Next to his bedside, lay a pack of Natural American Spirits supported by a paperback copy of Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience. His bedroom was a whirlwind of anti-establishment, transcendentalist sensations frolicked about. The turntable spun a 45 from the Hollies, directly below a laminated poster of Norman Thomas. The room’s diverse political atmosphere confirmed his idly inconsistent nature.
       Struggling for a place to reside, a ray of sunlight beamed through the lousy curtains. The sunbeam seemed to be preaching a message of merriment to the contemptuous child.  In hatred of the light, the boy forced his comforter over the windows.
Like a cavalry unit he charged the turntable to switch the record. Flipping through his 45s he stumbled upon Toto’s single “Africa”. He withdrew it from the paper cover and thrust it onto the turntable. He commanded the arm to its corresponding position, and permitted the soundwaves to fill the room. The boy danced alone, humming along with the record. His hips swiveled like Elvis, his thoughts raced like a philosopher. Continuing to dance to the worn-out tribal pulse, the youth commenced to bless the rains down in Africa, a metaphor that demands no further explanation.
       Before the song had its chance to fully blossom, he seized the pack of cigarettes and marched out of his room. He wandered down the stairs, threw on his jacket, and started out the sliding glass door.
       Upon stepping outside he immediately withdrew a cigarette. Subsequently, the youth reached for the zippo in his pocket. He attempted to block the wind with his left hand, in order to produce a flame. Amidst the abrupt autumn air, he was able to light it after some difficulty. The boy puffed strongly, inhaled the smoke, and decisively released a sigh of relief. His posture exemplified a stark transition from an edgy timidity to a boundless repose.
       A town park rested directly adjacent to the boy’s home. The boy walked out several feet from the sliding glass door and began to follow the trail that led to the park. He looked about and became immersed with wonder. Autumn was undoubtedly the most prominent season in the quaint Midwest town. A strange collaboration of colors clashed together to paint a picturesque landscape. The auburn leaves scattered about the rolling hills, the forest-green meadows still intact, the gentle tranquility of the even-tempered wind. It was all at once breathtaking but naturally familiar  to the impressionable adolescent.
       Leisurely, the boy continued on the wooded path to the park. Once he made his way through the trail, he located a sordid park bench beneath a crimson pavilion structure. The youth made his way to the temporary spot of rest. Flicking the ashes of the cigarette onto the immaculate surface of nature, the youth comfortably seated himself on the bench. After taking another heavy puff, he faced the disarray of graffiti on the bench—Nazi swastikas, weed symbols, drawings of provocative nature. He laughed and continued to smoke. 
       As his eyes wandered about the bench, the youth began to enjoy himself. Overwhelmingly pleased, he laughed out loud at some of the sketches. The youth regarded these illustrations as expressions of selves, art forms in their own right. As he puffed on the half-smoked cigarette, he allowed his eyes to roam about the pavilion.
       Suddenly, he stumbled upon an offensive racial dialogue, including the word n*****. Recognizing the word, he shuddered slightly. For a brief moment, he thought of his black friend, Ray. This memory did not stem from a profound philosophical awakening regarding racial matters. Au contraire, this memory arose simply because Ray was the only black person that the youth ever came to know personally. The youth conjured a vivid memory. The memory of when Ray’s family, the only black people to ever live in the community, relocated back to the city. Within seconds, the youth shrugged off this memory, eventually allowing it to escape his mind. He continued to smoke.
His eyes recommenced to scan the walls of the pavilion in search of more graffiti. Once more, he became amused at the comedic sketches. Proximately, his entertained stature ceased, as he viewed another racial offense. This time, the bigoted dialogue was directed toward his old friend, Ray.
       The passage read: N*****S MUST HANG! N*****S MUST HANG! LYNCH RAY DANIELS! WHITE POWER! A swastika was labeled right underneath the little anecdote. 

      The boy was bewildered. Never had he felt such an emotional sensation in his life. His idealistic nature was summoned. Passion was struck. How impertinent, how disgraceful! He was ashamed of his race, ashamed of his community. What if the authors of this dialogue were born black? Pigment of the skin was the only differentiating barrier! Pigment of the skin! Jim Crow ended years ago! Racism was but a footnote in history! Was it not? His emotions kept building and building like an avalanche of reason, fueled by a romanticized disgust for bigotry. 

       He heaved his cigarette on the pavement of the pavilion and stomped on it defiantly. He rushed home. Distraught and shuffling through his vinyl collection, Public Enemy’s “Fear of a Black Planet” revealed itself to the boy. As if by a force of nature, the boy unraveled the album from the paper cover and placed it upon the turntable. He commanded the arm to its corresponding position, and permitted the soundwaves to fill the room. Almost naturally compelled, the boy studied his bookshelf in search of Elijah Muhammad’s Message to the Blackman in America.
       As he read through the beginning pages of the book at a pace corresponding to the Public Enemy record, the youth possessed a newly-discovered frame of mind. For once in his life the inherent of white privilege, the Caucasian of the American heartland, truly empathized with the black race.