Twenty Thousand Reasons

Jan. 5th, 2020:

Strange uncles are nothing new in the world. It’s all that trying to be cool, pretending that they are somehow still young, still connected. My Uncle Umoja is no exception. Well, he is a bit of an oddity even in this category.

Not that I am complaining. Not after the birthday gift he had given me. A black Moleskin journal, two thousand dollars, and a promise of fifteen hundred dollars every month. The deal was that roughly twice a month, I write a few words about life. That’s twenty thousand reasons to humor Uncle Umoja!

Jan. 13th, 2020:

Blah blah blah…

Jan. 25th, 2020:

And now we will close out the month with “Same ol’, same ol’,” as my grandpa would say. My dad likes to call it scrolling my life away on social media and video games. Perspectives and boogers, we all have them, and no one else is interested.

Feb. 11th, 2020:

Uncle Umoja asked to read my journal after complimenting me on the pretty little black book next to my game console. He always thinks he’s funny. You know, the weirdest people love to laugh at their own lame jokes even when no one else is. He’s paying to do so; therefore, he can enjoy away. Turning it over to him as soon as I put an exclamation point here!

Feb. 20th, 2020:

Uncle Umoja brought the journal back with fifteen hundred dollar bills inside and the strong suggestion that I do more with myself, even if it is just to make things interesting. I told him my life is interesting enough for me. His reply was that I need to consider our birthday deal a job. I let him know I’d think about it. In the meantime, my Delta Space Marine squadron needs me.

Mar. 4th, 2020:

Honestly, I almost forgot about this journal until I saw it half under my bed after Mom lost her mind over the few dishes scattered about. Apparently, I’m freeloading now that I’m no longer in high school, even though this has been my bedroom since I was peeing the bed. Which, by the way, has not happened for more than a decade. Hmm, except for my sixteenth birthday when I got drunk with my friends and managed to sneak back into the window without killing myself.

Anyways, my parents stated that if I was not going to college any time soon, then it was time I got a job and paid $250 a month rent. I agreed. This time they almost wet themselves! Suckers! Uncle Umoja has already given me a job. Guess I’ll consider finding an adventure or two so that my journals are not as lame as Uncle Umoja’s jokes. Hope you like that one, Uncle Umoja. It’s funny…because it’s true!

Mar. 27th, 2020:

Coronavirus! Soon we’ll all be dead in the great zombie plague! My parents don’t find me funny at all, and it seems that a large portion of the world is with them. So much for adventures, Uncle Umoja. At least not outside sniping a few dragon lords online.

Apr. 13th, 2020:

The pandemic seems to be real; however, I question how real reality these days. Three words: Toilet paper crisis!

Apr. 30th, 2020:

Cabin Fever is more than a stupid movie it seems. My parents wear masks to get the mail, which they spray with disinfectant and let dry in the garage; they watch the news incessantly and argue a lot. No one wears anything except pajamas—which is excellent—but it’s the feeling of being trapped that is unnerving. I’m an introvert; however, I have come to learn that hanging out with a friend every now and then held more value than I realized. Even jumping online with people cannot substitute for human contact. I cannot imagine how people in prison survived solitary confinement when isolation at home became its own version of Dante’s Infernal.

May 7th, 2020:

Two letters in the mail from Uncle Umoja. One for my parents and one for me. He’s keeping his word, so I will do my part. Not sure what adventures I can come up with to fill some space here, yet it does no harm to look more online outside my video game sessions.

May 29th, 2020:

Some call it protesting while others rioting. It seemed part of the world was upset how blacks were often killed by the police without justification for such lethal force, and others were upset that people could possibly question the authorities. I am not sure how to feel. George Floyd’s death-video was more disturbing to me than any video game I’ve ever seen. He was a human being in all his flaws one moment then for more than eight minutes a gazelle beneath the relentless jaws of a jackal, gasping, suffocating, dying…

Jun. 7th, 2020:

My days had once been about food, video games, and social media. Now I am always watching the news and live feeds of what’s happening in streets across the country. Even in my little state of Nebraska, there are protests or so-called riots.

Not only have I found myself drawn to see what is happening, to hear the words from both sides, but if I watch a local live feed, I at times catch glimpses of Uncle Umoja. He’s the guy always on his bike, shirtless, in the mix of things. He has a tattoo across his back that he states came from when he was more demon than human. Once I told him it looked cool. It was a surreal moment as he stared at me, finally stating that it was his burden to carry, before walking away. Never again did I comment on his tattoo. I know he has a terrible past from my parents and the few tales he tells, yet I have never known the villain he sometimes labels himself.

Jul. 2nd, 2020:

Twice now, I’ve gone to protests. Those were scary and powerful moments. Sure, Nebraska is considered insignificant compared to the population or popularity of other states; however, our police also shot tear gas and rubber bullets into crowds consisting mostly of those my age and younger. So, yes, I was scared. Also, I was exhilarated, chanting along with so many passionate voices that it filled me with tears. One voice did leave me awed and digging deeper into my awakening consciousness. Passing near me several times yet never realizing I was one of the masked figures he was pleading with was my Uncle Umoja. He was passing out homemade flyers and asking the people to look up the case of a local man named Earnest Jackson. No one, not even those who were leading the chants, seemed to listen beyond humoring him.

Jul. 19th, 2020:

I did my research, and Uncle Umoja is right…our system is as foul as a child molester hiding in priest’s robes. At the age of 17, Earnest Jackson was convicted of first-degree murder based on the belief he was present at a shooting death committed by one of his friends. After his conviction, his friend went to trial, confessed to doing the shooting, admitted Earnest was not present, identified who was present, and the jury acquitted him because he had acted in self-defense. Twenty years later, Earnest Jackson is still in prison! This case is the true definition of insanity!!!

Oct. 20th, 2020:

Sleep used to be one of my favorite things to do after gaming and eating. Now, it’s more like number one and those others not so much. Ignorance is bliss because all this truth is as raw as using my nerves for violin strings. I need to step away, let my brain shut down, even if only for a moment.

Nov. 14th, 2020:

It’s been a while since I have written anything. So much to process. I probably can start with the shallow end, which is Uncle Umoja hasn’t been to visit, yet every month, I get a package with a book authored by a black scholar and fifteen hundred dollars inside the cover. On the other end, I have been seeing him in the streets. He pops up at rallies, and the moment the people at the front take a breath, he steps up and tells the story of Earnest Jackson, a boy imprisoned for a crime someone else was acquitted for acting in self-defense. Many organizers were not too happy about him rally-crashing, yet the effect is taking place. People are talking. Other rally organizers have added Earnest Jackson’s name to their chants for justice. Slowly, Uncle Umoja is getting through.

Dec. 1st, 2020:

Two news stories of shooting deaths in Omaha, Nebraska, this month resonated deeply with me. First, there was a traffic stop in which officers gunned down a passenger, a black man, within a few minutes of pulling the vehicle over. Next, a man—who looked white, but a friend of mine said he was Hispanic—shot four people, killing two, at a Sonic restaurant. The police took him into custody without a scratch on him. It makes me think of the armed white guy provoking an unarmed black kid to attack him then killing the kid in the same city this summer. The chief prosecutor declined to allow the system he worshiped to process that case, freeing the killer within hours of spilling blood. It’s like my uncle says: The scales fall from our eyes to reveal the truth before us while it falls off the skin of others to reveal the wickedness within them.

Dec. 28th, 2020:

Uncle Umoja pops up at rallies less and less. Or, at least, he’s harder to see because he no longer has to rally-crash to bring Earnest Jackson’s case to light since the people now know it. It has been in the news, the governor has been confronted several times on a radio show as to why he has not pardoned this innocent man, and a legislative bill is said to go before senators next year that is to address this miscarriage of justice. Also, a national campaign has started to bring greater awareness to this case of injustice.

Uncle Umoja paid me a combined total of twenty thousand dollars to write this journal and only read it once when I first started. However, he will get the chance to read it when I mail it to him for my upcoming birthday. I want him to know that although he views himself unworthy, I see the blessings he fights to return to others. The money will carry me into a new life; however, not as nearly far as the path my uncle has started me upon.

It is not in the day that we find the most vital of lights but within the darkness.

*This is based on real events, including the case of Earnest Jackson. See the website sendearnesthome.com for details.

Jason N. Witmer

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