Chapter 20

I finally had to shut my mind to ward off the chattering of the young college students. I was riding the university shuttle bus to Georgetown with that segment of youth - the rich kids - who feigned weariness with the world yet breathlessly gushed about shoes and trust funds.

The university hall was a modest, well-lit room, with a couple of tables against the back wall with trays of cookies and refreshments. Rows of simple metal chairs faced two long tables that had been joined to form the panel. Most of the students were seated when I arrived.

This segment of youth had no trust funds, colored faces that had turned out to see the panel of nine lawyers of color, alumni of the university, speak about their experiences in law. Because we were lawyers - thoroughly disassembled and reassembled by the Great Machine of society - we took turns complementing each other and outdoing each other in smoother and more impressive maneuvers. Laughter punctuated the event.

While someone at the far left was speaking about how wonderful it was to work at the legal department of a gigantic media corporation, I finished my carrot stick. I was speaking suddenly out of a sense of urgency. Biting back the nausea of the evening, I disarmed the room by making a quick joke about the funny thing that happened to me on the way to the forum - I had nose surgery, and touched the splint. Then I launched into the message that I had to deliver as if on a mission.

There was a disease within the Great Machine, a sickness that only those who cared about the common good could sense. The engine of change and protection within the Great Machine was government. But that engine was being dismantled. Lawyers, as tools of the Great Machine, had the power and responsibility to ameliorate the sickness that everywhere the headlines screamed each day. But you, dear students, will find it hard to become tools of change. We with our many colors are all in the same group, and the ones who have written the rules are not in this room. So I caution you now: the rules were not written for you. You will have to work hard. But persevere. You will be able to do it. We sit before you here today as proof that it is possible.

The mission was accomplished: the nine of us had stepped out of the misty chamber of the past, time travelers with a message, but only I had apparently retained the memory of our temporal journey and of the charge that had been laid upon us by the masters of history. Being the single witness to history, the mission had been saved.

I sat back when it was over and watched the students fan out to speak to the panelists individually; a group was headed towards me, a black woman and two Asian men. As I answered their questions, I felt a sense of relief. The nausea was receding, leaving me with the certain knowledge that I was less detached, perhaps not detached at all. For what witness could tell his story in utter detachment?