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It was, however, just a fantasy. I cut off no heads. I continued to serve food. In fact, the whole staff was resignedly complacent about the goings-on as long as the party lasted. Whatever we may have been thinking, we still had a job to do, and we did it with what little dignity we could muster. It wasn't until it was time to release the human ornaments (meaning us), that the waiters started to show signs of that old plantation resentment. The inertia of humiliation wore off, and I could see in the eyes of each man what this experience had been. Those waiters who had turned off their feelings in survival mode were suddenly aroused and present. I witnessed the transformation as each one of us ripped off and commented on the kinte manacle-sash that he had been wearing: no poetic refrain here, just,
 I listened as we healed ourselves through venting in a way that black folk do very well. Many of the stories repeated the same chorus of "How could these people think that this was some fun event?!" Nobody had an answer. Somewhere along the way home, I pulled out a big bag with half-a-dozen bottles of champagne that I had liberated from the party. Everyone seemed a little surprised by my action, and it caused a big laugh and gave the bus ride the fragrance of a party. As each person retold a different experience, while hoisting a bottle of Cordon Negro (of course), I remember saying, "Maybe I was at Yale with one of their kids." |
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