Silver Currents of Change

Chapter 6

Marcus agreed to meet at nine-thirty a.m. sharp, in the student union building, so they could compare"Things to Do" notes. Checking her watch, Zarah frowned. He was late. The two of them were responsible for making sure everything ran smoothly all day, even though both had piles of other things to do to get ready for tomorrow's big, all-day event. And Marcus was late.

It was finally the first of two days when the College of Communications would be hosting and educating high school students, potential college students, about all it had to offer. In less than an hour, as chairman of the event committee, Zarah would be giving the first of two presentations she had to give that day to high school visitors from around the city and state. The next day would be Friday, and that day was designated as Communications Day. It would be the day she'd be meeting one of the most important men in the city, the event's keynote speaker. The billionaire white man who owned the publishing company where she needed to work: a man who could change her life and her future.

She led the team in getting the lobby of the building ready to greet teachers and students. Out of the corner of her eye, her favorite poster was beckoning, calling to her. Standing proudly and provocatively in a corner near the wall leading to the first section of elevators, Zarah couldn't look away from it, and, without thinking, she started moving toward it. It was a commanding and exquisite painting, in black-and-white, of her hero and namesake; a spellbinding four-by-six foot poster of Harriet Tubman—the most famous and the most infamous conductor of the historical and legendary Underground Railroad. Standing dead center, right in front of Tubman's stare, the observer contemplated the image of the woman called "Mother Moses." The woman who helped hundreds of slaves escape the physical and mental brutality of human bondage at a time in history when she was a shining beacon of hope for their salvation. A woman who represented freedom. "Mother Moses," Zarah said, speaking to herself, "if only you could tell me. What images did the word freedom conjure up in the minds of the slaves who heard it? They'd never been free, so what did it mean to them? Was it just a concept to the ones you saved? Something possible, but unimaginable? Maybe it felt like a dream, both real and unreal. They probably believed it was tangible, only it was always illusive. Or, maybe they'd heard it was something that had become real for other slaves who trusted you. Slaves that followed you. For them? For them, you were a genuine apparition. A legend. The slaves, the runners—they were leaving the only world they'd ever known, no matter how cruel. So, how did it feel to be trading in the discomfort of a horrid, miserable familiarity for the fear, the raw adrenaline they had to find in order to flee? Did they worry they might be running forever?"

An accusing voice interrupted her thoughts. It was one of her internal voices, the one that loved agonizing over anything she was struggling to come to terms with. "You're doing too much," it said. "Again. You're overcompensating," the voice whispered loudly. "The posters, the gallery, you're breaking your back, trying too hard. You know, you don't have to be the new millennium's Angela Davis, just because you got teased in grade school for the way you look. You had nothing to do with how you look, and you're still mad at the white kids that teased you, but you let the black ones off the hook for doing and saying the same things. And the result? Here you are trying to be the black Joan of Arc that saves the day. I'll never understand you. Stop trying so hard, Zarah. You're fine. Just the way you are. Just the way God made you. Don't ever forget that."

The voice in her head was replaying something Yvette said to her all the time. Still. Even if she was overcompensating, she was glad she'd worked tirelessly to bring the gallery of posters to life, no matter what anyone said or thought about why she'd done it. To her, more than anything else, it was a beautiful testimony. A magnificent monument. Her own special way of saying she was black and proud. Mentally, she gave the finger to Yvette's accusing words. The gallery looked good. It was big, impressive, and filled to overflowing with black history. Looking around, she asked herself, out loud, "What could be better than this for Communications Day?"