Clark Kent's experience began while on assignment for theDaily Planet.He had been sitting in the Metropolis Airport lobby when he felt atinglingsensation. Next came a horrible feeling ofdéjà vu.
"Are you okay, mister?" the child in the seat next to him asked.
"Uh, yes," Kent said, sweating nervously. "What… what do you have in theshoe boxthere?"
"Aspace rock!"the young boy said excitedly, lifting up the lid as he held up the box with his prized possession. "It landed in my backyard. It fell right out of the sky!"
Clark Kent felt sick to his stomach. It wasred kryptonite.From the way he was feeling, he could tell the transformation had already taken place. Whatever it was, it couldn't betoobad. The child had reacted to him in a perfectly normal manner.
"Mickey!" a female voice called out. "C-come sit with Mommy."
"But, Mom, I'm showing him myspace rock,"the boy whined.
"Now, Mickey." Clark turned to see who was speaking and saw a woman staring at him with fear and suspicion.
"Aw,Mom,"the boy groaned, rising from his seat to join her.
Wanting to find the cause of her reaction, Clark got up from his seat and walked to the restroom. When he looked in the mirror, he saw someone he did not recognize. His skin had become a reddish brown, and the texture of his hair had changed.He was black.He took off his glasses as he stared at himself in the mirror and placed them in his pocket. He wouldn't needthatdisguise for a while.
Clark had thought about the idea of living as a black person ever since he had read John Howard Griffin's"Black Like Me"years earlier in college. In 1959, Griffin, a white journalist, had disguised himself as a black man and traveled through the rural South. In the late 1970s, Clark Kent had interviewed a white woman named Grace Halsell, who had followed in Griffin's footsteps, writing three books in three years about living as a black woman, a Hispanic woman, and a Native American. In 1979, Superman had even used Kryptonian technology to transform Lois Lane into a black woman at her behest for a few days. Her experiences had led her to write a series of articles in her weekly column under the title, "I am Curious (Black)." (*)
[(*) Editor's note: See "I Am Curious (Black)," Superman's Girl Friend Lois Lane #106 (November, 1970).]
Griffin had used a derivative of the drug Psorlen to change his skin from white to brown. It was even suspected that Griffin's early death in 1980 was partially due to liver damage caused by the medication. Obviously, Clark Kent would suffer no such side effects. The change wasstartling,nonetheless. With his straight nose and full lips, he looked almostHaitian.Someone walked into the restroom, startling him out of his contemplation, and he returned to his seat.
Growing up in Smallville, he'd had a few black friends. Whenever something went badly, they would say it was racism. Education, jobs, crime, poverty, social misunderstandings — they blamed everything on color. "It's a white man's world," they would tell him. He'd sympathized with his friends and wanted to support them. Secretly, though, he'd always felt that they used racism as an excuse. Couldn't they just shrug off the ranting of ignorant people? Judging from the looks he got from the people he passed in the airport; it was easier said than done. He was thankful that he'd already checked in for his flight, thinking of the white face on his driver's license.
Atlanta was the first stop on his itinerary. Waiting for his flight, he noticed for the first time how few of the travelers in the airport were black. Most of the black people were working behind metal detectors or push brooms. When he and the other passengers boarded the shuttle to go to the plane, he took the first available seat. It was next to a white woman. He smiled at her, and she cut her eyes to the ground. A white man placed a bag on the vacant seat next to him and continued to stand. Clark wondered why the man didn't sit and grew perturbed. Part of him wondered if he were looking for things that weren't really there, but he couldn't help noticing that the moment he met a white person's eyes, that person immediately turned away.
After Clark Kent landed in Atlanta's bustling airport, he went to the information desk, where a kindly gray-haired gentleman behind the counter was answering questions. When his turn came, the man's manner changed. "What, you don't havereservations?"he asked in a stern, hard voice. Clark was well-dressed in khaki pants and polo shirt, and he had five thousand dollars in petty cash from theDaily Planetin his pocket. So why was he being put on the defensive?
"We have conventions in town; most hotels arefull,"the older man said.
Clark found himself trying to be polite to an extent that was foreign, even to him. He was beginning to understand why a black person would act like a so-calledUncle Tom.He was desperate for just a little respect. Finally, the man suggested Clark take the subway downtown to the Peachtree Station and look for the Comfort Inn, a place he described as, "Pretty inexpensive, at least for the city."
Reaching the hotel, he checked into the room and, feeling unusually fatigued, decided to take a nap. He figured it must be a side effect of the kryptonite. When he woke up at ten P.M., the city was dark, and he was hungry.
On International Avenue, he walked into a fancy restaurant. The maitre d' haughtily told him, "Sorry, reservations required." He could clearly see several empty tables. Clark asked him for an alternative selection.
Several black men loitered around the entrance to the old greasy diner he'd been directed to, drinking out of paper bags. One offered Clarksome good weed.He kept moving. If the food was anything like the atmosphere, he wanted no part of it.
A little farther along, he found a Mexican place. "Long wait," said the woman at the door,"verylong." He peered over her shoulder. Inside, he could see there were well-dressed white people and several empty tables. Discouraged and tired, he went back to his room.
The next morning, he went to a nearby drugstore. A white employee watched him as he moved around the store, her eyes practically burning holes into his back. At the drink refrigerator, he turned suddenly and stared right at her, letting her know that he knew she was shadowing him as if he were a potential thief. He'd hoped to embarrass her, but she didn't flinch. She stared right back, hands on her hips.
"Are you gonnabuysomething or not?" she asked.
Clark held up the jar of orange juice, raised one eyebrow, and pointed to it.
"It's a dollar ninety-four," said the woman.
"PrettyexpensiveO.J.," he said.
"Then don't buy it," she countered. Clark sighed and put his money on the counter.
Clark checked out of his room and, after a long ordeal of trying to hail a cab, went to the bus station. His destination was Gadley, Georgia. Several lynchings had been reported just outside of town. These deaths might easily have been covered up by the town if not for the fact that one of the young men had turned out to be a popular college athlete. Perry White had sent him to find out what he could. Little did he know, his reporter had just had a huge roadblock put in his path.
A light-skinned black man sitting in the bus station asked, "Where you headed, brother?"
"Gadley," Clark replied.
"Man!" he said, shocked. "Youdon'twant to go to Gadley. They gotold waysdown there — thelynchingmentality. You should stay in the city."
"I'm sure it isn't so bad," Clark said. "Things have changed alot,don't you think?"
"Okay, okay, man, it's your hide," he said, backing away from him. "Be safe, brother. Be safe."
Clark climbed off the bus in Gadley and went straight to his hotel. The manager behind the desk wanted to give him some trouble about checking in, but he had reservations and had paid in advance. Once his bags were put away, he went out to explore.
Gadley was like the movie set for an old Southern town, complete with a statue of a Confederate soldier in the square. There were three churches within two blocks, some storefronts, and few people in evidence. Continuing up Greendale Avenue, the residential area became a beautiful neighborhood with the sidewalks shaded by majestic boxwoods. Dotting this landscape were signs with the smiling face of Mayor Elmore, who was running for re-election. On one porch, two ladies chatted. As Clark passed, their conversation stopped. He kept walking. When he looked back, they were still watching him.
After a while, he realized he'd gotten pretty far from his hotel and decided to fly back unseen at super-speed. He jumped up, but nothing happened. A surge of panic passed through him. He was in the rural south in black skin and possiblypowerless.Clark quickly circled back to his room.
He considered calling someone to get him. He still had his Justice League signal device, and he could easily transport back and wait until the effects of the kryptonite wore off. Then he cursed himself for his cowardice, however brief it may have been. Generations of menwithouthis gifts had been forced to live in the situation he now faced. Only they didn't have the luxury of waiting for their skin color tofade.How could he think of taking an easy way out?
Finally, he called Kristin Wells, alias Superwoman, needing somebody to talk to. They'd become close ever since last year when she permanently moved to this era from the twenty-ninth century."Come home, Clark. It's too risky. I'm sure Perry would understand."
"What am I supposed totell him,Kristin? That I've suddenlychanged race,so I'm not the best guy to try and do a story onlynchings?"
"Back in my own time, I saw the history tapes of what all went on there, Clark. That's not the best place for you to be right now."
"The events you're talking about took place in the '60s, Kristin. These are the '80s. A lot has changed since then."
"You were just telling me they hadn't."
"I experienced alittleracism," Clark said. "That's probably to be expected around here. It's not as bad as it was in those days, though."
"I really wish you'd reconsider,"Kristin said."Be careful."
His next call was to Earl Sharp, a reporter who had written the most recent story on the so-calledPhantom Empire.According to his article, they were supposed to exist somewhere in the area. He'd been supportive when Clark had talked to him back in Metropolis — eager, even. Most people didn't believe the group still existed, so Sharp was happy to see someone following up on the territory he had covered.
Clark had to struggle to keep his composure as they spoke. He was still confused and angry about the earlier petty indignities he'd been confronted with. Hearing about a white supremacist group was doing nothing to calm him. He recounted the events of the last two days, the drip-drop of indifference and fear from the white people that he had encountered, their lack of patience, and their downrightcontempt.He'd hardly started on his journey, but he was already furious, almost to the point of paralysis.
Earl Sharp gave him the names and locations he had come across in his own story. One place stood out in particular — Forton County. It was also the site of the most recent lynching. Sharp asked Clark to please keep him informed of any progress he had made, since this story had so much to do with his own earlier story on the group.
When Clark Kent looked through the window of his hotel room the next morning, the clouds were gray, and the asphalt was wet. The outside looked like he felt inside. He didn't need to be hit over the head with a baseball bat to understand what was going on. Usually, his unassuming manner won people over pretty easily. Now people treated him with suspicion. Yet nothing had changed but the color of his skin. All these years he had thought of himself as an outsider, an alien. He'd never realized howeasyhe had it.
Clark headed for a diner he had seen the day before. White customers occupied all of the tables. There was one black patron at the counter, and Clark took a seat next to him.
"Whereyoufrom?" the old black man asked him. The man's face and shoulders were those of someone who had carried a heavy burden his entire life. Clark couldn't imagine what it must've been like for him, spending his entire life in this place.
"Metropolis," Clark answered.
"Staythere," he said. "Why you want to come downhere?"
"What do you mean?" Clark asked.
"Look, son, you're here 'cause you heard about the New South, right? You've heard we've come a long way, and you want to find a new place to start. Well, let me tell you, Atlanta might be the New South, even Birmingham, but here in Gadley, inallthese little towns, this is still theOldSouth," he said. "What do you think happened to all those fellows who used to tell me and your daddy to sit in the back of the bus or to go around back to find the black bathroom? You think all those peoplediedwhen they killed Mister Crow?"
They walked together out of the diner to the town square. "What do you know about Forton County?" Clark asked him.
The old black man gave him a horrified look. "I know youdon'twant togothere.Idon't want to go there, either," he said, coughing nervously. "So it's best just to not talk about the place. Look, you're new here, so I'd best warn you. It's not a good idea to ask too many questions. When things go wrong around here, just accept them and pray they don't happen to you. That's how you get by."
"That doesn't sound like any way to live," Clark said.
"It's not," the old man said sadly. "But you ain't always got a choice in how you get to live." They shook hands and then said their goodbyes. "You take care of yourself now," he said with a wary look.
The main feature of the town square seemed to be the large church. Clark entered the stately blue doors, only to find the main room empty, save for a homeless guy who was blond-haired and blue-eyed. Clark asked him about the church's shelter in detail, leading him to believe he was homeless, too. His name was Chris. He'd been living on the streets for five years.
Clark asked Chris if he had ever lived in Forton.
"Oh, you don't want to go down there," he said.
"Why not?"
"Because you'reblack,"Chris said, looking at Clark as if he had just asked why the sky was blue. "Simple as that."
Clark continued down the street, heading south this time. There was an abrupt change in the landscape. Pool halls, liquor stores, all the buildings were run down — this was the black side of town. A young, bald, black teenager was hanging outside a pool hall. He had a fierce expression on his face. Clark gave him a friendly smile.
"Whazz up?" he nodded.
Clark had opened his mouth to ask the young man a few questions, when suddenly a police car passed, made a U-turn, and stopped directly in their path. The young man, who'd looked soproudonly a few seconds earlier, immediately looked down at the ground. The Sheriff waved Clark over. He walked to the car and put his hand on the roof of the cruiser.
"Get your hands off my cruiser," the Sheriff said. Clark put them in his pockets.
"You don't want to dothat,either."
Clark folded his fingers in front of his chest like a choirboy. The Sheriff regarded him a moment.
"You'renewin town,ain'tyou, boy?" he asked. His breath stank. "Well, we've had plenty oftrouble'round here. I hope you don't have any more in mind."
"No way. No, sir," Clark assured him. He prayed silently that he wouldn't ask for his I.D. How would he explain the white man's driver's license in his pocket?
"Okay," he said. "Stay out of trouble now, you hear? I've got myeyeon you."
Clark headed toward the town square, where there was apoultry festivalgoing on. It consisted of tents, steel drum barbecues, and picnic tables in a parking lot, scored with the live music of a twangy country band. The first thing he noticed was the lack of black folks, except for one family eating at a picnic table.
The aroma of chicken filled his nose and stirred his stomach. He walked up, taking a seat at a table not too far from the black family near an obese white woman, hoping to spark some sort of conversation.
"Hell-o," she sang pleasantly. "Are you enjoying the festival?"
"Yes, ma'am," Clark said. "The barbecue chicken is great. I don't get to eat good home cooking like this back in Metropolis."
"Metropolis?"she cooed with a tone of admiration. "And you wanted to come downhere?Where you off to next?"
"Forton County," he said, hoping to find out what she knew of the place.
"Forton County?" she repeated as a look of alarm and disbelief crossed her face. "Why would you go there? You lookin' fortrouble?"
"Of course not," Clark said. "I'm just looking to get away from the city, and there's good farmland out there. Surely, it can't be as bad as people say. I'm an American citizen, so I can live anywhere I want. Right?"
"Well, notthere,"she said with a derisive snort. "They'd make youleave."
"How could they dothat?"
"They'd make your life miserable.Badthings would happen. They could change your mind; trust me." The sudden change in her voice and her argumentative posture was frightening.
"Well, I think I'll just go and check it out for myself," Clark said.
Her face turned even redder. "You peopleneverget it," she chided. "Some folks justdon't likeliving with you people. Look what you do to yourneighborhoods.You make everyone leave. Youruineverything. You think–"
Clark stared at her, astounded at the gradual change in her demeanor. From sugary sweet to controlled rage. Across the street, someone began calling, "Ma! Ma, are you all right?" A young overweight boy was looking at Clark reproachfully.
She looked over at the overweight boy, waving her hand. She raised herself off the bench, a strained sound escaping as she pushed herself up. "Well, goodbye," she said. "Don't bestupid,now, you hear?"
Clark felt tired and sick. The fatigue was coming over him again. He decided to head back to his room, feeling as though he could sleep the rest of the day and night. Just as he was leaving the park, the same police cruiser from earlier pulled in front of him. "Still makingtrouble,I see," the Sheriff said.
"What? I haven't doneanything,"Clark said.
"You calling me aliar,boy?" spat the Sheriff. "Look how you upset poorGretaover there," he said, pointing to the obese woman Clark had just been talking to. He turned back and looked at Greta. She looked down with a sad, ashamed expression.
"Eyes front, boy. We don't like darkies
coming into our town, asking questions and upsetting our women. We like our colored folk to behavethemselves, if you know what I mean."
"I don't see what I've done wrong," Clark said.
"That's formeto decide.
I'm the one with the badge. Up against the car." He started frisking Clark. His hand went for the back pocket with Clark's wallet. Instinctively, Clark moved to stop him, and the Sheriff's nightstick slammed into his back, delivering a blinding flash of pain.
"What are you afraid of, boy? Got something to hide?" the Sheriff chuckled. He opened the wallet and saw Clark's driver's license and press pass. "So you been pickin' pockets?
I knew you was no good." He jerked Clark's arms behind him, slapped on a pair of handcuffs, and threw him into the back of the squad car.
As the car's engine started, the Sheriff turned and looked back at Clark Kent. "I hear you been askin' about Forton County. Well, you're about to find out about it first-hand. "The car pulled out of the town and moved onto a long, undeveloped stretch of road.
"You a relative of that basketball player?" the Sheriff asked. "That why you been going around askin' so many questions?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Clark said, looking out the window at the countryside. Despite his ominous situation, the land looked unbelievably beautiful underneath the setting sun.
"Some colored folks are reporters these days," the Sheriff continued. "Maybe you're partnered up with this Kent fella. Maybe he's around here'n up to no good somewheres and you're just holdin' onto his wallet for him. Is that it?" Clark gave no answer.
"Go ahead. Play dumb," the Sheriff said. "That's what you people are good at. It won't matter who you are pretty soon, anyway."
The car turned off onto a dirt road, and they continued to drive until they came to a wooded area. The Sheriff cut off the engine, stepped out, and then opened the door to the back seat. "Get out," he said, grabbing Clark by the arm. He shoved Clark ahead of him, and they walked into the woods.
Clark stopped in his tracks when he saw a group of robed figures holding torches who now turned, looking as if they'd been waiting for them.
"So this is the trouble maker you spoke of?" one of them said. From his demeanor and the symbol on the breast pocket area of his robe, he was obviously in charge.
"Yep. A pickpocket, too," the Sheriff said. "Had some reporter's wallet on him with about five thousand dollars in cash!"
"You know what we do with your kind when they steal from white folks around these parts, boy?" the head robed figure said.
"I can imagine," Clark said.
"Well, I bet you can at that!" he said, roaring with laughter. "Let me see the wallet."
The Sheriff pulled the cash out of the wallet. "Let's just call this a finder's fee. "He tossed the wallet to the hooded man.
"Clark Kent, huh?" he said. "Funny, you look a lot tanner in person." This drew laughter from the other hooded men. "I hope to God you are just a pick-pocket. Last thing we need's any more reporters nosing 'round here. I'm sure you've figured out by now who we are."
"The Phantom Empire," Clark said.
"Smart one, ain't you? Maybe you aren't a pickpocket. Though you sure as hell aren't Clark Kent."
"So what are we gonna do with him?" one of the robed men asked.
"Same thing we did with the last batch," their leader said. "String 'im up."
"Now wait a minute," Clark said, moving forward. The Sheriff's nightstick hit him squarely in the back, knocking him to the ground. Clark swung his leg backward, knocking the Sheriff off his feet. A fist suddenly struck him in the back of the head, and everything became a flash of red. Several more fists pummeling him followed it. He fell to the ground, and several legs began kicking him.
"Raise him up!" someone called out. Two sets of arms grabbed each one of his own arms and raised his battered form up.
"Thought you could get away, huh, boy?" someone laughed. "That's what that ball player thought, and he was an even bigger cuss than you. Of course, if we'd known who he was, we might not a' hung him. You, we ain't got no reason not to."
A noose was thrown around his neck, and they began pulling him toward one of the trees. One of the robed figures threw the coil of rope over one of the branches, and another hooded man caught it.
"Get ready. When I give the signal," the leader said. "One… two…three!"
There was a sudden jerk, and Clark found himself hanging several feet off the ground, suspended by the noose around his neck. The rope hadn't been pulled hard enough to snap his neck, but it was cutting off his oxygen. His body dangled from the rope, turning back and forth as his body jerked. His face aimed toward the tree branch he hung from, and he concentrated, praying for some remnant of his powers. A burn began to appear on the surface of the branch, growing deeper and deeper until it was suddenly severed.
A surprised cry escaped from the men as they stared at their intended victim floating in midair. Clark snapped his handcuffs and reached for the rope. He looked down at the hooded man who still held it, coiled around both his arms for leverage. Clark jerked it hard and swung him into several other phantoms.
The Sheriff gave a cry of horror and started to run. With a burst of super-breath, Clark sent him flying into a tree.
Clark then turned and looked toward the head phantom, who was trying to make a getaway. "Get away from me! You're a demon!"
"Wrong!" Clark said, recognizing a Batman opportunity. He flew toward him with arms outspread. "I'm the angel of vengeance! I come to avenge every mother who lost her son, every child who lost their father, and every wife waiting for her husband to come home. Tonight, you pay for all your crimes. The fires of hell shall burn especially hot for you, I promise."
"No-o-o-o!" the hooded man screamed as Clark swooped down and grabbed him by the front of his robe. He grew limp in his arms, and the hood fell from over his head. The leader of the Phantom Empire had fainted from terror at the prospect of paying for his crimes. Batman couldn't have done better, Clark thought, smiling to himself.
"Mayor Elmore," Clark said, looking at the face of the unconscious man. "Hope you weren't running unopposed."
Clark bound the rest of the men together, pausing long enough to retrieve his petty cash from the Sheriff. He used the radio in the police car to place an anonymous call in to the FBI rather than taking them in himself. Until his skin faded, he would have a hard time convincing anyone he was Superman. He leaped into the air to fly back to town and discovered that as mysteriously as his powers had returned, they had left once more. He thought about borrowing one of the cars of the men he had captured but thought better of it when he looked down at his dark hands. He began to make the long walk back to Gadley to check out of his hotel room.
On the way to the bus station, he saw Chris across the street. Clark called and waved. He motioned him over to the sub shop where he was standing.
"I was trying to get a cup of water, but they can't help me. Do me a favor and ask for one. They might help you because they don't know you."
Clark went in and got him a cup of water. He asked Chris if he wanted anything else.
"How about a steak and cheese and make that a lemonade instead."
Clark paid with a twenty-dollar bill. Chris's eyes bugged out.
"I've decided to take your advice and go back where I came from," Clark said. "So I'll be leaving town in a few hours. Care to walk with me to the bus station?"
"Uh… I'm kinda tired," Chris said hesitantly, "and I don't really know my way around that part of town too good."
"Not even for a guy who just bought you lunch?"
"Oh, okay," Chris grumbled.
As they walked down Butler Avenue, Clark seemed to really notice the pawnshops, the cheap food and liquor outlets, and all the standard ghetto businesses for the first time. All of the town's vices were packed into this small black community. An old, wrinkled black man nodded to them as he sipped on a bottle of Mr. Boston's Gin. They walked on past black children at play, women hanging wet clothes on makeshift lines, and bass music thumping from an open window.
"Lazy niggers," Chris spat.
Clark stiffened. Noticing the shadow that had suddenly come over his face, Chris became apologetic.
"Oh, not you. I didn't mean you — you're different," said Chris, a man who carried all his possessions in a tattered green duffel.
"Of course," Clark said. "After all, I just bought you lunch."
They walked in silence after that. When they got to the bus station, Chris asked if he would walk him back to his part of town. "See you later," Clark said.
As he sat in the bus station, he thought of all the people he had passed on the way there. Mayor Elmore was gone, but someone would come along to take his place. There were probably little sects like the one he'd found all over the place, not just in the one in the small southern town he'd visited. Had he really even changed anything? Sometimes, being able to bend steel in your hands just wasn't enough.
The bus came into Gadley at about three P.M. The quiet ride ended in Atlanta at about 4:30. He took the subway back to the airport. A young black woman leaned against the seat next to him — young, innocent, and far from the sort of hopelessness he had seen in Gadley. In her arms she cradled a sack of books. Newspapers often called Superman the Man of Tomorrow. But he knew he wasn't the embodiment of the future. That was found in people like her.
The End