THE COLOR OF LIBERATION
“And the best thing about it, Win—you look black.” Turning from the controls of the Lear jet, Brooks Adams adjusted his Foster Grants and broke an Eddie Murphy grin, “I mean on paper. Think about it! Win-field Pay-ton. That could be a black guy’s name, right?”
“Thank God my parents didn’t name me Sean,” Winfield said, self-consciously brushing his blond hair. Win had come to regard his Eurocentric complexion as a handicap for an instructor in an urban community college. He was, his Hispanic dean ceaselessly reminded him, the lone white male English instructor hired in a decade.
“You see,” Brooks explained, “some people on the board gave me heat last summer when I brought on Carlos and Bijan. They see a foreign-looking name on our letter-head and go ballistic. They want to know why I didn’t hire a brother—meaning, of course, their deadbeat brother-in-law. But I’m running a savings and loan, not a charity. We’re not some community based non-profit that can run to the mayor every time we can’t pay the light bill. If folks want jobs, they have to bring something to the table.
“The board doesn’t understand that a black business can’t afford to be insulated. I try telling them that if we don’t maintain a little diversity of our own, we risk isolating ourselves. But they’re old school. Ministers. Funeral directors. You know that kind of black folk. Conservative. Old-fashioned. Their vision is limited. They want us to be some kind of colored George Bailey Building and Loan outfit. Help a Negro buy a ranch house. Right out of Raisin in the Sun. It’s a noble idea, but it ain’t 1960 anymore. We have to move on. Remember the old days? When all we did were tavern loans and duplex mortgages?”
Winfield nodded. He had first tasted the fruits of capitalism in the damp basement of Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan, helping his college roommate xerox car loan flyers. Brooks’ father, a retired Air Force colonel, had staked his pension on a storefront S&L. Cash poor in the summer of ’99, he paid his sons and Win in repoed cars. For his services, Winfield was rewarded with a distressed Dodge Dynasty with bullet holes and bad tires. But the effort to bring a Clintonian form of Reaganomics to the inner city paid off, and four years later, Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan moved into a 1910 neo-classic temple that once housed Badger Life and Annuity.
“We have to branch out,” Brooks insisted, tapping the controls. “Half the minority loans these days are going to Asians and Hispanics. But if I put out an ad in Spanish, folks on the board jump all over me. They want to keep the S&L a ‘black thang.’ Talk about growth, the Internet, networking, the global economy, and their eyes glaze over. I wanted to put two hundred thousand into a hotel complex in Scotland. A sure safe sixteen percent return! But the board went wild. Why should black money go to Scotland? Why don’t we buy up some houses in the ghetto and fix them up for poor people? I try to explain the profit motive, and they look at me like I’m selling them the road to Hell.
“That’s why I started Frederick Douglass Investments. FDI will have its own board. I got the S&L directors to give us seed capital. OK, we have to report to them, but they won’t have to sign off on every deal we make. Anything under a half a mil is beyond their reach. We have to put it in the quarterly report, but we won’t have to do a song and dance every time we want to move some money offshore. But they still have to approve key personnel. I managed to squeak Carlos and Bijan through. Well, Winfield C. Payton, Ph.D. won’t sound any alarms.”
“Tell them I went to Dillard,” Winfield said, recalling a distant New Orleans July in the pre-Katrina era. Jungle humidity, four showers a day, wash suits, and lots of chicory coffee and Motrin to face two hours of summer school and ten hours of drinking. And now Bourbon Street was less than thirty minutes away. Nostalgia tugged at him. Boozy, bosomy memories of dancers named Brandy, Star, and Ginger came to mind. Alas, now they would all be past their prime, no doubt living on alimonies or running hair salons in Metairie or Gretna. Winfield was far too discreet, too mature to hang out in topless bars at home, but in the Big Easy visiting a strip joint was almost mandatory, like dropping a roll of quarters into a Vegas slot machine. Maybe, if things went well, they could celebrate at the Sho-Bar before heading home.
“Take this business,” Brooks continued. “I gave up trying to explain it to the board. It’s simple and profitable. Larry and I fly in the Reserves. So we set up a company delivering aircraft sold at government auctions. We service and deliver. It’s all cash, and we get in plenty of flight hours. This baby,” he said patting the instrument panel, “was seized by the IRS. Cat in New Orleans bought it. Normally, we fly the bird in and have to deadhead home. But today we have a plane to take to Chicago. So I can afford to bring everyone down to make the presentation. Show off the whole team. That’s why I want you to join FDI officially. I can’t pay much. A thousand a month plus an office.
“When the real estate firm on the second floor pulled out, I saw our chance to grow. Instead of renting out the space, I decided to put together a network of entrepreneurs, people who already have steady jobs and benefits. Why hire one executive full-time, when I can pick up four or five people—attorneys, PhD’s, all with solid credentials. People who already have a stable base with a pension and benefits but want more, want to do something on their own. People who aren’t satisfied with the usual tradeoff. Why should you have to compromise these days? Keisha’s got a safe job in her Dad’s law firm but wants to take a stab at investments without risking her trust fund. Like you, Bijan works out of a two-by-four faculty cubicle. He can’t meet clients there, even if his dean is impressed with the good will and free publicity his consulting gives the department. I see all of us working together. You work part-time for FDI and do your own thing on the side and share what you bring you in. It’s a win-win situation. Plus, we can feed each other clients. You can run a public relations agency out of the office. All I ask is a one-third split up to ten thousand a month to cover expenses. Less your thousand. You get that every month, whether you make money on your own or not. Just help out when I want you to and be a phone call away when we need all hands on deck for something special. So what do you think of becoming Dr. Winfield Payton, Communications Director? How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like home.” Looking at the clouds, Winfield smiled. A thousand a month. An extra six-fifty after taxes would just about cover his credit card payments, which ballooned to national debt proportions each summer.
“I thought MITI was home.”
“Sure. A hundred and thirty-five a year plus benefits, but there it stops. I can stay there until death and only see a three to five percent annual growth. I need something more.” Pushing forty, Winfield had grown dissatisfied with teaching. It was a lifetime job with as much security as a slot on the Supreme Court, but he felt pinched by its limitations. College pals and ex-girlfriends had made fortunes in real estate and junk bonds, building second and third homes in Phoenix and Key West. Brooks, too, was getting impatient. The big 4-0 was on the horizon, and his chances of being a black Donald Trump or ebony Ted Turner were running out. He lived on the edge, hungering for national recognition. Nothing delighted him more than a Fed-Ex from San Diego or an email from Kuwait.
“Too bad the screenplay didn’t turn out,” Brooks mused.“Yes,” Winfield sighed, regretting the thousands he’d spent on reading fees for AM/FM. Sadly the script reviewers in Japanese-owned studios were uniformly unimpressed by his taut drama about a fired shock jock turned homeless advocate. Someone who knew someone who knew Nipsey Russell’s nephew had managed to get it read by an independent producer who promised to discuss Win’s project with his partners. But Winfield’s chance at making the Hollywood D-list had evidently fizzled out over a three martini lunch in the no smoking section of an outdoor Valley restaurant. His script was returned, crumpled, stained, and burned—evidently having served as an illicit ashtray. And it would have been the perfect resurrection vehicle for Pauly Shore.
“Well, keep plugging. You’ll make it yet. Meanwhile there’s no reason why you can’t make a little money. You always wanted to be Jack Kerouac in a clean shirt.”
“This sure beats flying standby,” Winfield said, eager to change the topic. He shifted in the contoured seat, his arms still aching from last night’s session with Barbie. A stressful closing and a tense PTA meeting had made her especially submissive.
“Enjoy it, the flight back won’t be so snug. We’re taking back a DC-3 cargo ship. No bar on that bird and no seats—that’s why I brought along blankets and sleeping bags.”
“Still beats flying commercial.”
“Frankly, I couldn’t afford to fly the full team anywhere. We’ve taken on a lot of new expenses. But we have to spend to grow. Bringing on new folks ought to improve our cash flow.”
“Well, I opened a savings account and bought a Douglass CD.”
Brooks smiled. “Don’t forget a car loan, a mortgage, and hell, buy a tavern through us as well. Seriously, adding people expands our network. Bijan has solid ties with the Iranian exile community. His grandfather was a minister in the Shah’s government. His family is worth ten to twenty million, and their relatives in California can give us some solid leads on investors. Carlos is tight with the Miami Cubans. And your Dad’s outfit—Fitzgerald, Payton, and Ryan . . .”
“Can tap us right into the EU if we need to. . .”
“Hey, does your Dad still have Emerald Isle Investments?”
“You mean Erin-Go-Broke? Sure, it’s only part of my grandfather’s empire that survived the Crash. Pays about half a percent. Generates ten or twenty grand in commissions a year.” Though of dubious investment value, the green gilt-edged certificates, embossed with Gaelic script and festooned with castles and shamrocks, made wonderful St. Patrick’s Day gifts.
“Play the Irish card whenever you can. You have to max your opportunities where you find them. Hell, as a Republican, I ought to bash Affirmative Action—but who can turn it down? Tell me if you would? The problem is you have to know how to use it. All those minority quotas just open the door. They let you in to compete, but you have to bring something new to the mix to become a player. That’s what most black outfits don’t understand. They think all we have to do is show up and do the job just as well as everyone else, maybe a little better to prove ourselves. Well, hell, take away Affirmative Action, and white folks could do that for themselves. We have to provide seven figure names Goldman Sachs never heard of, fresh markets, new prospects, links to investors, and deals they can’t touch. Then we become a real asset, not just a social obligation.
“And there is another reason I want you on board. You get along with Lionel, not everyone does. Black folks can be a little intolerant about him. He embarrasses me sometimes, but he’s my kid brother. Everyone else, except Keisha, is afraid it will rub off on them. Plus, having a white face in the room keeps us focused. Shel Wertheim says he always wants a goy at the table to keep his people honest. See, it’s too easy for minorities to get paranoid, develop the ‘us against them’ mindset. Everybody’s got a horror story to tell, and pretty soon you limit your options and start assuming every white’s a bigot. All it takes to diffuse that is one guy in the room to be the token, the exception. I’ve been there. Been the only niggah in the room and watched people bite their tongues. God knows what they said about spooks when I left to take a leak.”
“I’ll do my whitest.”
“More than that, we need a chiclet—a white guy—to be our public face from time to time. The moment I walk in the door, and people see we’re a black outfit, they have us pegged. For good or ill, we get pigeonholed and never get the full story. See, bigots don’t bother me. I can spot them in a heartbeat. They don’t waste your time. They won’t do business with you, no matter what, and you can feel it. It’s the whi-whi’s—the white whiners—the liberals who give me grief. They’re suspicious of black capitalists. We’re supposed to be victims, poor oppressed people who only rise through their benevolence. Rich niggers who know the stock market give them the shakes. You could get past that. White folks will be honest with you. See, if I walk in and do a presentation, white folks pitch me softball questions, so I won’t feel offended. I leave the room, and they throw the book at a white guy, and he gets the contract because they got a chance to sound him out. I get smiles and a second latté, but he gets vetted. We need a white face, someone to be suitably invisible. You can blend in and test the waters for us. That way our presentations get a full review.
“And you’re one of the few white guys I can trust. See, you’re used to working with us. You won’t get offended if someone vents and says something racist. Black folks need to blow off steam once in a while. You won’t hit the ceiling when one of us gets frustrated and rants about the fays.
“And we’re going to need your help to pull off Brewer’s Court. It’s going to be our chance to be major players.” He pointed to the brochure on Winfield’s lap. “The text you came up is first rate.”
“Thanks,” Winfield nodded. He had devoted late nights to writing and rewriting glowing descriptions of the proposed renovation of a nineteenth-century brewery. Soon, if enough investors could be attracted, the old brick malt silos and Gothic stone bottling plant would house upscale condos, offices, and exclusive retail outlets. The mayor mentioned the project in his re-election campaign. Investors in New York and San Francisco had expressed interest. Winfield had decided to invest twenty or thirty thousand and, with Barbie’s urging, hoped to purchase a condo.
“Frederick Douglass stands a chance to go national with this project. If we can finance twenty percent of it—hell, I want to do at least thirty-five—we’ll have credibility on the Coasts. It means working with US Bank, Chase, Northwestern. There will be major investors, pension managers from Illinois and Texas. We build solid relations with the major teachers’ retirement funds, and we’re in like Flynn. Nothing like a few black faces on their websites to make a pension board look socially responsible.”
“Where does Singh Veraswami fit in?”
“I caught him on Tony Brown a few years ago. He teaches at Tulane, but he’s coming to Marquette for a year. If we can bring him on board, even in an advisory role, it will get us international attention. Plus, he has some key contacts in Africa. He knows people who want to invest in the American market. That would make us unique, blending African-American and African investments in urban re-development. I’ve talked to Veraswami, and he’s interested. He sees what we are trying to do; he understands what I’m trying to explain to our board. Going global to work local. Have you read his book?”
“Some of it,” Winfield said, feeling like a fifth grader hit with a pop quiz. He had, in fact, only skimmed the dust jacket and scanned the preface. From the self-congratulatory bio on the fly leaf of Liberation Capitalism, Winfield gleaned that Dr. Singh Veraswami saw himself as a combination Malcolm X and Dale Carnegie, extolling black empowerment through the magic of compound interest and leverage buyouts.
Winfield pulled a copy from his briefcase. Leafing through the pages, as if seeking a favorite passage, he asked, “You think this guy will work with us if he finds out about Moses and Shed Harris?”
“I already told him we have community opposition. Today I’m going to lay it all out. He’s accustomed to controversy. I think he thrives on being booed offstage at Columbia and Howard. That why he goes back. Drives the whi-whi’s and gimme’s crazy. But he gets respect from the black business community. He’s got YouTube videos that get a lot of buzz. I see the links on a lot of corporate web-sites.”
Brooks glanced at his Rolex and motioned to Winfield, “We should be there in ten minutes. Why don’t you go back and tell the others to check their presentations one more time? And send Bijan up here. I need to go over some figures with him. As soon as we land, Tommy Steinman will take delivery of the plane. We sign a few forms, get our check, and grab a limo. We’re supposed to meet Veraswami at the Trade Mart at five.”
“Sure thing.” Winfield unsnapped his seat belt and edged past Brooks to enter the passenger cabin. Whoever had defaulted on the IRS had megalomaniac tastes. The navy blue carpeting was bordered with gold stars and bore an eagle logo that gave the jet the look of a baby Air Force One. Bijan was checking stock tips in an investor newsletter. Winfield tapped him on the shoulder and motioned him forward. Hunched over laptops and calculators, Lionel, Keisha, Ted Kaleem, and Carlos muttered to themselves like law students cramming for the bar exam. From time to time they sipped Diet Coke or Perrier. The six pack of Horicon Springs Mineral Water, a gift from a bottler seeking venture capital, remained untouched. Winfield bravely took a bottle and strapped himself in to review his notes. The mineral water tasted faintly of Listerine. Chewing sticks of Carefree to kill the flavor, he gazed out the window. Through the clouds, he caught a glimpse of Lake Pontchartrain. Arriving in New Orleans in a Lear jet to take a limo to the International Trade Mart, Winfield felt a world away from car loan flyers and the basement Xerox machine.
The Top of the Mart dazzled with light. Seated at an immense table, Singh Veraswami, dressed in Saville Row pinstripes, waved to Brooks and Win as they got off the elevator.
Shielding his eyes from the sunbeams, Winfield watched Veraswami rise in greeting, his small, lean body silhouetted against the blazing gold afternoon sun. Walking across the red-carpeted bar, Brooks whispered to Winfield, “This is it. Let’s hope we can swing it.”
“I see you found me,” Veraswami smiled broadly, his gold crowns gleaming. “I always choose this place for business meetings. The location is unmistakable, and the view of the city makes up for dull conversation. Please, please, sit down. The drinks are on me. When I come to Milwaukee, you can treat me at the Pfister. I love places with a view.” Sweeping his hands like a symphony conductor, he gestured the group to circle round the table. A waitress in her forties, statuesque and blonde enough to have danced at the Sho-Bar in Win’s youth, took their orders.
Clearing his throat, Brooks orchestrated the introductions. “Dr. Veraswami, I’m glad you have the opportunity to meet our whole team. I think you’ll find Frederick Douglass shares a lot of the philosophies you outline in your book. First, there’s my brother Lionel who is home taking care of business. He got his CPA two years ago and handles finance. This is Keisha Jackson. She’s an attorney who specializes in real estate. Her father runs a civil law firm that’s strong in class action and medical malpractice. Ted Kaleem has a BA from Cornell. He was a linebacker there, that’s football. He has an MBA and was with the FBI for ten years. He’s our expert in security and computer fraud. Bijan Naboti has a business degree from Teheran University and a Ph.D. from Wisconsin. He specializes in offshore investments, international law, and foreign trade. Carlos Sanchez has a doctorate in economics and does research on small business development.”
As he listened, Veraswami’s smile widened. Shaking hands, he held each person’s gaze like a vaudeville mind reader as Brooks ran down their credentials. “This is Winfield Payton. He has a Ph.D. in English and has just agreed to be our Director of Communications.”
Veraswami gently pumped Winfield’s hand and winked. “Payton. Strange. When I saw your name, I assumed you would be black.”
Brooks laughed, then leaned inward to speak more softly. “Winfield brings another asset to our team. He can be our chiclet.”
“Chiclet?” Veraswami asked, cocking his head in curiosity.
“Our token white. He can go undercover for us, be our team’s inconspicuous white face, our Fortune 500 front if you will.”
“An important asset for a minority firm,” Veraswami smiled. “Well, pleeze, let us all sit down.”
Taking his chair, Winfield could not resist looking toward the French Quarter, mentally counting up half a dozen blocks to locate Bourbon Street. Under those shabby green roofs bosomy blondes were gyrating, spinning tassels with the fury of speedboat propellers. Sipping his drink, he recalled that long lost July. Perhaps he could return on spring break with enough money to take a suite at the Royal Orleans and treat a dancer or two to steaks at the Rib Room.
“Well, Dr. Veraswami,” Brooks began, “we have all read your book about liberation capitalism and think a lot of your ideas match what we are attempting to do at FDI, the investment arm of Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan. We’re small, but we have a strong team. We build on your concept of marshaling human resources. Everyone here, except me, of course, has a regular but flexible job. They have a base salary, benefits, a pension. That means we have a top team with little overhead. We can afford to compete with the big firms, undercut their prices, and deliver the same quality. Probably better. We’re hungry, but not desperate. The profits added to their existing salaries gives our team a Fortune 500 income without the risk. You see, it’s right out your book. The chapter called ‘False Dilemmas.’”
“That it is,” Veraswami smiled. “The black man . . .,” he paused, nodding to Keisha, “. . . and the black woman have long been presented with false dilemmas. Either you get a job and assimilate to vanish into the melting pot, or you maintain your authenticity through embracing ignorance, defiance, and poverty. Either you sell out to IBM and enrich yourself, or you forgo wealth and work in some community based non-profit, no-progress agency to help your people. As you suggest, there is no reason why we can’t achieve both ends.
“You see, only capitalism can liberate us—but only if we free ourselves to embrace the opportunity. Islam teaches that it is the accumulation of wealth that separates man from the animal. True, Jesus likened the rich man’s chances of getting into heaven to the camel’s ability to pass through the eye of a needle. But Jesus spoke in the pre-capitalist era, at a time when rich men merely acquired and amassed wealth in the form of coin and treasure. But how Christian it is to invest! Think of the poverty, the disease, the distress one evaporates by achieving capital and investing it, allowing that wealth to create jobs, finance research in new technologies, and produce an income that is suitably taxed to support the poor. Only when Israel abandoned Zionist-socialism for techno-capitalism could it afford to absorb a million Russian immigrants. Promise them homes, jobs, a future. The Palestinians can throw stones in jealous anger or realize that cyberspace is more valuable than geography. It is duty of the liberal man and woman of conscience to become rich! In enriching ourselves, think of those we help!”
Veraswami spread his small smooth palms over the circle of whiskey glasses like a conjurer, “You see there are billions of dollars floating through the air. Billions. Money moves about us like hordes of migratory birds seeking a safe place to light. Billions every minute are transferred from one investor to another, moving from one nation to another,” he continued, sounding like Carl Sagan counting stars. “Switzerland is a landlocked country with few natural resources. Yet it is prosperous by just banking other people’s money. It is simply a trusted funnel. A safe storehouse. One needs only a small processing fee, a handling charge, to make millions from massive investments. But our young people walk about listening to rap music, the tribal grunts of the disaffected. They should be listening to the music of the spheres, the music of money. Instead of downloading tunes, they should be checking the markets. They are consumers only, embracing only one side of the equation. They see themselves as victims. They seek recognition through mere consumption. In New Orleans a minister organized protests outside a Nike store. ‘Businessmen who sell shoes to our children for two hundred dollars a pair should put something back into the community,’ he said to the media. He was serious, quite serious about that statement. I called him and told him, they already have put something back. Shoes! He was non-plussed. Unable to conceive! In his mind mere consuming must be rewarded. I asked him why he wasn’t teaching these children to produce, to serve, to create, to sell. Design and sell their own shoes! Sell them online nationwide, worldwide. If he channeled the energy of his protesters into a platoon of salesmen or telemarketers, think of the money they could have generated!
“I encounter such limited imaginations every day! No concept of the army of opportunities available to us. In the past our leaders have seen progress in terms of factories, of material construction. But all we need is to become a funnel, a temporary parking spot offering security and a slightly higher return than the corner bank. We do that through diversification and profit sharing. Your firm is a perfect model. We eliminate the overhead of executive payrolls and benefits and work simply for profits. We share the wins and losses, investing time, insight, energy, as well as capital.”
The waitress returned, and Winfield ordered a double. The table had rotated toward the Mississippi, which gleamed in the late afternoon sun. Blinking, Winfield reached for his drink, noting how the sunbeams transformed the ice cubes into gold nuggets.
“You see the problem with the black man is that he has always sought salvation from white men with beards. Think of it—Jesus, Mohammed, Marx, Freud, Lenin, your Lincoln, even more recently Castro and Che. Instead of seeking direction from within, he seeks approval from without.”
Winfield sensed the lounge’s rotation picking up speed. Hurricane-battered, the bar moved creakily. He sipped his whiskey as Veraswami spun on. “The problem with our leaders is they have no concept of what a job is. Al Sharpton argues for jobs as if they can be handed out like blocks of surplus cheese. They have no understanding that a job is not given, it is earned. One is not a recipient of a job—one must give, not take.
“Last year at one of my seminars I met a businessman from the Bronx. An admirable fellow. He hires as many young blacks as he can. But even the gifted students recommended to him by teachers and clergymen appall him by their ignorance of the market. For instance, at interviews he hands applicants a piece of paper and tells them to write down the salary they want. Whatever they want. Ten dollars an hour or a million a year. He then asks them to multiply that number by three. ‘I can pay you the first number,’ he says, ‘provided you can produce the second. Go home and figure out how you can bring that much into our firm to earn your salary.’ All he asks is that they generate more than they consume. You must create wealth before you can claim any right to it. But these gifted young people look back at him stumped, blank-faced, unable to conceive!
“They only know the right of consumption, the right of need. I need, therefore I deserve. It should be I produce, therefore I deserve. Teach our community that, and you can end poverty in a generation. We command the means. The reins are in our hands every day. African-Americans command the tenth largest economy in the world—yet how many buy from a black business or invest in a black bank? They decry the white man, yet as soon as they get a check, they rush off to white shopping malls to spend their money. If only it could be channeled!”
Veraswami leaned over the table, tapping its polished surface for emphasis, “We have abandoned our children to the secular left with its philosophy of zero-sum economics. We have reduced our children to aggrieved recipients who learn to justify themselves by their deficits, not their energy or imagination. Think of it, we tell them that to get a scholarship, to get benefits, to get a loan, they must demonstrate their poverty, not their talent, not their wealth. The harder off they are, the better. We tell society give us because we need, not because we can contribute.”
Winfield sipped his drink. Having not eaten, it did not take much alcohol to make his head spin. The slight motion of the restaurant enhanced his disorientation. Veraswami’s soft accent was seductive and addictive. No wonder his videos were popular.
“The color of liberation is green. The future challenges us to expand wealth while saving our environment. At present eight percent of the world’s population owns cars. In America it is fifty-six percent. Where shall we be when the rest of the world catches up? A billion more cars! The need for environmental devices, for new fuels, for reprocessing junked vehicles will increase. Think of the need for parking in China and Russia! Think of India! In a few years its population will be greater than China’s. Already its middle class is larger than the entire population of the United States. Consider their hunger for automobiles. One can