Learning Day: Stonewall Jackson's Black Sunday School (Patreon)

Once, there was a failure named Rickey.

He lived in the past, where it was safe and warm.

And in America, where it was okay.

They had books! Though Rickey didn’t read them.

When he tried, his head leaked grey stuff.

Still, Rickey wanted to write.

He prayed and prayed and didn’t practice and prayed.

“I know,” said Rickey to God. “I’ll write kid’s books!”

“Maybe don’t,” suggested God.

Rickey ignored God. His new calling came from the Lord.

The Lord didn’t talk down to Rickey like God.

The Lord wasn’t a leftist bully like Christ.

The Lord lived underground, just like Rickey’s dreams.

The Lord told Rickey stories! About a high place, and a tough fall.

The Lord told Rickey history! The South never lost.

The Lord told Rickey the future! The South would rise again.

“But if we never lost–” asked Rickey.

“Hush,” said the Lord.

“Okay.”

But even with a friend, Rickey still failed.

He failed and failed and cried and failed.

Rickey tried poems, but he couldn’t rhyme.

Rickey tried prose, but he couldn’t think.

Failing so much, in front of the world, made Rickey feel small.

Even smaller than his penis.

Then Rickey had an idea.

“What if I taught kids about the real Stonewall Jackson?”

“Holy shit, yes,” said the Lord. He hadn’t been this excited since Reagan.

“And his black church!”

“Woah, hold on,” said the Lord. “That’s a little hardcore.”

“Don’t punk out now,” said Rickey. “You’re part of this.”

“Wow, that’s really something Rickey,” said the Lord.

“Could you read my draft?”

“I’m sure it’s perfect, child of darkness.”

“I’m pure, sir. Not one drop.”

“I meant…alright,” said the Lord. How bad could one book be?

“Just a few notes.”

“What do you think?”

The Lord checked behind him.

Phew! No black warlocks were watching.

Or artists. The book’s illustrations weren’t.

The art almost out-sucked Rickey’s words.

But only almost.

“A little wordy. What’s a shorter word for a servant?”

“Aide?”

“An unpaid black one, in 1855.”

“Pet.”

“An unpaid black plantation servant in the Antebellum south.”

“Windchime?”

“Son of the Goat. Who drew this?”

“My friend Lynn.”

“I see. Does Lynn have hands?”

“Two strong, Southern hands, master.”

“I see. Why’d she use her teeth?”

“They’re strong, Southern teeth.”

The Lord squinted.

It had to be a misprint, or another lie.

The book said Lynn taught.

Other humans learned to imitate her. On purpose.

In a retirement home–a prison for the forgotten.

“Tell Lynn she’s my strongest soldier.”

“Rickey, these servants ask for conversion.”

“Go on.”

“By request. With a choice.”

“Waiting for feedback, sir.”

“I remember things differently. My best work, really. God, I was so young…”

“It’s not your story, sir. It’s Stonewall’s.”

“The illiterate slaves like his voice,” explained Rickey.

“Mmm.”

“It’s like The Blind Side, with a little subtlety.”

“Mmm.”

“Apes were a burden, but the white man endured.”

“Mmm.”

“Everyone clapped,” grumbled the Lord.

“They did! I cut that part for length.”

The Lord rubbed his temples.

Lies were fine. The Lord loved lying.

Rickey told every lie like an AskReddit fable.

Jackson was seconds away from misquoting Einstein.

“Excellent wraiths,” noted the Lord. “Did Lynn use her hands?”

“Those are black children.”

“Bullshit.”

“I know, the books are a stretch, but it’s for the story.”

“Everyone looks sick.”

“And faith’s the cure.”

The Lord reread chattel slavery’s generous gifts.

With wings, he might have balked.

If he’d tumbled a little less far.

If he’d landed a little more gently.

He hadn’t. Fuck ‘em.

“Better. But cut ‘free blacks.’ It invokes the other kind.”

“Why not show that?” asked the Lord. “It could be powerful.”

Rickey looked shocked.

“Not the words, or the idea. But ten crying kids have an effect.”

“I considered it. But I like soldiers.”

The Lord waited for the rest.

“And the book felt a little DEI. This page adds real diversity.”

The Lord searched “Little Sorrel” on his phone.

After all the quarter-assed lies, that name was real!

Quite the humanizing detail.

Defending human bondage could be fun!

Had Rickey finally learned to write?

No.

Fifty whole dollars!

Twice what Rickey’s books made, before or after inflation.

Rickey waited for praise from the Lord.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“Jackson was a father to his men and Bible slaves.”

“I got it.”

“Just checking. You looked bored and disgusted.”

“Occupational hazard.”

“Did you have a father, Lord?”

“No.”

“Good job skipping the teamkill.”

“The what?”

“His men shot him three times. Ruined my whole week.”

“That sounds wrong.”

The Lord thumbed ahead. More watercolor blobs.

“Maybe you mean Grant? He drank, you know.”

“He does miss that slave,” noted the Lord.

“You know the Professor, master?”

“A bit. He screams louder than Davis, but less than Lee.”

Rickey went silent.

The Lord felt guilty. He’d been hard on Rickey’s microbrain.

“If this sells well, you can torture him too.”

Each word shamed Rickey more.

Why didn’t the Lord like his book?

Rickey had spent a whole hour on it!

And paid Lynn ten Union dollars!

And run all the facts by his dog!

Though Cpt. Paws had bitten him a few times.

It’s not that bad,” lied the Lord.

Rickey kept crying.

“Just add more sugar around the hate. Ever seen Song of the South?”

“Northern lies. Only one servant sings.”

The Lord read on. There wasn’t much left.

Rickey was a bust, but the Lord still had the Ludys.

“Rickey. You’ve overplayed our hand.”

“Like invading heaven?”

“Yes. Exactly like that.”

“Is it the black teachers? I can cut those.”

“It’s Stonewall Jackson inspiring the Civil Rights movement.”

“That’s history. I have to show his dark side.”

Then it clicked.

The Lord held an impossible book.

Drawn by an idiot and written by worse.

No living child would buy it.

But plenty of adults might.

They’d give anything to live in Rickey’s world.

“Beautiful work,” lied the Lord.

Rickey glowed.

“You’re very talented,” lied the Lord again. “And deserve breath.”

Rickey’s brain grew no sizes.

“No one else could have done this.”

That part was true.

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