“I can’t give you a marriage license. He’s black.”
“I know, but I heard that if we get a special permit or something—”
“What you’re talking about is a same-race certificate. But I can’t give you one, and I wouldn’t if I could. The very idea of blacks marrying each other, when—”
“So why’d she tell us to get in this line?”
“This line is for same-race certificate applications.”
“So what do we have to do to get one of those?”
“Under the law, just ask for it. Even though there’s something disgusting about—”
“So look, lady, I’m asking.”
“Here. Fill this out and return it to window A21.”
“Does that mean we have to start in line all over again?”
“What do you think? Next!”
“NEXT!”
“Hello, I’m not even sure we’re in the right line. We want to get one of those special certificates. To get married.”
“A same-race certificate. You’re in the right line. But under the Equal Access Provisions of the Melanin Conservation Act, we can’t just hand those out. You have to have an Ozone Waiver to even apply for one.”
“I already have the application filled out. See? That white girl over there told me about it.”
“She told you wrong. What you filled out is the application for the waiver. But you can’t get the waiver without twelve and a half minutes of counseling.”
“Can’t you just stamp it or whatever? We’ve already been standing in three lines for hours, and my feet are—”
“Excuse me? Maybe you know more about my job than I do?”
“No.”
“Good. Then listen up. I’m trying to be helpful. What I’m going to give you is an appointment slip to see the marriage counselor. Take it to Building B and give it to the clerk at the first desk.”
“We have to go outside?”
“There’s a covered walkway. But stay to the left, several panels are missing. Next!”
“NEXT!”
“We have an appointment slip.”
“For what?”
“Counseling. To get a waiver, so we can apply for a certificate, or something. So we can get married.”
“Sit down over there. The Sergeant Major will call you when he’s ready.”
“The Sergeant Major? We were supposed to see a marriage counselor.”
“The Sergeant Major is the Marriage Counselor. Has been ever since the Declaration of Marital Law, under the Ozone Emergency Act. Where have you been?”
“We don’t get married every day.”
“Are you getting smart with me?”
“I guess not.”
“I hope not. Take a seat, in those hard chairs, until I call you. Next!”
“NEXT! At ease. State your business.”
“We need to get the counseling for—”
“I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to him.”
“Me?”
“You’re the man, aren’t you?”
“Uh, yes, sir! We, uh, want to get married, sir!”
“Speak up. And don’t call me sir. I’m not an officer. Call me Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir; I mean, Sergeant.”
“Sergeant Major.”
“Sergeant Major!”
“Now tell me again what it is you want.”
“This is ridiculous. Yusef already told you—”
“Did I ask you to speak, young lady? Maybe you think because I’m black I’ll tolerate your insolence?”
“No. Sergeant. Major.”
“Then shut up. Carry on, young man.”
“We want to get married. Sergeant Major!”
“That’s what I thought I heard you say. And I guess you want my approval as your marriage counselor? My blessing, so to speak?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well, you can forget it! For Christ’s sake, boy, show a little backbone. A little social responsibility. You kids are the kind who are giving our kind a bad name. You don’t see white folks lining up trying to evade the law, do you?”
“They don’t need to line up.”
“Watch your mouth, young lady. And nobody told you to sit down. This is a military office.”
“She’s been standing for hours, Sarge. Major. My fiancée is, uh—”
“I’m pregnant.”
“Will you quit butting in, young lady! Now, let me get this straight. Is she pregnant?”
“She is.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“That’s why we want to get married. Sergeant Major.”
“You’re in the wrong office. I’ll need to see a Melanin Heritage Impact Statement and a release from the Tactical Maternity Officer before I can even begin to counsel you. Take this slip to Office Twenty-three in Building C.”
“Outside again?”
“Only for a few yards.”
“But the sunscorch factor is eight point four!”
“Quit whining. Show a little pride. Imagine what it’s like for white people. Next!”
“NEXT!”
“We were told to come here and see you because I’m—”
“I’m a woman too, I can tell. At ease. Sit down, you both look tired. Want a cigarette?”
“Isn’t smoking bad for the baby?”
“Suit yourself. Now, how can I help you? Captain Kinder, here; Tactical Maternity.”
“All we want is a certificate so we can get married.”
“Negative, honey. No way. If you were both sterile, or overage, maybe. But nobody’s going to give you kids a same-race if you are already PG. Not with active replicator AAs in such short supply. Who are all us white folks going to marry?”
“Each other?”
“Very funny. And watch our kids fry. But seriously, you don’t have to get married to have a child. You can have all the AAs you want OW. What’s the problem?”
“We want to keep it.”
“Keep it? Negative. You know that under the Melanin Heritage Conservation Act, Out-of-Wedlock African American children must be raised in Protective Custody.”
“You mean prison.”
“Haven’t you heard that old saying, ‘stone walls do not a prison make’? And this is not like the bad old days; since the Ozone Emergency, AA children are a precious resource. You should be glad to see them in such good homes.”
“But they are prisons. I’ve seen them.”
“So what? Does an NB, that’s newborn, know the diff? And it’s for the child’s own good as well as the good of the society. Do you realize the culture shock for African American youth when they find themselves in prison at age sixteen or so? If they are raised in prison from infancy, the TA or Transitional Adaptation goes much more smoothly.
Besides, they get out as soon as they marry, anyway.”
“What if we don’t want our kid to go to prison at all?”
“Whoa, Akisha! Do you mind if I call you Akisha? Are we back in the Dark Ages here, where the parents decide the child’s future even before it is born? This is a free country and kids as well as parents have rights. Sure you don’t want a cigarette?”
“I’m sure.”
“Suit yourself. Let’s cut the BS. You’re nice kids, but under the Melanin Distribution Provisions of the Ozone Emergency Act, the law is clear. If you want to raise your own children, you’ll have to marry legally.”
“Which means marry a white person.”
“As a white person myself, I’ll overlook your racist tone of voice, which I’m sure you didn’t mean. Is there something so terrible about marrying a white person?”
“No. I don’t guess so.”
“Okay. Now why don’t you get with the program. Don’t you know some nice white boy to marry?”
“Then I can keep my baby?”
“Not this one, but the next one. This one’s double M and belongs to Uncle Sam, or at least to the Natural Resources Administration of HEW and M.”