Addio zio Tom Page #11

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She and Nat.

Almost in skin contact.

The wind in that blond hair, that

white neck that he desired so badly.

''Hey Nat,'' she said to me one day

as her closeness and her youthful

scent of lavender made me stiff.

''Nat, why are Negroes

born so wretched?''

''Why, in this warm spring,

are they only fallen flowers?''

Let's take a look.

1 40 years later.

If I were to fall in love

with that white girl.

In love to the point of not being able

to do any less than what she's doing now.

To want her.

But just because I'm a Negro,

like Nat Turner--

I can just imagine the scene!

Sir, I'm Dr. Nat Turner.

I love your daughter

and I intend to marry her.

Margaret had just returned from

Southampton College for summer vacation

when we decided that the Whitehead house

would be our next target.

We advanced,

remaining hidden in the oak forest

that surrounded the house

on three sides.

When we saw the father so overjoyed

at the arrival of his daughter...

and so absorbed in demonstrating

all his joy as to not notice us--

I was looking for Margaret.

She was hiding behind

a corner of the house.

When I finally saw her,

she ran away...

as light and fast as a deer,

through the cornfield.

I ran after the glint

of that flowing hair in the sun

after the gleam

of that face looking back.

She ran faster than I did.

But I caught up.

I must! I must!

I must kill you!

Because I love you!

Because you're white!

White!

''Your honor,

before condemning me to the gallows

you asked if I felt remorse.

Well, completely at peace and tranquil,

I answer you that if I could go back--''

Peace, peace, peace.

I'm a Negro like you,

an ex-slave like you.

But today I've dealt with the whites,

and I'm speaking with their permission.

And this is a police car.

If you think I'm a traitor,

then shoot me.

But first listen

to what I have to say.

Slavery was not our disgrace.

It is our glory.

We must not soil it with revenge.

In every plan that the racist attempts

to search for an alibi

for his evil conscience

towards the Negro

all that's necessary is one broken window

to make him feel absolved ofhis guilt.

When we allow ourselves to bend

before the white man's hatred

we're playing his game.

We're also playing the game

of the white communists

who want to make use of us

to destroy America.

We don't love America,

but neither do we want to be used

to destroy it.

We Negroes must not fall into

the same errors that the whites make.

We must not respond

to their old white racism

with a new black racism.

To the recent events

that have made us understand,

we must respond

peace, peace, peace.

On one side, the north

that wanted to abolish slavery.

On the other,

the south that wanted to keep it.

So the war to liberate slaves

cost America one million dead.

Today, the American public assisting in

the reenactment of the battle of Shiloh

doesn't root for anyone.

They enjoy the show.

Northern and southern combatants

are interchangeable.

It just depends upon

the color of the uniform.

The anonymous slavery society

closed the books a hundred years ago.

And the accounts are balanced.

For every imported slave,

one American death.

The wounded don't count.

Here's one that ended up in bad shape.

A northern uniform.

So he wanted it this way, right?

Of course.

Say cheese!

Today, everyone's smiling,

dead and wounded,

victor and vanquished.

It's wonderful to return home

on this splendid day in May

and to take a nice shower

to wash away all of the dust of the past.

THIS FI LM IS A DOCUMENTARY.

THE EVENTS OCCURRED I N HISTORY

AND THE CHARACTERS REALLY EXISTED.

We interrupt this broadcast to bring

you a shocking piece of news

just in from Memphis, Tennessee.

Today, April 4, the spiritual leader of

America's Negroes, Martin Luther King,

winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace, was

shot and wounded by an unknown gunman.

He is in very grave condition.

We are awaiting further information,

which we will pass on to the public

as soon as we receive it.

The assassin's bullet didn'tjust kill

Martin Luther King.

It killed a historical era.

The war has begun.

We Negroes have embarked on the

violent phase of our fight for freedom.

Today we have guns, bombs,

dynamite, knives.

America will be stained red.

Corpses will fill the streets.

Martin Luther King,

a slave of the bourgeoisie,

a useless social element,

a public servant,

an adulator, Washington's bootlicker,

a traitor.

Down with the doubters

and the Evangelists.

Down with the Uncle Toms.

It's our turn to get to work now,

cutting throats.

No white throats were cut.

The shouts of the revolt were nothing,

compared to the police sirens.

After all, who was that minister

who was killed in Memphis,

that 30 million Negroes

were supposed to avenge?

A hero, as Cleaver said, or a swine,

an Uncle Tom, as LeroyJones said?

Tom.

Thomas.

I named him Tom.

Don't you think it's cute?

Nowadays it's different,

but in the old days

all house Negroes were called Tom,

then Uncle Tom when they grew old.

That was how we could tell

the good Negroes,

the ones who lived in homes,

with their masters,

from the bad ones, who lived

separately, in the cotton fields.

Even that nice Negro priest

that they killed, what was his name?

They called him Uncle Tom, too,

because he was good.

He didn't go around spurring

those people to revolt against us.

They're not actually bad,

but none of them are called Tom.

They can't keep their houses clean,

and they spend all their money on cars,

which they break immediately

and throw away, like old toys.

They're just like children.

But that may be a good thing.

This way they're closer to God.

You should hear them singing

in the family chapel I gave them.

They're extraordinary.

His land extended further

than the horizon--

He had enormous herds of cattle,

and a house full of slaves.

When Jesus had finished speaking,

the man asked him:

''Is there anything that my slaves

can hold against me?

I feed them. I clothe them. I aid them.

I even gave them a temple to pray in.

So you see, my generosity is great.''

And Jesus said to him:

''I will tell you that it is not your

generosity that is great,

but your pride.

You love your slaves

because they are slaves,

and as long as they remain slaves.

But your power will melt,

like fog in the sun.

Your riches will be gone.

And then your slaves will leave

your land and your home,

and they will ignore you.

The worst punishment for your pride

will be your loneliness.''

Our house was so big. 500 slaves

were hardly enough to keep it up.

Then a little Tom left a candlestick

sitting next to a curtain,

and the fire burned for three days.

Can you imagine?

So many things fed that fire.

But this land is still mine.

This good land of the south,

once white with cotton balls.

Thank you, Tom.

Do you remember that movie?

What was it called? Gone--

Anyway, she took a handful of dirt

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