Excerpt from Glen Reinsford's "Age of Tolerance"

This is a work of fiction. 

The background for this excerpt is that an airline is being sued for failing to use race as a factor in its hiring decisions.  The author's point is the absurdity of classifying individuals by race, since it is an artificial distinction that has nothing to do with who we are as individuals.

Walid al-Rahahti is the attorney for the airline.

Tuesday, February 21st, 2045
Washington DC

Walid sat in front of a bank of microphones, spread out on the long table with dark green cloth draped over it.  On the floor in front of him was an open expanse, filled with cameramen and lights.  Next to him sat Maria Posada, so relaxed that he thought she might burst out laughing.  In front of them was a three-person panel that comprised the DCA committee looking into allegations that Airtana Airlines had violated the Non-Discrimination Act by not hiring in proportion to what the Department had established as appropriate racial and religious composites.

They were in their first day of testimony and possibly their last, as it wasn't clear whether they were going to get beyond the current impasse.  The lead panelist was sweating like the sow that knows she's dinner (as they would say back in Ila).

"What do you mean by that?" she asked incredulously.

"It's a question, not a statement," responded Walid.  "You are using the term 'African-American,' and I asked you to define it."

A soft buzz was sweeping through the room.  The woman's face was getting redder.  "Someone who is of African descent, I suppose. Does this clear it up for you?"

"Not really, but perhaps you're referring to someone like my friend Karl.  Karl, are you here?  Could you stand up please?"

A blond-haired white man stood up shyly on the second row and waved to the chairwoman.

"Karl is a seventh-generation South African," noted Walid.  "I assume that this is what you mean?"

There was laughter in the room.  Karl took his seat.

"Of course not, Mr. al-Rahahti.  He isn't black."

"Ah," said Walid, "then perhaps my friend William will suffice.  William, are you here?"

A black man sitting next to Karl stood up, then immediately sat down.

The chairwoman smiled.  "Yes, that's what I mean."

"This is your definition of an African-American?" asked Walid.  "But William is from Barbados. He is not American."

"Obviously I mean someone who has dark skin, but is an American citizen as well," snapped the chairwoman.

"Oh, then someone like Amu here then," said Walid, gesturing to the man sitting next to William.  "Is his skin dark enough?"

The tension in the room was almost visible. There was a collective sucking-in of breath.  Amu stood there with a smile on his face, but he may have been the only one laughing.  He could have been mixed race, as it was very difficult to tell from looking at him.  Depending on the circumstances he could probably pass as either black, Mexican, Arab or a variety of races including his native Sri Lankan.

The chairwoman looked as if she was going to explode.  Walid knew he had taken everyone by surprise.  "Damn it, I am not going to play these games with you, Mr. al-Rahahti!"

"Oh but you must," said Walid calmly.  "You see, Amu is an employee of Airtana, which you are accusing of being understaffed with regard to African-Americans.  In order to defend ourselves, we need to know how to categorize our own staff.  Wouldn't you agree?"

The woman cast a look at Walid that made him glad there were plenty of witnesses around.  She turned to Amu.  "Please approach the microphone.  Now, tell us where were you born?"

"Hartford, Connecticut," he answered somewhat shyly.

"Where were your parents born?"

"Which one?"

"Both."

"San Francisco and Brooklyn, New York," he answered.

"Ok then. What about your grandparents?  Where were they born?"

"Which one?"

"Oh for God's sake!  Tell us, are you African-American or not?"

Without giving him a chance to answer, Walid pulled the microphone back toward himself.  "How is it that you define an African-American?  It's getting confusing in our new 'No Labels' nation."

The chairwoman bit her lip.  "I guess by whether an individual thinks they are one."

Walid turned around, "Karl, are you African-American?"

The South African nodded his head enthusiastically.  The chairwoman issued an involuntary, audible sigh.

"He isn't black. Therefore he doesn't qualify!" she shouted.  "Only a dark-skinned person who thinks they are African-American can be a real African-American."

"How dark does a person's skin need to be?" asked Walid.  "Is my skin dark enough?"

"Of course not."

"But, my skin is darker than William's," the Jordanian-born lawyer truthfully objected.  "Yet you said that he would qualify as an African-American if he were a U.S. citizen.  Did I hear you correctly?"

"Are you African-American?" asked the chairwoman in exasperation, "because you look like an Arab to me.  That's a long way from Africa, you know."

Her sarcasm was hardly enough to deter Walid, although those watching had probably noticed that her tone did not reflect the politically correct decorum that was normal for such proceedings.

"Does my friend Kamel look like an Arab or an African to you?" asked Walid, who gestured to his former client.  The Algerian that he helped make a multimillionaire proudly stood, while the chairwoman, who apparently recognized him immediately, dropped her head in her hands and massaged her forehead for a full minute.  The room buzzed.

Slowly the woman reached for her gavel.  Those in the room came to a hush as she struck it on the desk.

"We will adjourn until tomorrow morning," she said weakly.