An: This story takes places before "Father of the Sons." So Richie isn't a superhero yet. Also, to state this early on, I'm not racist, I just thought this would be fairly good material to work with and would make an interesting story to read.
Warnings: A little angst. Well ok, a healthy dose of angst and controversy. This is a fic about race and what not so racism issues are in this. I rate it PG-13 for strong language—STRONG language I say. Don't get offended.
Disclaimer: I don't own Static Shock. If I did, Richie would be my husband and love me forever...I'm sad and lonely, yes, I know.
"See ya tomorrow, man." Richie waved goodbye to his friend as Virgil and Mr. Hawkins drove away. After a fairly late night of studying, Virgil and his father gave Richie a ride back to his own place a few blocks away. Richie slung his back pack on his bedroom floor as soon as he got in his room. Thankfully, his father wasn't home yet so he wouldn't be able to see Virgil or his dad drop him off.
"Mom! I'm home from Virgil's." Riche called out. He heard his mother faintly respond something about dinner, and decided to rest on his bed until she came to get him personally. Today had been one hell of an adventure, Riche thought. At school, Riche and Virgil's history class had taken a field trip to the Dakota Civil Rights Gallery. It was strange because Richie felt so awkward standing next to his best friend as they both read about the prejudice and horrific conditions that existed merely a few decades ago.
The class watched videos and saw exhibits about the sit-ins, boycotts, marches and powerful figures of the Civil Rights Movement in the middle of the twentieth century. During the entire trip, Richie's gut twitched with anxiety, wondering how his best friend felt seeing his people suffer. Remembering the stern looks flicker across Virgil's face, Richie wanted to know what ran through his mind. He cringed even further knowing that while the world was a little different on the outside, inside, it was practically just the same.
His thoughts were suddenly jarred when the he heard the front door slam shut.
"Damn! It's cold outside." Richie's father shuddered as he pulled off his trench coat and set his brief case down by the door. "Weather man said it would be in the mid-fifties today, lyin' dog…"
As Mr. Foley settled into the warm atmosphere of his small but quaint home, Mrs. Foley approached to kiss him on the cheek while wiping her hands on a towel. "Dinner's ready. Get washed up."
At the table, Richard's father spoke lowly as he ate, describing his usual day at the plant. His wife listened mildly for the most part, nodding and putting her tacit comments in whenever she could.
"Everything was going pretty good until Johnson hit the damn switch. I swear that nigger is so clumsy he'll tear the building down with only his damn mop." Richie's jaw clenched, looking at his mother instantly.
"Dear, please don't say that—"
Mr. Foley frowned, "Why not? It's true you know. He forgot to put down the sign again so I nearly almost slipped and broke my neck." A little peeved, he shoved his mouth full of mashed potatoes. "I swear, if they just fired all of 'em the company could run much smoother…"
His mother flipped over to her son, who sat a bit discolored in the face. "So Richie, hon. How was school today?" She tried her best smile.
There was a block of lead sitting on his diaphragm as he answered. "Fine." The blond boy adjusted his glasses before taking a sip of water.
"Just fine? I thought you said you had some kind of school trip today or something…" his father said. His son muttered something like 'yeah.' "…Well…where'd you go? The museum?"
Both Riche's shoulder devil and angel told him to lie. Just tell him what he wants to hear. But his mother already knew where he had been. She had signed the permission slip and paid the fee in advanced. And lying was a serious offense in the Foley house hold, even if it was a little white lie.
Richie kicked himself for thinking that. Even if the lie wasn't that severe, he corrected himself. He spoke as softly as he could, knowing that his father was going to be angry. "The…Dakota Civil Right's Gallery."
And of course, as he predicted, his father's face crinkled up with distaste. "What for?"
"For Martin Luther King's day, Dad. It's coming up soon and Mrs. Wexler thought it would be a good idea to take the class there for research." Richie practically blurted his sentences as if he were confessing double-crossing the mafia.
"Research? You doin' some sort of paper or something?" Tired blue eyes burned hard at the shy son who sat across the table.
Richie hurt. He physically, honest to God, hurt. His head ached, his stomach burned, and his face felt hot. He already knew where this entire discussion was going. The routine had gotten fairly simple to predict sense it happened almost every night.
As he chased a piece of steak around his plate half-heartedly, he kept his eyes down. "Mrs. Wexler assigned us a famous person to write a report on." If the tension between father and son had been any thicker, it would have suffocated everyone in the house.
Richie's father sighed, his broad shoulders heaving with frustration. Everyday he'd try to connect to his flesh and blood and everyday he'd get pushed away. But the therapist said to keep trying and eventually a breakthrough would occur. He just had to find the crack in the ice. "And who's your paper about, son?" He tried to make his voice sound as conversational as possible, not wanting to spark his child.
"…Malcolm X…"
"What?! Why?!" Mr. Foley slammed his fork on down on the table. Automatically, Mrs. Foley began collecting empty glasses and dishes for clean-up.
Richie gritted his teeth in preparation, "Because we're studying the Civil Rights Movement in History class, Dad. I have to write a report about a famous African-American."
Although the boy was expecting a gigantic blow up, there came none. His father neatly, calmly wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and smiled. "Well that's okay, son."
"…Huh?" Richie adjusted his glasses.
Pushing his plate away, Mr. Foley, simply replied, "I'll just call Mrs. Wexler Monday and tell her to exempt you from the project."
Richie really got angry then. "But Dad, that's not fair! I WANT to do this assignment!"
"No son of mine is gonna have anything to do with their kind if I can help it! It's not doing you any good learning about that civil rights junk. It's not gonna help you get into a good college, or get a good job. Besides, niggers have never done anything good for this society. They just run around with their pants hangin' low, listening to rap music and stealing from us hardworking people. You know how they are!" He stood up, towering over his son who stared angrily at the wall, arms folded. "I don't want you reporting on a nigger, Richie-- least of all that Malcolm X guy."
Richie stayed quiet for a long moment. He sat there at the dinner table while he listened to the sounds of his mother meekly washing dishes, and his father watching TV in another room.
Like two beasts raging, both males had to keep themselves separated. Otherwise a storm would have erupted and the house would have been shredded apart. Everything his father said burned his insides so terribly that Richie might have well been black himself. Not a day in his life could the blond teen understand why his father could possibly think the thoughts or say the words that he said. Sure, there were some black people that weren't upstanding citizens of Dakota. But there were white people as well who did the same things. There were Asians and Hispanic people who committed crimes and caused trouble. Why his father only focused on one specific group, Richie never understood.
If black people were as awful as Foley Sr. made them out to be, then why was his best friend, Virgil, a fucking superhero? Richie smiled at that thought. Virgil wasn't only a hero inside the costume; he was a good guy long before the Big Bang ever occurred. The African-American boy was always trying to do the right thing whenever a situation arose. When it came to helping a friend or a total stranger, Virgil never, ever discriminated. The best part though, the best part about being best friends with Virgil Hawkins, AKA Static Shock, was that no matter how bad the times got, there was always a smile on his face. 'Fantastic' was the word to describe Virgil. Not the N word.
And his dad was so much nicer than his own. Robert Hawkins always welcomed Richard into his home. Hell, he even gave Richie chores and curfew as if he were the other man's son. Mr. H never dissed his clothes or his preference of music or the way he talked. To him, Richie actually felt accepted at the Hawkins' place.
He stood up and took his plate and glass to the sink. "Mom…"
"I know dear. You can go."
Richie smiled big, "Thanks Mom. Love ya." It took a matter of seconds before the teenager had his things packed: a change of clothes, his school work, a favorite movie and some rap CDs his father knew absolutely nothing about. "V said I could come over. And his dad was alright with it too. I'll be back Sunday in time for church." A kiss on her check was all he gave, and gently, he shut the front door.
"Where is he going?" Richie's father asked, rather annoyed, as he changed back and forth between two football games.
"Over to a friends house to spend the night." His wife sat next to him with a crossword puzzle in one hand, a pencil in the other. "You know, dear…I really wish you would try to see things from Richard's point of view sometimes."
"I'm done arguing. Richie will see in time that the coloreds just aren't right for society. There's nothing good about them and there never will be."
"And so, I had Hotstreak cornered in the alley down on New Grove. He flares up like a bonfire and then," Virgil waved his hands in the air frantically, trying to diagram the entire scene in the air, "Bam, he lets this wave of fire balls. But of course, that wasn't enough to stop yours truly." Virgil laughed.
"Bring it home, V. How'd you stop the infamous F-Stop?" Richie leaned forward.
Just then, Sharon popped her head in and both boys froze, wondering if she heard the conversation. "If you two are done smooching, pizza's here." Purposefully, she left in a hurry to avoid any snide responses and leave the teens in their embarrassment.
Glaring at the door for a few seconds, Virgil finally turned to his best friend. "Guess I'll have to hold off on that grand finale finish. I'll tell you after dinner." They both rose to hurry downstairs, their stomachs aching for the pepperoni and pineapple pizza that awaited.
Richie smiled. For the first time in his life, Richie felt home.
AN: Okay, well I hope you somewhat enjoyed it. If not, I apologize. If I offended you, I had no intention; I merely wished to write a story. Review please.