Mother and son were finally reunited after years of separation. There was much anticipation and hope. Indeed, the bitterness slowly dissolved upon first meeting. With tears of joy, the mother embraced her firstborn, and they each began to talk, words spilling out faster and more voluminous than the years of silence could have possibly built up. The mother remained hopeful that this restoration could pave the way for the restoration of what had before seemed impossible: that of father and son.
But at this point of the story it became apparent to all around that something was deeply wrong: there were no black people. So, we went out and inserted a black friend for the son such that the tragic yet beautiful ordeal of the black man could be expressed and brought to light after centuries of abuse and erasure. As the mother and son and his friend walked along the path towards the son’s childhood home, the son’s heart quickened. He had, after all, not seen his father since that infamous night seven years ago (was it to the day?) when all the pent-up rage of both generations were unleashed upon each other. So many terrible things were said that night, but better to have said them than to have left unsaid that sort of anger.
“Just so you remember, I’m black,” the black friend remarked, jolting the son out of his somber reverie. Oh yes, of course, the son thought, my friend who is black is here with us because I am not a racist and furthermore am quite eager to come alongside the Black Lives Matter movement and offer my allyship to them. I have had my day in the sun and now must take a backseat to those who have been historically disadvantaged by me (or more precisely my dad’s dad or his dad or somewhere back there). And so, it was as the mother and the son and the black friend were all kneeling with their fists raised in solidarity in front of the son’s childhood home that the father opened the door.
Something deep had been welling up in the father for weeks now, something which he had stifled long ago on that fateful, fateful night but which had increasingly longed to burst forth. His obstinate, ancient walls were starting to crumble, and his love for his son shone through the tears in his eyes. First though, of course, the father also kneeled for a moment in honor of police brutality and Charlottesville, and the plight of all minorities. By the time he stood back up (for he was in his late-fifties now and his knees were long gone) the father was a little confused but decided to ask the black friend a question: “Are you close with your father?” There was a brief moment of plot hesitation as a calculus was worked out to produce with maximum effect the best possible answer to balance, on the one hand, raising awareness of the systemic racism and implicit bias that so plagued the black community, with, on the other hand, inclusivity and the plight of those enslaved by the white man’s gender prison. Finally, the black friend answered: “I was raised by my two mothers. One has since transitioned.”
*It must be noted at this point that the black friend has remained nameless not because of erasure or stifling of a black body but because of quite the opposite: if the black friend was named Jamal or Andre or Stefan, then the long-standing and oppressive trope of black names would continue to overshadow our sincere attempts to raise awareness of racial strife. Indeed, what other despicable tropes would undoubtedly follow if that were allowed to continue? Conversely, if the black friend was named John or Blaise or Laxbro, then the erasure of this black friend would be all but assured; he might as well be painted white at that point. So it was with the upmost respect and pious devotion towards the great cause of our day that this person would remain named “black friend.”*
It was a sight to behold; familial love and reconciliation were on full display, organic, raw, and fulsome. [Extended sequence here has been removed as it went a full three paragraphs without using any words from our National List of Words to Ensure Tolerance and Unity. The committee composing this novel wants to leave this note in as a reminder that even a committee for national unity and racial justice can be misled and forget how to properly act, if even for a brief period; as penance, forty million dollars was donated to Planned Parenthood, specifically set aside for inner cities]… The black friend proceeded to lead the family in the black national anthem before elaborating on the joys and perfect nature of his upbringing (as much of course as can be allowed without detracting from the very real and very awful reality that he was a black person raised in a world designed to hate everything about him). Both of his mothers had worked two jobs, and, while the black friend acknowledged some resulting loneliness from having been left alone at home while growing up, it was nothing a few dozen finely tuned anti-depressants couldn’t solve. All in the name of feminism of course (and shame on this novel for taking so long to bring up that storied and revered pursuit of equal rights for women; as penance, one white man from our committee transitioned to a female and now leads the struggle for equal rights as a champion WNBA player). Women, they’re pretty great, eh? (That sentence was Extra Penance, just in case; you never know with women…[further note: after public outcry and an emergency committee hearing, the person who originally wrote that sentence has now been executed, his name struck from the committee, and was immediately replaced by Caitlin Jenner]).
For the black friend’s two mothers were the epitome of all narratives, myths, histories, and stories: the struggle to fit in to a society intent on outlawing gay marriage, perpetuating slavery, and incarcerating their son. Yet somehow, against all odds, they persevered…
- The editorial board at the New York Times praises Rise Up as “brave, stunning, a behemoth ready to take its place as one of the best novels from a true American writer/committee.”
- “One for the ages” exclaims [insert bland author desperately trying to maintain relevance by hopping on the woke train].
- “Hopefully the brilliance and awe-inspiring illumination of the black bodies in this novel can finally put those oppressive and bigoted novels still read in this nation behind us” wrote Jay-Z (???…publicist: he may run for office soon).
- Most popular president in American history, Joe Biden, concurs, enthusing: “this is the story America needs to heal old wounds, create intentional unity after such a horrid past presidency, bring forth justice from injustice, and finally recognize the story of minorities who have been ignored for far too long. This particularly reminds me of my long friendship with an old rival named CornPop… (at this point President Biden proceeded to regal us with that timeless story of CornPop and his gang [who definitely voted for Biden because well, read the rest of this sentence and figure that one out] before shuffling off to call Charlemagne tha God.)
- Speaking of Charlemagne, on his latest podcast (which is all the rave among pseudo-edgy, quasi-multi-ethnic hipsters who laugh too hard when getting too close to the borders of their sandbox), Charlemagne mumbled something about this book elevating minorities’ rights and finally stomping on those racist white bigots while Andrew Schulz squirmed uncomfortably in his seat before making some sexist joke about the female off camera (laugh track included!!).
- AOC and Smollett put out a joint statement praising this work for aptly illustrating the many anonymous minorities who are perpetually victimized, brutalized, desensitized, marginalized, and so many other -izes every day of their lives.
- “A worthy follow-up to our modern day bible White Fragility” wrote walking depraved thesaurus Michael Eric Dyson (among seventy other sentences stating the same thing in big words).
- Advanced copies of this book will be given out at liberal (i.e. all) churches across America (virtually of course, we have to respect everyone; we are almost through two weeks to flatten the curve; do not worry, everyone will be wearing two masks for the numerous virtual book clubs that will ensue), and interpretive dances are breaking out in parks throughout New York City commemorating this American story (at least, we are reasonably sure the dances were about this novel and not about dat meth).
At a certain point it was becoming apparent that the father was at a loss. “Sorry,” he interjected, “but I am about to break down if I can’t have a moment to talk with my son and reconnect this brokenness inside me.” The silence was a bit deafening. The mother looked apologetically at the black friend who replied graciously, “Please I am not offended. This comes from a lifetime of privilege and can’t be cured in one day. Here, I have a list of resources that you all should read. If you have any honest questions for me, here is another list of books to read. Please read up on our struggle and know that I am a black man and what that truly means. Remember: silence is violence; stay in your lane; and by God, quit speaking for black people.” Yes, of course, that was the only proper development at this point of the story, for the good of the cause. The committee fortifying this story will pause here for a week of remembrance and reflection.
[One week later]
After much deliberation, it has been determined that the committee wishes it to be known that this story has served its full purpose within the advancement of the cause. We hope that the disadvantaged and the oppressed have been brought to light and their stories cherished. In addition, due to the potential of some feeling uncomfortable or threatened, we have decided (unanimously) to finish the story as an exploration of the black friend’s family and his fascinating future (as the first black man to have two moms and become President).