Excerpt From Body Politic
By: Glyn J. Godwin

 “Grandpa Gators rebuilt the church,” Gators said. “When he passed, my father took it over. My father and mother raised me and my seven siblings in the little parsonage. They taught the older ones to read and write. The older ones taught the younger ones when our parents got old and tired.”

“That’s a fine story, Jeremiah. Now about that seat,” the president said.

“I have a fine family history, Mr. President. But you know what? We didn’t take anything from the government. No welfare, no stamps. My parents didn’t want anything except what the family earned.”

“That’s a wonderful story, Jere—“

“But you know what, Mr. President?” Gators focused on the President’s eyes and smiled. “The descendants of the men who wore those robes and hoods that night, who burned down my grandfather’s church and almost hanged him, now head up my campaign headquarters with the descendants of the poor folks nearly killed in that fire. What do you think about that, Mr. President?”

“That’s a fine story.”

Wootan shifted. Senator Gators looked at him. Wootan pushed his palms on the cushion, lifted a little, and shifted again.

No one spoke. Gators turned to the president. “There aren’t any more cotton fields as far as the eye can see,” he said. “That Houma mansion is a tourist attraction now, Mr. President. But there’s still a plantation, sir. The overseer doesn’t ride a horse with his rifle across his lap. The owner doesn’t sit on the porch in his rocker, sipping mint juleps, but the overseer is still here, Mr. President. He’s the Caucus. He’s the men who call themselves ‘reverends,’ who keep their Bibles closed and our wounds open. And the slave owner? Why, it’s this federal government; it’s you and the professor there who don’t understand that God intended the human spirit to grow in self-reliance and self-esteem. And the plantation, with its free money and services, enslaves those you call my people, enslaves them in dependence as powerfully as that overseer’s rifle did Lukandee during the daytime, and the shackles the owner clamped on his ankles at night.”

“What are you talking about?” the President asked.

“Now, Mr. President, what do you want me to do for that seat?” Senator Gators asked.

“You’re out of line, Senator.” the President said.

Wootan cleared his throat and shifted.

“You want me to campaign for your wife’s reforms?” the senator asked. “Is that the price, Mr. President?”

The president said nothing.

Wootan shifted, again.

“Maybe you want me to get up there next to Dr. Hegel tomorrow night, as your token religious colored man. Maybe you want me to get on CPNN with the first lady’s friends and say a lot of stuff about helping the children.”

The president sat still. He gazed at Wootan with a befuddled look. He threw up his hands, “What’s wrong with helping the children?” he asked.

Senator Gators stood up. “Funny how our government works, Mr. President,” he said. “Most senators don’t even read the bills, do they? I read your wife’s bill, all two thousand fifteen and three-quarter pages. Your wife’s reforms kill children. They legalize selling their flesh, but you know that, don’t you Mr. President. I will fight your wife’s reforms until I’m in my grave.”

 “You know, Gators, some good people are looking for your senate seat in the next elections. Maybe I’ll go down near your headquarters in that dog patch in Slidell, Louisiana and campaign for one of them,” the President said in a calm voice and his familiar crooked smile.

Wootan cleared his throat, louder this time.

“When was the last time you took a poll in my district, Mr. President,” Gators said.

Silence.

“Every human being is sacred, Mr. President,” Gators said in a soft voice. “You, your wife, too. But I’ve been around a long, long time. I’ve heard these marketing lines, sir. Don’t believe I think your wife cares about children, President Frye. I suppose a lot of the folks think she does, though. God bless them all.”

 “Sit down, Jeremiah. Let’s talk about this,” the President said.

“I don’t think I will,” Senator Gators said. “When you come down to Louisiana, visit my church. My brother pastors there now. I even preach sometimes. I’ll even preach a special sermon on that Scripture you love so much.”

Senator Gators turned and walked toward the door. Then came the familiar impression, again. He stopped behind the sofa, behind Wootan. He turned and pointed at President Frye. “God works in ways our minds can’t know, Mr. President. You might believe you and the first lady’s plans are unshakable, but you’re wrong. God moves as He pleases, beyond time, beyond events, from life to life. He is a common, everlasting thread in all men, and nothing happens but what he knows will happen.”

The president rocked in his chair, but said nothing.

“I will pray; the congregation in my church, black, white, young and old, will pray. And we will pray for you, too, Mr. President. Just as His Word says we must.”

The president stared at Gators; he appeared fixed on the senator’s words.

“His hand opposes you, sir.” Gators said. “Get away from your advisers and seek Him first, and He will draw close to you.”

“Senator, I resent that!” Professor Wootan said.

The president stopped rocking.

 “Get away from your wife and her people. Ask God for help. He will hear you; He will answer. You will have an opportunity to show you have courage to turn back the first lady’s dark laws.”

Senator Gators lowered his hand. He felt the perspiration under his collar. A quiet loomed over the office for several moments.

“Good day, Senator,” the President said.

“Good day, Mr. President.” Senator Gators turned again, toward the door, seeing in his view the full dressed marine first, standing at the door that he had already opened.

As Senator Gators stepped across the threshold into the hall, he heard Professor Wootan chuckle and say: “The old man ought to leave his religion in his church, where it belongs.   That’s the problem with these more-righteous-than thou people.”