Bears Discover Fire

“NEXT! At ease. State your business.”

“We need to get the counseling for—”

“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him.”

“Me?”

“You’re the man, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yes, sir! We, uh, want to get married, sir!”

“Speak up. And don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer. Call me Sergeant Major.”

“Yes, sir; I mean, Sergeant.”

“Sergeant Major.”

“Sergeant Major!”

“Now tell me again what it is you want.”

“This is ridiculous. Yusef already told you—”

“Did I ask you to speak, young lady? Maybe you think because I’m black I’ll tolerate your insolence?”

“No. Sergeant. Major.”

“Then shut up. Carry on, young man.”

“We want to get married. Sergeant Major!”

“That’s what I thought I heard you say. And I guess you want my approval as your marriage counselor? My blessing, so to speak?”

“Well, yes.”

“Well, you can forget it! For Christ’s sake, boy, show a little backbone. A little social responsibility. You kids are the kind who are giving our kind a bad name. You don’t see white folks lining up trying to evade the law, do you?”

“They don’t need to line up.”

“Watch your mouth, young lady. And nobody told you to sit down. This is a military office.”

“She’s been standing for hours, Sarge. Major. My fiancee is, uh—”

“I’m pregnant.”

“Will you quit butting in, young lady! Now, let me get this straight. Is she pregnant?”

“She is.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

“That’s why we want to get married. Sergeant Major.”

“You’re in the wrong office. I’ll need to see a Melanin Heritage Impact Statement and a release from the Tactical Maternity Officer before I can even begin to counsel you. Take this slip to Office Twenty-three in Building C.”

“Outside again?”

“Only for a few yards.”

“But the sunscorch factor is eight point four!”

“Quit whining. Show a little pride. Imagine what it’s like for white people. Next!”

“NEXT!”

“We were told to come here and see you because I’m—”

“I’m a woman too, I can tell. At ease. Sit down, you both look tired. Want a cigarette?”

“Isn’t smoking bad for the baby?”

“Suit yourself. Now, how can I help you? Captain Kinder, here; Tactical Maternity.”

“All we want is a certificate so we can get married.”

“Negative, honey. No way. If you were both sterile, or overage, maybe. But nobody’s going to give you kids a same-race if you are already PG. Not with active replicator AAs in such short supply. Who are all us white folks going to marry?”

“Each other?”

“Very funny. And watch our kids fry. But seriously, you don’t have to get married to have a child. You can have all the AAs you want OW. What’s the problem?”

“We want to keep it.”

“Keep it? Negative. You know that under the Melanin Heritage Conservation Act, Out-of-Wedlock African American children must be raised in Protective Custody.”

“You mean prison.”

“Haven’t you heard that old saying, ‘stone walls do not a prison make’? And this is not like the bad old days; since the Ozone Emergency, AA children are a precious resource. You should be glad to see them in such good homes.”

“But they are prisons. I’ve seen them.”

“So what? Does an NB, that’s newborn, know the diff? And it’s for the child’s own good as well as the good of the society. Do you realize the culture shock for African American youth when they find themselves in prison at age sixteen or so? If they are raised in prison from infancy, the TA or Transitional Adaptation goes much more smoothly.

Besides, they get out as soon as they marry, anyway.”

“What if we don’t want our kid to go to prison at all?”

“Whoa, Akisha! Do you mind if I call you Akisha? Are we back in the Dark Ages here, where the parents decide the child’s future even before it is born? This is a free country and kids as well as parents have rights. Sure you don’t want a cigarette?”

“I’m sure.”

“Suit yourself. Let’s cut the BS. You’re nice kids, but under the Melanin Distribution Provisions of the Ozone Emergency Act, the law is clear. If you want to raise your own children, you’ll have to marry legally.”

“Which means marry a white person.”

“As a white person myself, I’ll overlook your racist tone of voice, which I’m sure you didn’t mean. Is there something so terrible about marrying a white person?”

“No. I don’t guess so.”

“Okay. Now why don’t you get with the program. Don’t you know some nice white boy to marry?”

“Then I can keep my baby?”

“Not this one, but the next one. This one’s double M and belongs to Uncle Sam, or at least to the Natural Resources Administration of HEW and M.”

“But what if I don’t want to marry some damn white boy!”

“Jones, I was hoping we could handle this without emotional outbursts of naked bigotry. I see I was wrong. You are in danger of making me feel like an inadequate counselor with this racist attack on my professional self- image. Is it because I’m white?”

“It’s because I want to marry Yusef.”

“Who just happens to be black? Let’s get real, girl. There’s nothing subtle about you same-race couples. The way you strut around, as if daring the world to rain on your disgusting little intraracial parade.”

“But—”

“Whoa! Before you go blaming all white people because of your personal problems, let me warn you that you are already in violation of several applicable federal Civil Rights statutes. I’m afraid you’ve taken this matter out of my hands. I have no choice but to send you up to see the Colonel.”

“The Colonel?”

“The Civil Rights Prosecutor. In the big office on the top floor of the main building.”

“What about me?”

“You can go with her if you want, Yusef. But if I were you—”

“You’re not.”

“—I’d find a nice white girl and get married. Fast. Before you both get in more trouble than you can handle. Dismissed. Next!”