FicWad

A/N: I know, I know what you guys are gonna say. I write the most obscure specials, don't I? This one is a little iffy; generally, I stay away from stuff like this. I really don't want to offend anybody.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sixty-Two: Martin Luther King Jr. Day Special
Puppet: Cormac O'Kane


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Cormac! What'cha drawin' there, laddie?”

I looked up, startled by my grandfather's sudden outburst over the soft droning of the TV. His tone wasn't harsh or angry, but it was surprising in its volume all the same. Though I really had nothing to feel guilty about, I couldn't help but bow my head awkwardly as if I'd just been caught doing something I most definitely should not have been doing. “Something for a school project.”

“Looks like a man,” the elderly man observed, blue eyes squinting from behind small bifocals at my sketchbook from his place on the couch, “what's 'e holdin' there?”

I took a look at the rough sketch as if I too, wasn't quite sure. It was something for English class; a drawing of a cold, lonely Ivan Denisovich sitting on his bunk, nibbling on the small morsel of bread. Absently I added another shade of gray to the character's face, answering my grandfather without looking up. “Food.”

“It's your turn, grandpa.” Keefe, who was sitting on the floor just beside me, announced. He and Rory (which was our grandfather's name) were playing chess again, just as they always did when we were fortunate enough to have the Irishman with us. This was a rare occasion; though he always came to visit us around the holidays, he never stayed quite this late. Any other year and he'd be back in Limerick tending to his sheep by now. The only reason he was here was because he'd found someone else willing to care for his herd for a little while longer.

I couldn't speak for Keefe (enough though I probably could if I had to), but knowing he'd rather stay with us than go home right away made me feel special. His son (our father), Finn, had died when we were three, but he never gave up on us or our mother. That meant a lot. Particularly because, though Rory didn't know it, our stepfather was a drunkard and abusive to us; not the greatest male role model a boy could have. To have a decent man willing to take care of my brother and I kept us from feeling completely worthless.

I looked up at him again, though this time he wasn't looking back and was instead studying the chess board, obviously surprised by whatever Keefe had done. In his younger years he'd had dark curly hair, just like my brother and I, but now it was dark gray at the roots and wisped up into white. He had a trim mustache and his chin was covered in a short goatee that befit his age, and his pale face, though slightly wrinkled, was kind and seemed to have once held bull-like strength. Had it not been for his pale eyes, our darker skin, and our much younger appearance, we could easily have been his sons rather than grandsons.

He was a wonderful old man. Kind, firm, and typically of few words, he was the type of man I wanted to be like when I grew up. He loved good food and a drink or two to wash it down with (the single trait he had that I did not want to pick up), telling stories, playing around with music and, obviously, a good game of chess. When I was younger, I'd been so impressed with everything he said that I was sure that he knew everything, and anyone who said otherwise was punched in the nose.

Unless it was a girl, of course, because Grandpa Rory said that a respectable man wasn't to strike a woman. Ever. And Grandpa Rory had been in every type of fight imaginable, so he must know a thing or two about the rules.

“Yew've been practicin', I see,” still I didn't look up, but I could easily hear Rory and it didn't take a genius to figure out that he was talking to Keefe, “ya' din'nay fall fer me trick, that time.”

My brother said nothing, but I felt a rush of pride that was not my own and knew what my twin was thinking. It was always strange, picking up on my brother's emotions and feeling them for myself; it was like I was stealing something from him and using it for myself, good or bad. Still, I thought it was a wonderful thing, having such a strong bond with him.

Rory had always said that there would come a day when Keefe and I would be able to use that to our greatest advantage. I'd like to think it already had; just a few weeks ago, it'd helped me save my brother's life. He'd been about to do himself in and I, nearly crushed by the eerie sense of impending doom, had rushed in just in the nick of time.

Of course, no one knew about that, and I wasn't going to say anything about it.

“Ah!” I wasn't sure if our grandfather was just humoring Keefe as he had when he'd been younger and didn't stand a chance of beating him, or if my twin was honestly beating him; I guessed the latter, however, “Another fine move. Yore a tricky one...”

I always loved listening to Rory talk. his accent was so different and yet so familiar that I just couldn't help but feel as if I needed to listen. His voice was musical, almost as if he were singing a song while he spoke. His consonants were sharper and his vowels were much softer, and he was just nicer to listen to. It was funny, really, how other people heard it. Sometimes they could hardly understand him, when really it was he who knew the English language far better than they did.

Keefe and I were born and raised in America, so we had never really quite picked up the typical Irish lilt in our everyday speech. But Rory loved music and adored teaching my brother and I old folk songs, so naturally, when we sang, we imitated the way we'd heard it; accent and all. Also, when we were very young, he'd taught us the Irish language while we were learning English as well. Generally, we only used it when we were singing, but on rare occasions a Gaelic word would slip past.

I liked Gaelic more than English. “Conas tá tú?” sounded better than, “How are you?”

I found my eyes drawn back to my drawing, which seemed distant and disconnected from the rest of my thoughts. I was just about finished, and I was going to need to find my colored pencils soon. Mr. Gibson wasn't going to accept any shoddy work, so I needed to make this look good. It was due tomorrow first thing in the morning.

The rest of my supplies were up in my room. I groaned inwardly, not wanting to get up from my laying position on my belly. I rested my chin on my hand, lazily studying the drawing a little more so it looked like I was actually doing something. C'mon. You're gonna have to get up sooner or later.

Finally, I stood up, stretching my muscles (which were stiff from staying in one place for so long) a little before ambling out of the room. I left my sketchbook open and in plain view, not at all worried that Keefe or Rory would find something that I didn't want them to see. I had nothing to hide, after all.

I took my time, but when I came back with my box of colored pencils tucked under my arm, the channel on TV had been changed. Probably Keefe's doing.

The video playing on the screen was old, scratchy, and in black and white, but it was very easily recognizable. A heavyset black man with a close-laying haircut and a pencil mustache was standing in front of a podium, speaking very clearly and animately. He was wearing a fine suit and looked professional, and there were several other African Americans gathered around him. I tilted my head to one side, listening.

“I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: 'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...'”

I knew why they were showing that today, but I couldn't help but feel like maybe some kids my age didn't. It wasn't as if Cranford High made Martin Luther King Jr. Day a big deal; some of us had had to do a project or two in elementary school, sure, but in high school, it just seemed so...unimportant. For some reason, the school board seemed to think that getting our artistic interpretations on Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn's work was more important than remembering a great man.

True enough, my family was the farthest thing from being African American. I was 100% Irish (even though Keefe and I were what was known as 'black Irish' thanks to our dark skin and eyes), and had it not been for a well thought out change of lifestyle on my parents' part, would've been made, born, and raised in Limerick, Ireland. It wasn't as if I had some particular reason to admire Dr. King. He hadn't influenced my ancestors that much; white men were generally being treated the equally during that time, regardless of race.

But that didn't change the fact that Dr. King had been key to the standards set in today's world. Who knows? Had it not been for him, Jared Peterson, the Cougars' point guard (my teammate), would never have even been allowed into that school, much less the basketball team. Had it not been for his work, Mr. Hazard, my math teacher, would never have been permitted to teach a kid like me, just because his skin was black and mine was (technically) white.

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character...”

“Hey, Mac?”

I shook my head and cleared away my cluttered thoughts, trying to figure out which one of them had spoken. I'd been caught off guard; I'd been too focused on the TV screen, too lost in my own head to notice anything else going on. This always happened when I had an extra day off from school. My brain started to melt; that's what it felt like.

Keefe was the one looking at me, his eyebrow raised quizzically. “Er, yeah?” I answered sluggishly, laying back down and opening my box.

“Remember when we had to write our own 'I Have a Dream' speeches for school?” My brother asked, laughing slightly, his eyes darting from the screen to me again.

I nodded absently, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. I remembered; it'd been in middle school, I think, and the two of us were the only kids who didn't have trouble thinking of something to write about. “Yeah,” I agreed, “you wrote about a time when there would be no homework, and I wrote about how everyone should learn how to play a musical instrument.”

Rory laughed; it was a low, rumbling sound that seemed to come from someplace deep inside him. “Pardon me sayin' so, Cormac, but yore brother's idea seems a lil' more likely.”

I chuckled, shrugging lightly as I selected a tan pencil for the bread. “Hey, a guy can dream, ya' know?” I replied amiably, not interested in fighting but not wanting to take it lying down, “That was the entire point of the essay.”

“Sometimes dreamin' isn't enough,” Rory stated softly, his tone suddenly far off as if he was remembering something from a long time ago, “wishin' on stars cin only git yew so far, lad.”

There was a silence in which only Dr. King dared to keep speaking, his voice still rising and falling as he went through his famous speech. Keefe and I exchanged an awkward glance, neither of us quite sure what to say. What was our grandfather talking about? It was fairly obvious that he had something on his mind, but I was too meek to ask.

Keefe, however, wasn't. “What do you mean, grandpa?” He pressed, chess game forgotten.

“Well, yew boys know that there was a time when us paddies were lower'n Negroes, don'cha?” He stated, leaning back into the couch and folding us hands behind his head.

I knew about that. I'd read about it in my history text book. Technically, Irishmen hadn't really lower than African Americans; they were just given the more dangerous jobs because they weren't 'property.' Because they weren't worth anything. Because no one would lose anything if they fell from the scaffolding and broke their neck.

A shiver shot down my backbone just at the thought. I wasn't sure which was worse; the fact that there had been a time that there was a price set to a human soul, or that there had been a time when a human soul had been so worthless. Still, I thought it only fair to Dr. King to point out that it hadn't been that bad. “Actually, we only -”

Keefe shot me a withering look and I shrunk back, startled. At first, I didn't know why he was putting up a fight. No doubt that he'd remembered what he'd read (for he had what seemed to be a photographic memory anyway), and he knew I was right, didn't he? “Actually, we were just learning about that in history class,” my twin said smoothly, “Irishmen were discriminated against because they were Catholic. What do you know about it?”

Then it hit me; he was hoping for one of Rory's family-famous stories, and I was just going to get in the way if I started picking at the facts. I pressed my lips together and smiled sheepishly at my grandfather, hoping that I hadn't ruined his plans. My brother would be so angry if I had, and I really wasn't ready for that right now.

Rory seemed to think about it a little, his pale eyes sliding closed for a long, long time before he finally decided to answer. Then, there was a strange rumbling sound from him (for it surely wasn't from the television). At first, it didn't sound like anything; just a buzz or a growl, and Keefe and I had to exchange looks again. What was he doing?

The sound got louder, and eventually we realized that he was singing. “His door is always open to the stranger passing by; he never thinks of saying: 'None but Irish may apply...'”

“The NINA song!” Keefe burst out suddenly, startling both myself and Rory with the sudden wave of sound, “It was written because there were all those signs that said, 'Help Wanted – No Irish Need Apply'! How do you know the words?”

“Well spotted!” our grandfather praised, sitting up straight in his chair and moving a chess piece after what seemed like an eternity, “I could ask yew th' same thing, Caoimhe.”

Another wave of pride crashed over me; Keefe was obviously pleased to have heard his name in Gaelic, but I couldn't help but feel a little jealous. My name sounded similar, but it wasn't the same in the Irish tongue. Cormaic. But Rory didn't say it; he was too busy listening to the other boy. “I looked it up after reading about it.” He answered nonchalantly, making it appear as if it were no big deal.

Rory nodded approvingly and I felt a surge of jealousy, glaring harshly at the television screen as Dr. King continued to speak. Sure, Irishmen had been discriminated against for a little while; but eventually, they became part of the white society. Who were they to think that they could compare the Paddies' struggle to that of the Negroes? It was different!

“But et isn't like that anymore. Not fer Paddies. Not fer Negroes. Americans aren't wit'out their troubles, but there isn't stuff like that out there anymore, praise God,” our grandfather said after another silence, “yew lads cin be happy t' know that yew live in a place where yew cin be anythin' yew want. No one cin stop ye' 'cept yoreself.”

That was far more satisfying to me than any story about one of our ancestors coming to America and getting sent packing right back to Ireland, like I'd thought he was going to say. It was fair, I think, to both sides, and now Keefe could be irritated at Rory and not me for getting cheated out of a family tale. I filled in the very last bit of color on Ivan Denisovich's face, suddenly struck by the strange irony of it all.

Dr. King and his ancestors had been humiliated for decades before finally becoming part of society, just because of the color of their skin. Grandpa Rory, Keefe, and I had probably had a distant uncle or cousin who had fled back to Ireland because no one would give him a job, just because of what he believed.

And yet, we were all men, and we therefore declared equal by the Constitution. Why had it taken so long for people to realize that humans were humans, no matter what color their skin was or what they believed?

Hell. As a nation, we still hadn't realized that people were people. There were stereotypes we supposedly fit into; just because I had a Gaelic name, was I to be an angry drunk when I became a man? Was Jared Peterson, the point guard, supposed to be able to play better than the rest of the basketball boys, just because his skin was darker?

But, as always, Grandpa Rory was right. Keefe, myself, and all the other kids out there in the U.S. could be anything we wanted when we got older, no matter what our ancestry happened to be. Dr. King and countless of other activists had dedicated and some had even given their lives, just so we could have that privilege.

All we had to do was dream.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A/N: I'm not sure how I feel about the rest of it, but I really, really like that last paragraph and last line. I hope I didn't offend anyone. Enjoy the day off from school today.