Looking Backward from the Tricentennial

Chapter Thirty-Seven (part 1)

When Carlton closed out the meeting, Julian turned to Idabee. "Thank you for your help," he said. "That was exactly the kind of inside information I'm trying to learn." He hoped that his digital simulacrum in Idabee's parlor projected the sincerity he felt. "I'm sorry for what I said to you at dinner the other night."

"It's okay," Idabee replied, and the sweetness of her smile persuaded him all was forgiven. "And I'm happy to help." Her holographic projection leaned in close. "It's a trick I learned in the assembly; plant a friendly question to prompt a discussion and guide where you want it to go." Idabee straightened and folded her hands across her lap, looking pleased with herself.

"You're amazing, you know that?" Julian said with a grin. Idabee impressed him. His cheerful expression faded, thinking of how cruel his typical follow-up question would have been.

"Of course," Idabee replied matter-of-factly. "And it's win-win—I'm learning too. I've never heard Carlton call this a training program for satyagrahis before. Usually, he says he does it because he finds value in self-improvement."

Julian nodded, recalling the explanation's phrasing from their first meeting. "And has since he went through the program more than five decades ago." He tilted his head. "Am I remembering that right?"

The parlor had emptied out, and Professor Carlton addressed them. "Remembering what?" he asked.

"You got involved with the American Union at the beginning, right?" Idabee said. "Organizing your campus after Reverend Shaver's speech?"

The septuagenarian stroked his beard. "Was that the beginning?" he asked Julian innocently.

"Carlton," Julian said slowly, "have we met before?"

A broad smile smoothed the wrinkles of his face. "When I first saw the video of the attack on the reparations rally, I wasn't sure it was you. You'd shaved your head, and I had a hard time believing that the man who'd lectured us on nonviolence had brought a lead pipe to what should have been a peaceful event. Then Reverend Shaver made his hospital speech, calling for the fast for peace, and I was almost positive you had something to do with all of it."

Julian rubbed his temples. "Who was I lecturing?"

"You were training American Union organizers for the 2024 election."

"Wait," Idabee said. "You knew Julian back then? Is that why you invited me to your group, hoping I'd bring him with me?"

Carlton nodded. "Or that you'd be willing to arrange an introduction when he was revived. We met while I was stationed at Fort Liberty, serving in the military so I could afford college—this was back before all education was a free public good. Julian was trying to recruit peace activists to influence the election, and I found him on social media while searching for ways to end war."

CJ had recorded those efforts in his journal, but there had been no mention of Carlton. Did the septuagenarian know about his time traveling? Julian was unsure of how to interpret the reticence in identifying their earlier meeting and the way he'd explained the foundational basics of nonviolence as though Julian were hearing them for the first time.

"Our global military adventures weren't helping the mental health of service members," Carlton continued. "In the quarter century after 9/11, more than fifty thousand committed suicide—seven times more than combat deaths. I'd just lost a friend that way and wanted to see what I could do to help the United States become a force for peace and justice in the world—do things we could really be proud of. The American Union had a better plan than anyone else was offering."

He produced a clementine and began to peel the fruit. "I was cocky in those days, if you can believe it, and Julian caught me bragging to a new organizer that I'd completed the fast for peace six times already. 'Real peace takes a long-term commitment,' he said. 'Look me up when you hit six hundred.'" Carlton lifted an orange segment. "And here I am."

"Six hundred months!" Idabee exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell everyone else that?"

Julian retrieved his cracker from the end table and held it up. "That is an impressive long-term commitment—you should be proud," he said. "To the nonviolent nature of our movement." It was the only sliver of the Cesar Chavez quote he could recall. Idabee looked disappointed to be left out, and Julian broke his cracker in half, instinctively intending to share with her. Just in time, he remembered that handing it to her would be impossible, and smoothly—he hoped—put it into his mouth instead.

As they broke their fast together, Julian felt a wave of optimism as his connection with Professor Carlton strengthened. The man had been an active participant in the early days of the American Union, just like Delroy, and might be able to offer greater insight. First, there was another question on his mind: "Professor Carlton, you said I failed by allowing circumstances to develop where the gunmen thought killing was essential to their dignity. Do you also blame the people who preached hate and division? The companies who made their guns?"

Carlton fell silent for a moment. "Julian, it's interesting that you hear failure as blame instead of as an objective analysis. But I'll accept your premise for a moment; if I did, do you think they'd accept responsibility?"

"No," Julian spat with a vehemence that surprised him. "No one wanted to be responsible."

"And what about the people you've met in the tricentennial?"

Julian couldn't help but laugh, dissipating his anger. "I watched Idabee and Faith debate whether standards for labeling buffalo meat should be part of the American Union's demands this year." He sobered. "I guess that's them wanting to take responsibility. Is that what satyagrahis do?"

"That's exactly right."

"If you were an American Union organizer back then, did you accept responsibility for the circumstances as well?" He held up a hand to interrupt himself. "That's not really my question; I'm not trying to blame you. What I really want to know is: how could we have done better?"

The gray-haired man smiled thoughtfully. "I've wondered about that over the decades. Reverend Shaver's throwing his weight behind it really made a difference. If only there was some way we could do it over again." Carlton looked meaningfully at Julian's head. "Are you growing your hair out?"

Julian exhaled with relief. "I am," he confirmed, "but I don't think I'll have time for a set of locs before I meet you." Carlton's eyes glowed with enthusiasm at the implications. "On the plus side, Reverend Shaver agrees with your analysis, and he shared a personal story to persuade him to help us in 2024. So I'm cautiously optimistic."

"Time travel; I've wondered," Carlton admitted. "You looked younger in the news footage. And—no offense—you occasionally offered very clear details of how things would work but didn't always seem to grasp the fundamentals. Your absolute certainty in the American Union model was convincing, even if your presentation wasn't very polished."

Julian laughed out loud. "So, the student has become the teacher? Okay, Professor, teach me—give me the pitch for the American Union's first legislative package."

"End poverty, end mass incarceration, end the endless wars," Idabee said. "Wasn't that the pitch?"

"Julian knows the soundbite version," Carlton agreed, "but I think he's asking for details."