Dusty was tired when he got home that night. He had been riding the school bus for more than an hour, and he had a crick in his neck--and a headache. He had homework to do, and he felt a surge of resentment towards his teacher. Mrs. Cartwright had persuaded him to enter into a contract by agreeing to help him improve his reading, urging him to "read as much as you can," and in return she had extracted his promise to do his homework every day. She warned him that it wouldn't be easy, nothing worthwhile ever is, but she expressed her total confidence in his abilities. For reasons he didn't fully understand, he was unwilling to let her down--nor did he want to feel the sharp edge of her tongue, "but I'll do it a bit later," he promised himself.
He plopped down on the lumpy couch and turned on the TV. An old black-and-white movie was playing. As he was looking for the remote to flip the channel, he was arrested by the most beautiful, soothing, melodious voice he had ever heard. The film was "King Solomon's Mines" made in the 1930s. The voice belonged to Paul Robeson. Dusty sank back on the couch and watched the tall and handsome man as he moved about the screen. His diction was flawless, his physique was wide and muscular, and his unmistakable pride in who he was--his African-American maleness--communicated itself through the screen to the wide-eyed boy. Dusty's hand closed over the quartz rock he always carried in his pocket, and it began to vibrate. It was given to him by his grandmother with whom he lived, and he had already experienced its magical properties. The air grew hazy, and Dusty was lifted up, out of the present time, out of his corporeal body, over land, through a rushing wind, until he was gently set down on the back of a flat-bed truck with his back against the cab.
Dusty was invisible, but most of his senses were intact. The truck was rattling along a country lane. The air was a bit chilly, the sky overcast, but Dusty figured out it was the middle of the afternoon. The driver was black, and he was dressed in an open-necked shirt with a heavy jacket over it. A car containing four men followed the flat-bed. In the front passenger seat sat Paul Robeson. He looked tired and a great deal older than he had in the movie, but his strength of purpose and determination was evident in his bearing, and when he smiled at the driver next to him, his whole face lit up as if the sun were shining brightly. Dusty watched the shifting expressions on Robeson's face, then moved to a more comfortable position. As he did so, he realized he was sitting on a Canadian newspaper. A caption stated:
"Robeson's passport confiscated. U.S. State Department forbids him to leave country to perform in British Commonwealth. All concerts cancelled." The date was June 15, 1950.
A paragraph under the caption caught Dusty's eye:
Robeson, demanding equality and dignity for negroes in the United States, was called a traitor by a U.S. State Department spokesman following remarks the entertainer made as keynote speaker at the meeting of the African National Congress in Paris last year. Robeson stated, among other things, that he would much rather fight the southern whites in America who are denying equal rights to colored people than the Russians who have not done anything to them at all.
Underneath that was a brief paragraph listing Robeson's accomplishments: All-American, Rutgers University; graduate, Columbia Law School; linguist; educator; Shakespearean actor; musician.
Before Dusty could read any more, the truck rattled to a halt. A waiting moving van backed up to the bed of the truck, and two men transferred a piano onto it. Dusty jumped out of the way, and walked around a bit to stretch his legs in the unseasonably cold, June gloom. As he looked back, he saw Robeson was surrounded by several men. They were laughing and talking, and Dusty sensed that something momentous was about to happen. He walked to the front of the truck and peered around its motor. They were at the United States/Canadian border in Peace Arch Park, in the state of Washington.
On the Canadian side, a crowd was beginning to gather. As Dusty watched in surprise, more and more people came streaming along the road and through the grassy hillocks, all on foot, some carrying picnic hampers and blankets, some with children, and all dressed warmly, totally prepared against the cold air. As the crowd swelled in size, the flat-bed, on the U.S. side, carefully backed up against the border sign and shortly thereafter, Paul Robeson and his long-time accompanist, Laurence Brown, climbed on board to thunderous applause. As Brown sat down at the keyboard, the applause ceased, and there was an expectant hush over the huge, peaceful crowd.
Robeson leaned against the piano, surveyed the audience, and began to sing. For one glorious hour he entertained the spellbound Canadians sitting just a few feet away. Afterwards he said simply: "As I cannot come to you, I thank you for meeting me here. I am grateful for your show of support in this difficult time, I am honored to be able to represent American negroes everywhere, and I assure you that I shall never give up the fight for our equality." The silence was profound for several moments, and then it was broken by a standing ovation. Along with that vast audience, Dusty felt the emotion welling in his heart. His eyes were wet, there was a lump in his throat, but, oh, how proud he was to be in the company of such a brother.
As the crowd called for encores, the stone began its familiar vibration, and the boy was whisked back through time and across the continent, and deposited back on the lumpy, living room couch. Dusty sat for a while, hugging his experience to himself, and savoring the memory. Then, in his head, he heard the words, "read as much as you can," so with a short sigh and a slight shake of his head, he took out his homework and settled down to study. Across town, correcting papers at her desk, Mrs. Cartwright suddenly felt light-hearted and began to smile. She didn't know why.
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