THE GALEANO PROJECT: INVISIBLE MAN

NI**ER

Dark as the midnight sky the oh so esteemed doctor said.
This Bledsoe character believes he knows everything about the world. Knows everything about the man that walked in his office.
Saying Nigger as if it does not hurt himself. Bledsoe is weak and insecure.
Saying Nigger was supposed to bring pain to another but his words backfire, the bullets new destination is Dr. Bledsoe.
Saying Nigger was meant to pierce the soul.
Saying Nigger means oh so much more to Dr. Bledsoe, he knows the pain of the word, he has fought the good fight, but continues to fight while climbing the ladder all the way to the top
The man in his office is just another rung.
Saying Nigger, Bledsoe hopes that this brand new and pesky rung will not stay for long.
Saying Nigger is the first step in his long road of self-destruction.
When the man leaves for a bright future. Bledsoe sits in his office waiting for the next rung in the ladder of his life to appear.

Ikey Chafkin


LIGHTBULBS

In the city of blinding lights, he hides himself away in a basement. It is a hole in the ground, this basement, but is not dark, not damp and dank and musty like you would expect; it is warm and bright. It is brighter than the entire city. There is more light than he knows what to do with, but he knows that without the light, he would be visible. Only in the light of his basement can he truly be invisible. When one is in the darkness, one is truly seen for who they are- in the light, there are simply whoever you want them to be. He loves the light, for he loves his invisibility. The light confirms that although he is invisible, he has by no means vanished. It reminds him that he is alive.

Christina Leleon


Bledsoe

Bledsoe stands where he wants on the line, does what he wants to the line and defines the line. He knows how the line works, every weak spot, every point where he can warp and bend it to reflect his image in the greatest way. Bledsoe has stood on the line between black and white to get where he is and to maintain that position, but he doesn't care about the line. He lives by his own rules and everyone else does too. He lives by his own rules under the rules of the white men. He controls them as much as they control him, his mask of greed and lies used to deceive them. Though he's become many things the one thing he isn't is bitter. He keeps his cool and stays calm while standing on the line, warping the line, controlling and getting his way. Bledsoe defines the line.

--Omari Spears


Norton

A man of prestige and a man of great power. In the middle of the 19th century he lived. The founder of a college for blacks. The protagonist's relationship with him is limited to being his driver.
Unfortunately for the protagonist, While he was driving Mr Norton one day, things went wrong. It started with Norton requesting to be driven out of the way because he was curious about what lay in that direction. From there Norton asked to stop the car. All was still well until Norton spoke to a certain black man in the area they had stopped.
Before long Norton was a changed man. He was torn apart from the inside out and was losing control. The protagonist did what he could, but was physically unable to make things better for Norton. It wasn’t until he had witnessed several more traumatic experiences that he finally began to recover from his meeting with the black man.
Upon return to the school, Norton went back to his quarters and summoned the headmaster. He assured the protagonist that he would not be blamed for his bad experiences that day, but the headmaster was not so understanding. The protagonist was expelled from the school that night.

--Diego Fiori


THE BLIND TRUTH

The Reverend spoke, and the community listened.
In Alabama, a college, at that church, stories were told. Reverend Homer A. Barbee talked about a man. This man was not like many of his counterparts, for example he was black. However this black man was educated, and led his people to education like Moses led his to the promise land. Another thing about this man was that he was blind. This happened when a cousin splashed him with lye.
Despite all of the adversity, this man becomes self educated, goes north and furthers his education. Yet he returns only to start a college and help out his fellow black brothers and sisters.
There is a man in that room. He listens to the sermon, and remembers. He remembers the words that his Grandfather had told him before he died. This man thinks about those words, and then thinks about the sermon. That man becomes deeply moved by the sermon, and is remorseful of his previous actions with Mr. Norton, a man who is on the board of directors.
Then this man looks at the Reverend. He sees that the Reverend cannot see.

--Zeke Satloff





And Beginning of Ends


The train steamed North, The narrator heading for Harlem, for work, for closer . Beside him sat the Vet, the instigator, bound for Washington and his own sense of closer. He talks to him as if an old friend, the words which shattered the protagonist's dream spilling out to challenge the narrators confidence a second time. Wise from the past, little penetrates the narrators mind, much like his grandfathers words remaining undigested. Filling the narrators head for space, not thought. The vet talks much like the grandfather too. referring always to the glory of white men and, the acceptance of black repression. He departs, " Offering fatherly advice," advising to leave Norton alone. In a simple sentence he broke the only white bound our narrator had and, in a simple second he was gone with the life our narrator wished he still had.

-Ben Logan


My Win?

I won a fight three days ago. Even though it took place in a ring, I do not call it a boxing match. This is because no boxing match would take place like this. I won the fight. All ten of us were payed for our performance. I won the fight. We were blindfolded to the point of no sight. They let us go like wild animals at the sight of a long overdue meal. It’s too bad that we couldn’t see. Throwing; everybody throwing. Bleeding; everybody bleeding. I won the fight. I was hit by their punches that they thought to be arrant, but I thought to be dead on. The ring was slippery from the whiskey spilled from the mindless viewers who saw entertainment, where we saw torture. I won the fight. As the slug-fest waged on, I could feel the dropping of several of my teammates through my bare, trembling feet on the mat. Four left, but I won the fight. It came down to two men after several minutes of blood in mouth and smoke filled lungs from the ever seemingly fiendish-like men who stood and yelled behind the ropes. Round one had ended. Not due to time, but to eliminations. Only two. Blindfolds stripped and back to the brawl. We hit each other. The boy whispered meaningless tries to end the slaughter that I was raining upon him. I won the fight. I won the money. When I was walking home that cold night and wondering why I had signed up for the fight, I asked myself if I had really won the fight.

--Connor Laubenstein


A VIGNETTE TO FIGHTING

I happens at the end of the year. A fight, to decide dominance, for the right to speak. The blacks fight like animals, fighting for a bone. Fists swinging wildly, a duel of blind animals, clawing and scratching. I sit back, relax and enjoy the sport. This is all that niggers are good for, sport and work, they show only enough intelligence to plow a field or throw a fist. The fight ends on a abrupt note, the blacks stop to rest, their tongues hand out like the family dogs. One steps up to speak, we ignore him. He says a dirty word, and is quickly put down. Animals don’t have the right to talk.

--Tim King


The Power is Lost

No one can control them.
Chaos, they move amongst madness. Un-phased by the mayhem, confusion, and anarchy of the uncontrolled crowd the usual suspects keep with their daily routine. The protagonist looks on in horror as the uncontrollable brawl continues; the white man watching from what would seem afar. Up close he shares no comparisons to them except in location. They can not be control nor are they in control; they just wander and react, not act, but rather feed off of each other as a group.
Fear or anger takes over the the majority as the power is lost and the supreme look on. The one in control will never be control and the one watching will never see.

--Nick Laycox


Death Bed


There was a lamp burning at the end of its wick the curtains were drawn there he lay with his son crouched next to him.
His lips moved and all that came out was what seemed like nonsense he had lost it or had he been saner then ever with death lurking in the shadows.
“Keep up the good fight.”
He was the timid and quiet one how had never caused trouble in his whole life but as has his mortality faded everything came out.
“Our life is a war and I have been a traitor all my born days.”
Who had he betrayed that will always be an unanswered question.
“ Live with your head in the lion’s mouth.”
With his dyeing breath he whispered fiercely.
“Learn it to the younguns.”
Now gods knows what he meant he repented for his past sins in his last minutes and left unknown wisdom to his family and it will always lurk in the shadows of their minds.

--Annie Mangone




Journey to Harlem

It happens in the mid nineteen hundreds, when racism is still a very true reality, and almost a quintessential part of American society. Prejudice and power are ideals entitled to a certain people, those of lighter skin, and liberation existed only in the dream of a man, though he never woke-up to remember it.
While departing Tuskegee, Alabama, he is forced to ask himself, whatever happens to a dream deferred? Better to ruminate on that question than to relive the past series of events and consequences that brought him here. Mr. Norton (does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?), the Golden Day (or fester like a sore—then run?), the veteran, who is now sitting inches away from him (does it stink like rotten meat?), Dr. Bledsoe and the word he used to degrade him (or crust and sugar over—like a syrupy sweet?). Ripe with idealism despite having just lost a part of himself, he remained there trying to comprehend the alien feeling that was freedom.
When the cart jerked suddenly, he found himself tangled-up with a white woman. Maybe a dream just sags like a heavy load, he thought as the idea of the woman calling out entered his mind. He struggled to break free from this taboo interaction. Taboo was how he regarded his being so physically so close to her in this moment, but no one else seemed to stir or make a fuss. Not even the woman standing next to him in such close proximity that he could kiss her if he dared. Whatever happens to a dream deferred? He found himself wondering again as the train made a stop that he hastily took advantage of. Feeling overwhelmed by the last twenty-four hours, only a city like Harlem, a city of dreams where everyone runs to, made him realize that a dream deferred does, in fact, explode.

--Nizzie Aswad


Into the Melting Pot

It was in the middle of the nineteenth century. The train was empty, but only the rear was reserved for his colored type. He moved to the back of the train. Enduring his journey out of the fire and into the melting pot of Harlem he was equipped only with his bags, his shiny prize briefcase, and the wise words of the vet:
“Come out of the fog young man. And remember you don’t have to be a complete fool in order to succeed. Play the game but don’t believe in it-- that much you owe yourself. Even if it lands you in a strait jacket or a padded cell. Play the game, but play it your way.”
Even with the oppression of the South shackling you to the roots of its abundant cotton fields, he found the only identity he had ever owned. As the train bent around the hills, the brick low set buildings of Tuskegee disappeared, dissipating behind the precipice of the green earth.
Arriving in Harlem, optimism set in his eyes made him see double vision. He vowed to work hard. He vowed that if any of the important gentlemen should begin a topic of conversation, which he found unfamiliar, he would smile and agree. The freedom of the North not yet to stay set in his bones. When he observed the local laxity, the humble and bustle of the North, he realized he had a small voice here in the North, that he would barely be audible in the buzz of the city sounds.


--Kelsey Taylor