Paschal Moon: the desperate die expensively

The shot that killed Martin Luther King, Jr., 50 years ago yesterday triggered riots in cities across the United States. One of the most violent and destructive was here in the District They Call Columbia, another was in Chicago. The assassination was the spark, but kindling had been laid over decades of Jim Crow, economic inequality and political suppression.

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Gwendolyn Brooks wrote “RIOT” following the days of rage. In it she uses imagery of thoroughbred breeding to describe the pedigree of her privileged white protagonist (is there a more WASP-y name than John Cabot? Even though the great navigator was actually Venetian?). You feel his utter horror at seeing these, these uncontrolled Negroes, swarming down the street that clearly by rights belongs to him and his kind.

It’s so horrifying that he’s momentarily forgotten his white suburban enclave, his fine-crafted English car and his whiskey…

Well—you have a look.

“RIOT”

A riot is the language of the unheard.

—Martin Luther King

John Cabot, out of Wilma, once a Wycliffe,

all whitebluerose below his golden hair,

wrapped richly in right linen and right wool,

almost forgot his Jaguar and Lake Bluff;

almost forgot Grandtully (which is The

Best Thing That Ever Happened To Scotch); almost

forgot the sculpture at the Richard Gray

and Distelheim; the kidney pie at Maxim’s,

the Grenadine de Boeuf at Maison Henri.

Because the Negroes were coming down the street.

Because the Poor were sweaty and unpretty

(not like Two Dainty Negroes in Winnetka)

and they were coming toward him in rough ranks.

In seas. In windsweep. They were black and loud.

And not detainable. And not discreet.

Gross. Gross. “Que tu es grossier!” John Cabot

itched instantly beneath the nourished white

that told his story of glory to the World.

“Don’t let It touch me! the blackness! Lord!” he whispered

to any handy angel in the sky.

But, in a thrilling announcement, on It drove

and breathed on him: and touched him. In that breath

the fume of pig foot, chitterling and cheap chili,

malign, mocked John. And, in terrific touch, old

averted doubt jerked forward decently,

cried, “Cabot! John! You are a desperate man,

and the desperate die expensively today.”

John Cabot went down in the smoke and fire

and broken glass and blood, and he cried “Lord!

Forgive these nigguhs that know not what they do.”