, at her request, and with assurances that he’d be back for her in an hour. “If you need an earlier pick up, call me at the Heroes for Hire office.” He handed her one of Luke’s new business cards, then smiled and wished her luck. Ororo was on her own. She walked across the street toward a neat row of brightly colored townhouses. Earlier in the tour Emory had called them turn-of-the-century rowhouses: examples of Romanesque Revival architecture, inspired by the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, if she remembered her facts correctly. Ororo stepped up a short handful of stairs. The name on the doorplate read: Honore. Ororo rang the bell and waited. She was met a few moments later by a late-middle-aged lady with closely cropped graying hair, who was shadowed by a boy of about ten. He was tall and slightly stout, crossing his arms and scowling out at Ororo from behind his mother. “Ororo.” Patrice hugged her warmly. “You must barely remember me after all these years!” “Thank you so much for seeing me. I know my visit is unexpected.” “Nonsense. Family is family. Speaking of, this is my son, David,” she motioned toward the boy behind her, who still looked less than enthusiastic to meet Ororo. “He’s your father’s namesake, born about a year after your father and mother passed. Rest their souls.” Patrice took Ororo’s arm and guided her down the stairs. “He’s being quite overprotective about all this, I’m sorry to say,” she decided, though there was also clear pride in her voice. “He doesn’t want me to have you inside, nor does he want me out walking with a stranger.” Patrice came to a pause and held Ororo out to arm’s length. “I told him I would know right away if you were who you say you are, and there it is. No hiding David and N’Dare’s daughter, is there?” She laughed loudly, seemingly enamored at her own deduction, before they continued walking. “So we compromise. Let’s you and I take a walk through the park to catch up while David plays chaperone. Yes?” Ororo gave a nod, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder at David as he trailed behind. “That is more than agreeable for me.” “Excellent. Now let’s hear all about you, Ororo.”
-x-
It was well after dark by the time Ororo and Emory returned to ESU’s campus. Ororo let herself into the room she shared with Jean to find Jean waiting up, but already dressed in her pajamas, hair pulled up in a ponytail. She was sprawled across her bed, reading, while munching on popcorn. She immediately sat up when Ororo walked in. “Well?” She looked fit to burst with curiosity. “How was it?” “A truly wondrous day. I feel as though I’ve found a missing link I never knew was missing.” Jean was bouncing with joy. “Tell me, tell me. What did you do? What did you see– What are those?” Ororo shed her jacket and placed a stack of bound notebooks down on her study desk. “These are personal journals of my father’s. Patrice found them when my paternal grandmother passed away; it seems she’d inherited most of my parents’ possessions after Cairo. These journals run from his childhood well into his adult life.” “Who is Patrice, and how did you meet her– No– Wait, start at the beginning.” Jean grabbed a pillow and snaked herself under the covers, still holding on to her popcorn bowl with one hand, while the books she had been reading carefully levitated themselves back onto her study desk. Ororo chuckled softly as she settled herself onto her own bed, thinking her best friend looked for all the world like a little kid eagerly awaiting a bedtime story. “We started the day by walking through wonders, a place built as a shrine to Black worth, by combination of art, history, and culture, all centered on a common people. Ambience, art, music, color– Walking through this place made me feel as though my soul had come home.” After covering the Schomburg, itself, Ororo told Jean about Misty Knight and the speech she had begun their tour with. “This amazing place– It’s a celebration; but it is also a battle cry. “The founder’s story was incredibly striking. He took this slight from his childhood and was not content to let go of it until he had proven to himself and to all the world that his people, his culture, could not be erased from history, and would be neither dismissed nor ignored by future generations.” Ororo came to a thoughtful pause. “I began there, searching for some missing tie. Between my mother and father. Africa and America. Thinking about their blending and bridging of cultures. The ability to fully accept one another with open heart, to find fascination in the different and the same, alike, and to thrive in love together. “These past years, I have spent all my energy bringing my powers to heel, mastering myself, as I needed to do for my own survival and in order to secure my own future. But perhaps, in setting that task aside for now, I am given new opportunity to explore again. In studying I realize, history is a way of teaching ourselves the meaning of time while increasing our understanding of the world around us. Throughout history, those of evil intent use suffering over time as a strategy to wear down opposition. To normalize their atrocities and to crush their subjects into conformity with their will. Those who suffer tend to believe that suffering necessarily strengthens and teaches, but it is not a certainty that we learn because we suffer; we have to seek out knowledge. Meanwhile, time flows forever forward, and history reminds us that our time matters also... but I digress somewhat.” Ororo redirected her thoughts to tell Jean about Patrice. “I found in Patrice a very real hope for the future mixed with equal parts despair and bitterness for the same. Patrice is my father’s sister. She is tough and battle-scarred in the ways that many are. Jaded and worn down from a hard life. Much the same as Harlem, itself. A mix of pride in what has been built tempered with brutal knowledge that such achievement is fleeting and can always be taken or destroyed. While I was hoping for a tie to my father, Patrice was hoping – I think – for a tie to her homeland. She expressed to me a sense of lost destiny.” Ororo recalled her Aunt’s words: “So many of us are fascinated by Africa as a homeland we never knew, a life that was taken from us. The mystery and destiny of what we lost so long ago pulls on our minds and hearts. Here, in America, we built this country from its earliest days. It is uniquely ours, by sweat, and blood, and labor, and lives given. Yet, we have been denied its spoils again and again. In this country where all men are said to be equal. But our men were never included in that measure of equality, and for too long women were not considered as equals to any men. This country with its Great American Dream twisted into nightmares for those who came here with less than nothing. “I think that explains why we dream so of Africa, as a place that was ours, a place we could have built as we built this one, not as slave labor, but product of our freedom and ingenuity. Even now, over two hundred years later, my son has no grand destiny here, no guarantee of a return on his ancestor’s lifetimes of suffering and toil. Only what he can scrape for himself today through hard work and sacrifice. For us, this country offers little inheritance; but there is always another pair of bootstraps.” Ororo next told Jean of Luke and Misty’s work with Heroes for Hire. Ororo was impressed with their sense of purpose, their dedication to the people of Harlem, people like her Aunt Patrice. But Ororo was especially taken with their philosophy toward the children of Harlem. Or, more to the point, the recognition that children’s needs extended far beyond the reach of teaching and learning. “Perhaps I should have realized it before,” Ororo considered, “but perhaps the need was harder for me to see when I was also beneficiary of the effort to sate it. What Professor Xavier has done – what we are still seeking to do – ours will be an effort toward so much more than education alone. Much like the work Luke and Misty are doing in Harlem, many of our future students will need more than a teacher to teach them facts and figures.” After a brief pause, Jean asked, “So… did you and Emory make additional plans?” “We spoke of returning to help Misty and Luke in any way we can with Heroes For Hire, and I am quite certain I’ve not seen the last of Patrice. I imagine Harlem will continue to pull me back again, like a jealous love....” Ororo, it seemed, had already fallen. “In Cairo I loved life: risk, freedom, adventure, danger. I left Cairo only to chase my mother’s legacy in Kenya. There, the land came alive to me and, for the time I was there, we embarked upon the most passionate and tumultuous of love affairs. Before Harlem, I feel as though I have tried to love America without really knowing her. “This country is a place of great hope and also great despair; sometimes the two are at open war with one another. In many ways Harlem is like looking into a mirror on my own life. It is a place that has blended Africa and America into something unique and beautiful. A place torn between defiant pride for its heritage and a vicious fight for its future. Everything about it is familiar, in both the wondrous and the horrid. Shaped – both torn down and built up again – by hard times: crime, poverty, violence, hopelessness... the likes of which I had not seen since Cairo. “But in Kenya my bond was to the land. Though I loved them, my mother’s people were never my own. Never family, but subjects. In Cairo, I forged hard bonds to those I was given, to protect and care for them to the far reaches of my strength, even to the extent of my own life. Here, when I walk the streets of Harlem, my bond to my father’s people is clear. In every face I see father and mother, native and immigrant, all struggling to make a future, family. Brimming with hope and pride and determination for a better life. It is the hope pressed against hard edge that defines America.”