Essay

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A Hat for Writing

From under his sinister, cone-head hat, the Klansman thundered, "People should only date or marry people from the same race and religious background." Those words angered me. Who was he to dictate? By what authority did he have this commandment to bind all humankind? And so I sat down to write. But what to write? I needed a magic hat from which I could drag something sensible, something that would organize all that was spinning in my brain. I closed my eyes to imagine, and before me on the desk, there appeared a series of hats. Hats, hats and more hats. A scholar's mortarboard was there, as was a bowler some stuffy, conservative politician might wear. A jaunty beret an artist would covet sat near the edge of the lot. In the middle was Don Juan's romantically plumed toby. In the shadows, I saw my own father's hat hiding, as if ready to leap out at any moment and cover my head. And back behind dad's cap, so deep in the shadows I could only see it as my eyes grew accustomed to the black, was grandpa's funny old fedora, its rim sweetly seasoned in the sweat of his 90 years.

What could I do? I put on the scholar's hat. Immediately I saw the marriage of Moses to Zipporah, and that the Lord approved. What if the pious conservatives of his time condemned him for the color of his bride? Did not the ground open to silence his critics in its dark depths? I heard turn-of-the-century pseudo-scientists testify that only white males have large craniums, and thus females and all non-white races are inferior. And I saw true science rare up and prove that such Hitleresque blatherings were utter nonsense, the mere wishful thinking of frightened men trying to build a logical underpinning for their own false pride. "Aha," I said proudly. "My instinct was right. A person should be free to marry whom they choose. It is the couple's own business, this thing called love."

But the remaining hats fell into such an argument about what I'd said I began to fear for my own safety, sitting so near as I was. The politician's bowler brought in reinforcements. One looked like the headgear of a Nazi SS officer. Another was part of an outfit I'd seen on white supremacists here in the USA. A third was small and smooth, hardly a hat at all. It took a moment for me to recognize it as a yamikah. What a strange lot for allies, I thought. The skinhead's hat was perhaps the most aggressive, stomping around the desk till I thought the particleboard top might split apart. But the SS officer's hat had the command experience, and soon took charge of the scene. With help from its less-than-ally partners, it launched itself up from the desk and landed square on my head. As soon as it settled in place, I saw, no rather smelled, and tasted, and sensed at a deeper level a feeling that there was propriety about life. Strange, somewhat disgusting food smells wafted by. "How would you like it if you married one of the Boat People and your new wife cooked filth like that?" the hat rasped. "Stick to your own kind."

At that, the artist's hat grew red with rage. It hurled itself into the air, and landed atop the stunned SS cap. Before the military hat could regain its poise, the beret had ripped it from my head and sailed it like a Frisbee. It hit its companions, and all four went skidding over the desktop to fall into the utter blackness beyond. I never heard them hit the floor. Perhaps there was no floor.

"Love is greater than all that petty fear," the beret said. "Love built the Taj-Mahal. Love painted the Mona Lisa. Love wrote Doctor Zhivago. Love dictated the melody of Tchaikovsky's Capriccio Italien."

That's right, I thought. Love should rule, not race, not religious prejudice.

But the scholar shouted from the desktop that the same Bible, which forgave Moses his miscegenation, commanded the faithful to stay within their faith. With that word, the sash to the window flew open and a whirlwind raged through the open space. The hats flew round the room in a wild, frightening procession. The cacophony terrified me and I raced to the window to shut out the wild maelstrom. As peace settled once more into the room, the hats drifted back to the desktop, all except Don Juan's wild haberdashery, which gently settled upon my head. As it fell in place, I saw an exotic, dark-skinned beauty emerge from the shadows of the gloomy room. Her skin was so smooth and rich in color. Her every feature was beauty, was an overripe plum, already wine in the skin, still sweet but ever so intoxicating. I had to have the taste of her sweet lips. I could not live another day without knowing every inner working of her mind.

Just as I was about to wrap my arms around this exotic beauty and pull her into me, my dad's hat jumped forcefully from the shadows and landed square on top Don Juan's hat. He tore it from my head, and covered me in a sense of unwelcome, but familiar protection. "This too shall pass," he said. "She was beautiful, son, but the beauty of the flesh does not last. Shut your eyes to it. Look instead to the beauty that comes from within. That beauty, son, grows stronger year by year. Choose you a bride that has that beautiful glow within, and praise her well for it, and may the joy of the two of you grow so long as you live."

"You know," he went on, "that your mother and I are of different races and of different religions." Yet we have loved you, and we have given our best that you might grow and become a wise man. What is race, son?"

"Race is the genetic and ethnic background we inherit," I answered.

"Are we not all part of the human race," dad asked?

"Well, of course we are," I answered.

"Don't we all feel love? Is our blood not red? Don't we equally hurt when we experience injustice? Don't we all want the best for our children?"

An old, feeble voice came from the distant, darkened desk. "Son, help me up," it said. "I have a bit to add." It was granddad.

Dad seemed to bristle at the interruption. I could feel it on my scalp. But, like me, he was trained to be an obedient son, and he gave way to his father, helping him into the place he had occupied, and stepping down onto my shoulder to hear what the venerable old man would say.

"Son," he began, "there is much passion in you, and some still in what your father says. But what of the aftermath? What flows from passion between a man and a maid?"

"Children," I answered.

"Exactly!" he agreed. "Children! And what does this culture do to biracial kids?"

"Well," I answered honestly, "it can be pretty brutal, but I've survived it."

With that answer, the old man's energy seemed to dwindle. I knew I had said nothing to change his mind. More likely he had just wearied of the fight, and decided to let me go on in the error of my way. He stepped down, and my dad whispered in my ear, so as not to make the old man mad, "Just so, son. You decide, but never downplay the seriousness of the thing you are debating. Don't start what you aren't willing to finish. Protect the kids. Do that, and maybe someday the hate mongers among us will be silenced, as well they should be."

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