Grace of Goodness
by
Anthony Rain Starez
It was a cold overcast Sunday afternoon and church had just let out. A crowd of gentlemen still dressed in their best worship suits had gathered down below. The sound grew louder, as did the size of the group, until the volume of men talking had become one tremendous roar. Tempers were flaring as hot as the bonfire keeping their hands warm. An older, heavy, man in the crowd struggled to bend over and retrieve a stone. When he stood straight again, the balding man aimed his crooked throw toward a window on the fifth floor. His throw was determined enough, but would fall short of its mark. Soon, many of the finely dressed men were flinging stones of every size toward the window, along with some vulgarity close behind.

High above the courtyard, a young African-American man of 20 years named Sedric Robinson had crawled into the corner near the window of the jail cell on the fifth floor. The same window the angry mob of Caucasian men were directing their badly aimed throws.

grace.jpg (19152 bytes) Tears slowly found their way down the crevices of the fearful black man's face. Sedric's body was stiff and shaking. For he knew of his impending doom. Oh yes, Sedric had heard the horrific stories passed down by his people. The same propulsion of violence that had fueled itself against people of color, and of immigrants alike, throughout these United States.
This was supposed to be America, the land of the free. A country founded by people seeking freedom. And this being 1925, Sedric knew in his heart that the words his grandfather once whispered to him were true. "Sedric," his grandpa muttered, "this is a century of blood.

A century that will mark mankind's savagery like no other place in time."

After sharing whisky among each other like thirsty sailors at sea, the crowd of red-faced men forced their way through the bolted jailhouse door. The building was filling quick with smoke from a torch thrown through the window moments before. And as the coughing lynch mob ascended the stairs, someone yelled the single word, "Blood."

Upon reaching the fifth floor, the gasping group of men armed with baseball bats, empty whisky bottles and clinched fists could see two figures through the thick smoke. With a final wail, Sedrick Robinson was thrust into the blizzard of fury.

Beating him unconscious before reaching the bottom floor, the men, who were worshipping Jesus only two hours before, dragged the bloodied young man to the roaring bonfire that begged to be fed.

Rebel-yells and wild howling echoed in the courtyard as the Southern gentlemen lurched Robinson's helpless body onto the flames. Some took target practice with their revolvers, patting each other on the back until vomiting the soured whisky in their bloated bellies. Some of the more conservative men were astonished at the amount of adrenalin running like a fast river through their veins. Some cried while wiping their bloodied fists.

A flash lit the darkness as the broad smiling men posed for a journalist from the local town's paper who had shown up with a camera. It was a proud moment, as the gentlemen quietly thought of how evil was ultimately conquered by the grace of Goodness.

The sweet grace of Goodness.