Free Unfinished Business by Karyn Langhorne Page A

to Billingham next week. Then he refocused his attention on these children and the words he was saying. “And if I can do it, you can, too.”
    â€œYeah, but you’re white,” Anthony announced.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œMy brother say white people can do things black people can’t.” Anthony offered as though this changed the equation considerably.
    Mark hesitated, the feeling of ambush creeping along the tender skin at the back of his neck again. The kid’s brother was right: Racism was alive and well. But he couldn’t very well tell this little boy not to try, just because he was black, could he?
    Mark sighed. “There are still obstacles, Anthony, but in the end, I gotta say your brother is more wrong than right. Maybe once upon a time in America, that was true…but it’s not anymore. Maybe I’m just optimistic, but I gotta believe that, white, black, brown,yellow, you can do anything you want in this great country of ours if you’re willing to work hard for it. There are still problems, there’s still discrimination, but you and your brother have a better chance of success here in America than in any other nation in the world. I believe that,” he concluded firmly. “Now, you’re right about the House of Representatives being composed by population, but the Senate is different. Two from every state—”
    â€œThank you, Senator Newman.”
    He turned to find Erica Johnson’s brows furrowed and that tight line around her mouth again. Clearly, the woman was pissed. Again.
    â€œLook, before you give me all the lingering effects of slavery stuff, just let me point out—”
    â€œNo, it’s not that,” She frowned and shook her head. “It’s the other part. We don’t lecture the kids here at Bramble Heights.”
    â€œI wasn’t lecturing,” Mark asserted. “I was just telling them—”
    â€œI mean,” Erica Johnson smiled a little half smile that wasn’t a smile at all. “That we don’t tell the children things. They may be young, and some of them may be disadvantaged, but every kid in this room has a good brain, and I intend for them to become good at using them. I don’t want them to become adults who are content with being ‘told’ things by others. I want them to become adults who are adept at finding out the truth for themselves.”
    Mark frowned. “This is history, Ms. Johnson. Not some touchy-feely—”
    â€œThere’s nothing touchy-feely about critical thinking, Senator Newman,” she said firmly. “It requires a high degree of intelligence, resourcefulness and analytical thinking to discover the answers for oneself.”
    â€œAnd just how will they make these discoveries?”
    No sooner than the words left his lips than the woman’s smile changed, blossoming from that strained crimp of tolerance to something warm and full and alive. As Mark watched the love in that smile stretch over her face, something inside him stretched as well, filling him with fire from his neck to his toes. When she locked her glimmering eyes on his, pinned him with that smile—that glorious smile!—he forgot his irritation, forgot she was on the wrong side, forgot all the reasons that had brought him to this place.
    Katharine. That was the last time he’d had this feeling. This crazy out-of-his-mind, head-over-heels, burning-with-desire feeling.
    â€œThey’re going to get into their Discovery Groups and answer these questions,” she was saying. She brandished a stack of papers and the same two little girls jumped from their seats to distribute them right on cue. “They can use any sources they like. Their textbooks, of course.” She pointed to the computer station and the bookshelves. “The Internet. Our collection of resource books.”
    Mark swallowed hard, forcing down the feelings consuming him. “Why make it