The two-master scenario is fathomable only from the pulpit, but beyond that place, how am I to reach such an ultimate simplicity? This is possible only if one is willing to construct or reconstruct a voice on the spot at any given moment, rather than adhere to the monolithic reinterpretations of the minister or the master—especially when these seemingly opposing forces are one and the same. To provide instantaneous clarity to any situation, one must not only nurture the voice but speak it as well. To do so allows one to assume, at least for a moment, the authorial position of the masters. Any rule, any law, must first be spoken before it is written and deployed in some more efficient manner. The infinite and pervasive reality of rulers' power is that their words became law and their thoughts the fine print. It is ludicrous and a waste of time to belittle and rail against the ruler if one is not prepared to offer an ideal voice in resounding opposition. If one wants to change the world, or at least some small part of it,  one must be willing to speak and use his own words and be guided by his own passions. 

This is particularly true of the black voice. The stereotypical singularization that occurs when it is assumed that we not only all look alike, but think alike as well, must be shattered both from within and outside lines defined by color. Therefore my voice, or any black voice, should be understood as singular—as one utterance of many but with the power to bring about resolute action. 

For awhile, I was one of the "good ones." I followed instructions. I did what I was told. I never spoke out of turn. I never questioned authority. I was a "credit" to my people, a role model for youngsters. I was a conscientious worker. I was a conscientious Christian. I was independent (in a mere financial sense). I was civil, even when circumstances did not require such consideration on my part. I was pleasant. I never initiated discussions I believed to be controversial. I was patient in all circumstances.  And, in this sense—in the sense that I was living up to everyone's expectations but my own, in the sense that I hoped to live in a world where race did not matter and was conforming myself to those expectations without dealing with my own day-to-day realities—I was one of the good ones. I was an African-American and I embraced the term religiously—that is, until I returned to my home, my mother's home, after seeing the world from the vantage point of the ivory tower. Until that moment I had never thought to critically question those situations or circumstances that found it necessary to rename me. 

My father, or at least the man I called father, used to say "the strongest man is the one who's left standing when the fight is over." In a not-so-recent visit back to the place that houses my childhood, I was reminded of this statement. The buildings most prominent and most numerous were liquor stores, funeral homes, and churches. I wondered why the church maintained such questionable company when it had taught us—me—to avoid such relationships. But in listening to my mother speak during visits to her home, the place that houses my childhood, she reiterates these interwoven themes incessantly. She speaks about the death of my father, or at least the man that I called father. She speaks about a brother who, as she sees it, drank himself to death. She speaks of another who ought to stop drinking before he too kills himself. She speaks of the loved ones who have died under other, more tragic circumstances. And most of all, she speaks of God and the church. My life is quite different from my mother's, the precious woman who raised me. Throughout my life she spoke of color only with pride, and emphasized how I should use it to nurture my self,  my black self. She spoke of how I should nurture that black self and protect it at all costs, under any circumstances. She never knew how much these teachings, these daily iterations, cut across the grain of those of the church.