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Code Switching (Part 1 of 4)

By Malon Edwards

INTRO: ALL I’M EVER GON’ DO IS STAY BLACK AND DIE

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. KINSLEY CHASE

Kinsley Chase sits on manman mwen plastic-covered couch. The InTell HumbleBrag subprogram Stanford Sutton Industries chipped me with says she’s wearing a circa 2020 Theresa Frostad Eggesbø Resurrection skinload.

I had no idea this shit actually worked. I don’t HumbleBrag. I thought it was all about narcissism and went in one direction, so I said fuck that shit.

But Kinsley Chase HumbleBraggin’ ’bout how unique (meanin’ how expensive) her skinload is makes sense. These days, pourin’ honey like that into some poor Black people’s ear can be an effective war propaganda tool. We all know both the State of Illinois and the Sovereign State of Chicago recruitin’.

Too bad I don’t like siwo. Or lagè.

‘Sides, manman mwen and I don’t need no tools. We juss need to pay our bills.

I don’t sit up from the couch across from Kinsley Chase. I don’t think I could sit up if I wanted to. And not just because the sweat on my cheek has fused it to the plastic. I’m close. It’s about my time.

Mwen toujou wè li just fine from this position. She’s got this chin-length dirty blonde straight razor cut. Eyes I can’t tell whether they’re blue or gray. Full (for a white girl) Cupid’s bow lips. The skin of a rich, twenty-two-year-old white girl expat who lives in Corfu.

And just so y’all know, she ain’t all that. I see all this ’cause I can’t look nowhere else or turn over the other way. I need to conserve my energy for the press conference tomorrow.

She puts her palms under her chin to frame her face and smiles at me. “We do good work, don’t we?”

I nod. Reluctantly. “What do you really look like?” This ain’t the first skinload I’ve seen her wear.

She turns a bit sideways to pose so I can see her profile. “What do you think I really look like?”

I smirk. “Maybe like that. I mean, you might be Norwegian for real, but I have a hard time believing the bullshit your HumbleBrag is tellin’ me.”

She gives me a wry smile. “And why is that?”

I kiss my teeth. Tchuip. “I can’t even remember how long ago it was when y’all said y’all was gon’ Electric Resurrect me, but here I am. Still alive. Still dyin’.”

“We’re true to our word. I’m true to my word. Remember, I am a Tenth Degree Maven. I cannot lie.”

Tchuip. “Nah, see, you ain’t slick. I know how your SPark Creed goes, an’ it ain’t the way you juss said it. You tryin’ to be cute wit yo’ words. It’s ‘posed to go: ‘I, Kinsley Chase, am true to my word and my profession. As a Tenth Degree Maven, I cannot lie in a manner that brings harm and detriment to the company or organization that bought and currently holds my PR Guild contract.'”

She laughs. It’s the same one I’ve heard before. That’s the only real thing about her.

“The first time I met your mother,” she says, “she looked me up and down and then told me: ‘I don’ brook no fools.’ I take it you don’t, either.”

Tchuip. Louder this time. “Yeah, that’s you in there for real. No matter what skinload you wear, you still talk and move like a white girl.”

She gives me a tiny smile. I can’t read it, and it’s not because of the way I’m lying on the couch.

Kinsley Chase stands. “Make sure you arrive an hour early for the press conference tomorrow.”

I scowl at her. “Not all Black people run on CP time.”

“I didn’t say you or all Black people do.”

I struggle to sit up, and not because the plastic sucks at my cheek, trying to keep me down. “Ki fè la a, what are you trying to say?”

“Familiarize yourself with the Bugatti Chiron Super Sport 300+ exo-suit specs I just sent you.”

Her tiny smile is gone. And then, so is she.

Shit just got real. And I don’t know why.

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1. RAINBOWS AN’ KANGOLS

JEAN-MICHEL FEAT. THE JOURNO CREW

I don’t make eye contact with no one. I ain’t here for fun. I juss pull my orange an’ blue Walter Payton College Prep hood low over my face.

Yeah, I’m tryin’ to ghost this space. Post haste. I’m gon’ start this race; y’all do y’all’s part an’ be sure to give me chase. ‘Cause y’all know y’all will. Anything for a story.

My story. His story. All glory.

But not for a DuSable Haitian lookin’ to find a place in those rich suburban tech spaces.

I juss want my life extended. Amended an’ splendid. Open-ended an’ uncontended. A chance to share they world an’ truly be in it.

But they won’t even let me smell the North Shore peonies as I lie in a meadow there waitin’ for the dark of night an’ the risin’ of the Pleiades while I think of my girl Esmée Vérité. If I tried all that, they’d tell me, “Nwafa, please go back to your monkey trees because we know you can’t afford Stanford Sutton’s android fees.” And they’d say it to my face, but wit a smirk an’ civil ease.

So here we are. Me looking through the bell jar at these reporters who crossed sovereign state borders so I could be drawn and quartered—

Nah, these ain’t my ace boon coon Chicago reporters. These are them Stater journos wishin’ this press conference wit me was a circle-jerk holo-vid porno.

Yeah, I said it. That’s what they do. Them grafs they gon’ write about me tonight won’t be nothin’ new. It’s gon’ be the same ol’ same ol’, but not rainbows an’ Kangols.

(Electric blue. Coolin’. Stylin’. Sharp.)

My e’ry movement gon’ be chronicled by these Stater journos whose dislike of me is so comical they should be wearin’ tweed an’ squintin’ through monocles. White men is all I see (except for this one white girl in front of me who looks like her name should be Brie). They gon’ describe me at this presser in exquisite detail, includin’ my hoodie an’ how I never failed to exhale in frustration when I kissed my teeth in disbelief at they questions.

Tchuip.

An’ that’s juss for starters.

Oh my stars an’ garters, these white men gon’ holler—high-pitched an’ shrill, as if they goin’ over a cliff in a car like Mr. Bill—that I slouched into the press conference late; sauntered up to the dais wit an exaggerated pimp gait, stared at the floor when I answered they questions, scratched my chin ’cause I was bored of they questions, sulked in my hood ’cause I was too good for they questions, curled my lip when I ignored they quips—

Yeah, this gon’ be a trip.

But I’m prepared to be berated an’ castigated as if I ejaculated on the hood of the Stater governor’s black Mercedes an’ then smacked a Stater baby. Nah, these Stater journos ain’t sympathetic to a seventeen-year-old diabetic whose kidney failure ain’t respected ’cause they don’t think he should have ever been considered for the Resurrected Electric.

Now, y’all watch as this press conference gets hectic.

“Do you think it’s fair that the NCAA denied your petition to play football at Auburn University?”

“No.”

“Are you going to submit an appeal to the NCAA Committee on

Competitive Safeguards and Medical Aspects of Sports?”

“No.”

“But you’re dying. Your doctor said you only have weeks to live.”

“Still no.”

Electric Resurrection. Born again perfection. The six-zero correction.

That’s what them rich ass State of Illinois livin’, keepin’ up with the Joneses driven, buyin’ the mansions of Jeremy Piven—

(Does he still live in the North Shore? Is he even alive anymore? I loved him in Smokin’ Aces wit Common, plus Alicia an’ Taraji’s pretty faces.)

—white kids call it. Wit no thought about the wallet. Status is the only thing that matters to these State of Illinois crackers.

Y’all should see them white kids up there draftin’ an’ craftin’ a Stand by Me lardass mass of post-suicide instructions (wit no reluctance) for they parents to commission Stanford Sutton Industries to build a perfect body (no contrition) designed pre-suicide (wit careful ambition) by spoiled teenagers who all day wishin’ they nose or they lips or they tits or they dicks was a very different vision.

But when my Black ass tried to ask for the six zeroes? I got three rows of assholes tellin’ me them bungalows on my street in Chicago was too shabby to be held up solo against they Stater investment portfolios. Nah, it don’t matter that I’m from the Sovereign State of Tomorrow, better known as Chicago. Them Staters ain’t got no sorrow for a poor Black boy who can’t find two buttons to borrow.

(Yeah, I don’t know what it mean, neither; when Manman speak, I juss believe her.)

“Chris Robertson with The New City Republican here. You were born and raised in Chicago. The South Side. Jeffrey Manor. Rough and tumble urban jungle. Your father is a deadbeat dad. Your mother is poor. Dirt poor. We’re talking having-trouble-scraping-together-coin-for-the-guild-coffers poor, and that’s with the Maids, Cleaners, and Launderers Guild having one of the lowest—if not the lowest—guild dues in your city-state. Your mother doesn’t have Electric Resurrection money, and yet, you’re turning down a full-ride scholarship and the chance at extended life. Shouldn’t you appeal?”

“No.”

Kounye a, make sure y’all hear me on this, as if I’m a trumpet bein’ played by Wynton Marsalis. See that Stater journo three rows back? Yeah, him over there who was juss talkin’ smack. He keep on runnin’ his mouth like that ’bout manman mwen as if she lesser an’ I for damn sure ain’t gon’ behave up in this presser.

W te tande m. Yeah, y’all heard me. I didn’t stutter. I ain’t scared of this journo horde, B; that’s my mother.

I’m gon’ start breakin’ shit up in here (lights, cameras, crackers) if that journo don’t catch some fear an’ realize that’s manman mwen an’ I cherish madanm sa somethin’ dear.

“Trevor Atkins with The Hilltop Examiner here. How much did

Stanford Sutton Industries quote you for your Electric Resurrection?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“How do you not know this? This is literally life and death we’re talking about here. Stanford Sutton Industries must have quoted your mother and Auburn University a price. Stanford Sutton Industries must have dragged some nice, big, fat round number across the holo-table for your mother. Gynoids, androids, and paedroids don’t grow on trees. Those are expensive and exclusive products, especially the paedroids. They can’t be paid for with hopes and dreams. Stanford Sutton Industries doesn’t conduct financial transactions with Monopoly money.”

Tand ‘on koze. Listen to this bullshit. M pa sezi. But I ain’t surprised. Not one bit.

These djèdjè don’t think I’m worthy ’cause my skin too dirty. Se dakò. Non, really, it’s all right; I still love Mica-Mireille Arceneaux, who birthed me.

She ain’t gon’ be happy, though, when she read them Stater stories tomorrow. I’m gon’ tell manman mwen to gorge on that Chicago holo-news feed first, an’ then pick at that Stater low-fat junk slow, best to worst, preppin’ my wince face for when she cuss. ‘Cause y’all know she will.

(But don’t worry; manman mwen still gon’ be at church on Sunday mornin’, bright an’ early.)

“Jim Becker with The North Shore Clarion. Did Stanford Sutton Industries give you a date for resurrection?”

“Yes.”

“So, when is it?”

“That ain’t none of y’all’s business.”

“Listen, son. Do you really want that to be your response?”

“Wi. Especially since I ain’t gon’ go through wit it. Next question.”

“Brett Larsen here. In five minutes, the Patriot-Whig Standard will break the news that you’re a selfish, ungrateful son who doesn’t love his mother because she kicked out of the house the only person you’ve ever loved in this world—your father—when you were five years old, and your decision to not appeal the NCAA’s ruling is your way of getting back at her for that. Twelve years later. I want to give you a chance to respond to this on the record before this news breaks and everyone in your city-state and everyone in the North Shore is talking about it. What do you have to say to that?”

“Ala de kaka.”

“I don’t know what—”

“It means that’s bullshit.”

“Fine. Call it what you will. My feature will also mention the secret deal your mother has just made with Stanford Sutton Industries, which, in part, states that she will go into cryo-sleep at their labs, allowing Stanford Sutton’s scientists to conduct all the research and experiments on her they want, as long as Stanford Sutton Industries first: waive all Electric Resurrection fees in the contract your mother signed months ago; second, include a new clause to re-up you every year after the first five years of your Electric Resurrection, which will

last the duration of your natural lifespan—as long as the cryo research on your mother yields satisfactory results; and third, waive any and all fees associated with Auburn University regarding your Electric Resurrection. What do you say to that?”

“For the bilingually challenged like Mesye Larsen here: That’s also bullshit.”

“You really want that to be your quote?”

“Next question.”

“The Standard is not the only outlet that can break news. Jack Carlson from the Beacon Hill Banner here. My sources tell me that, considering the large amount of money Auburn University has invested in you, the Committee will allow you to play this fall, but only if you agree to Stanford Sutton Industries reducing your performance output to forty percent. What do you have to say to that?”

“Next question.”

“Ray Malone, freelance holo-vid journalist extraordinaire here. Some people believe that, for a person—a human—to truly experience emotions, you must have a flesh-and-blood heart and you must have a wrinkled, grey matter brain. You have those right now, but I also notice you look upset and disappointed. Are you refusing Electric Resurrection because you won’t have a flesh-and-blood heart, you won’t have a wrinkled, grey matter brain, and you’re afraid you will no longer have true human emotions?”

“Next question.”

“Are you afraid you won’t feel like yourself, if you undergo Electric Resurrection?”

“Next question.”

“Are you afraid you won’t feel like a real boy?”

“Next question.”

“Danny Meyer here from The New Times Republican. I’m not sure where Malone is getting his information, but it’s been proven that, if one were to undergo Electric Resurrection, one would feel like a real boy or girl. Scores of teenagers in the North Shore undergo the procedure every day, and they keep whatever memories they want intact. These teenagers have programming that is very complex, sophisticated, and detailed. They emote. They have feelings.

“That is the crux of this NCAA rumor we keep hearing about, Jean-Michel: You will not be allowed to practice or play after you undergo Electric Resurrection unless your performance output is reduced to forty percent because the Committee is concerned you will retain the anger we see in you now—which we’ve also seen in you this past year since you’ve become terminally ill—and unleash it without mercy upon your opponents on the football field. Is that your concern as well?”

“W’ap pale pawòl tafya. Nah, it’s cool; I know you don’t understand, so I’ll say it in plain English: That’s some straight crazy nonsense. Y’all actin’ like I’m the Incredible Hulk or Wolverine or somebody. As if I got some volatile, dangerous anger pent up in me that I can’t control.”

“Kristin Mueller here from The Drumheller Post. But Jean-Michel, be honest with us: That is what you’re worried about, isn’t it? That is why you won’t undergo Electric Resurrection. As an athlete, a football player, you realize how dangerous Electric Resurrection can be on the field, for both your teammates and your opponents. That’s why you’re declining Stanford Sutton’s offer, right?”

“Next question.”

“OK then, do you agree with the NCAA’s ruling?”

“No.”

“The NCAA is concerned that you will be much faster after Electric Resurrection. What do you think?”

“I won’t.”

“The NCAA is also concerned that you will be much stronger after Electric Resurrection. What do you think?”

“I won’t.”

“How do we know you won’t?”

“Stanford Sutton Industries assured me that the programmin’ his coders would give my electric resurrected body would be the exact same speed an’ strength as I was on my last day of full health. They didn’t tell me nothin’ ’bout no forty percent output performance. So, if I was to undergo Electric Resurrection, there won’t be nothin’ dangerous ’bout it an’ there won’t be nothin’ dangerous ’bout me.”

“But how do we know that? How do we know we can trust the

programming?”

“Y’all juss bragged ’bout how them teenagers in the North Shore—”

“But, as one of my colleagues just said, it’s been proven that Stanford Sutton Industries can capture a deceased person’s memories whole, intact, and accurately, and transfer those memories to the resurrected body they’ve built, which results in true, believable human feelings. On the other hand, Electric Resurrection for athletes—especially ones like you who come from places like you do—includes memories, feelings, and experiences that have not been proven yet to engender a safe performance output. The NCAA just doesn’t know what your Electric Resurrected body will do on the field with your experiences and memories inside it. So, from a legal perspective, they can only risk this with a significant performance output reduction.

“But you say none of this is a concern for you. So, tell us: Why won’t you undergo the most coveted and expensive cosmetic procedure man has ever known, which grants you veritable immortality, with no money coming out of your mother’s pocket? Kids in the North Shore literally dream about this every night, but you’re thumbing your nose at it.”

“How ’bout you tell the NCAA I said to let me undergo Electric Resurrection wit full performance output an’ kite m montre ou there ain’t nothin’ to worry ’bout.”

“Why don’t you tell them yourself?”

“Tell them I said kite m montre ou before the season starts. Kite m montre ou on practice holo-vid.”

“Look, the NCAA is reluctant to take its first chance at a sports-based Electric Resurrection on you because—”

“I’m Black. An’ DuSable Haitian.”

“No, because you’d be dangerous on the field.”

“Non, what you really mean is me bein’ Black an’ DuSable Haitian makes me dangerous on the field, eske se pa sa?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth. What I really mean is you want me to tell the NCAA to let you give them a workout once you undergo Electric Resurrection, but how do I, how do we—how do they—know you won’t just go half-speed? How do they know you won’t just play down your augmented speed and strength during the workout, and then unleash it on the field when the season starts?”

“Y’all really like that word unleash. It’s a perfect one to put on young Black boys who make the same tackles an’ same blocks as them white boys in the North Shore. When they do it, y’all write, ‘Hayden Keliher, All-State left tackle and National Honor Society member, cleaned the Sam linebacker’s clock to open a hole for his tailback, who scored the game-winning touchdown on fourth and goal.’

“But when we do it, y’all write, ‘Siméon Andrevil, juvenile delinquent an’ despicable Ro Boy gang member, unleashed violence an’ fury an’ mayhem on the quarterback when he sacked him on fourth and goal wit no time left on the clock to win the game.’ Juss tell the NCAA te’m montre w, machè.”

“Steve Schultz here. I don’t know about the school districts of my fellow journalists here, but District 65 in Lake Bluff and District 115 in Lake Forest offered eight foreign languages at both the elementary and high school levels back when I got my education, and Haitian Creole wasn’t one of them. I have no idea what that gobbledygook was you just mixed in with your English. But I’ll say this: You could kill someone out there on the football field if you undergo Electric Resurrection. You won’t be a boy. You’ll be something new. Something different. Something awful and dangerous.”

“The Dispatch agrees. Robbie Vandenberg here, by the way. Look, Jean-Michel. You won’t be anything like those other kids on the field—those real kids out there—not with your upbringing, where you grew up, and how angry you are. You won’t even be human. You’ll be some raging, technorganic, super strong, super agile creature whose creation we all will come to regret in short order. You’ll be a super-predator, no less, designed with supposed good intentions, but a monster that will eventually rip us all to pieces in the end, both literally and metaphorically. How do you feel about that?”

“Ki radòt sa? Nah, monchè, don’t look at me like I juss shit in my hand an’ tol’ you it was chokola. Mwen serye: What kind of bullshit is that?”

Dang on. When Manman read each an’ e’ery one of these Stater journos’ goin’-ons at the butt-crack of tomorrow morn, mezanmi, she gon’ say, “I should never have tol’ you, ‘Konpòte nou byen, Jean-Michel,’ yesterday.”

But she did. An’ I couldn’t. I thought about it. But I didn’t.

I mean (so fresh an’ so clean), why would I “be good” to these Stater journos who don’t see me as nothin’ but a hood? Thug is what they want to call me; I juss wish they had that Chicago journalist idolatry.

But I dig. I done went an’ got too big for my britches, so now these Stater journos actin’ like some punk-ass racist bitches.

I miss those Chicago sports reporters; worshippers, all of them, sussin’ they internal biometric recorders toward Him. On their knees in they columns, pleadin’ wit the NCAA in they columns to reverse its rulin’ before autumn, juss so they can watch Him play football at Auburn.

Now, that’s love.

Not like this spate of hate these Stater journos refuse to abate ’til they verbally castrate my big, Black Mandingo trouser snake so it don’t gyrate wit they alabaster daughters named Kate.

(Or Madison. Or Dakota. Or Mackenzie.)

Nah, I ain’t never seen nobody delight so much in somebody else’s plight as these estebedje journos tonight.

“Frank Kowalski with The New Haven Standard here. Excuse my colleagues, Jean-Michel. They’ve obviously watched too many bad sci-fi B movies. I, on the other hand, have a legitimate question: How do we know your mother hasn’t asked Stanford Sutton Industries to put a secret clause in that new contract, a clause that would have them program you to be an ultra robo running back?”

“Why would manman mwen do that? Why would Stanford Sutton Industries allow that?”

“Why wouldn’t they? You’d win the Heisman Trophy and almost all of the other major offensive awards, take Auburn to the National Championship four years in a row and win each time, go number one in the NFL draft, and have a long, lucrative football career because you’d never get hurt. It’s a win-win-win scenario for you and your mother, for Stanford Sutton Industries, and for Auburn University. So much money to be made and spent by everyone.”

“Gade monchè, I wouldn’t be no different than before. Tell the NCAA to let me show you that I would be the same running back as I was before the procedure. Tell them to give me a chance at full performance output.”

“But how do we know you’re not just looking for a chance to knock our Stater boys’ heads clean off their shoulders?”

“I juss want to play ball, mesye blan. That’s it. That’s all. I juss want to run the rock.”

(Continued in Part 2…)

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Host Commentary

Once again, that was part one of Code Switching, by Malon Edwards. Stay tuned for part two next week.

The concept of code switching, of tailoring the way you act and speak based on who you’re interacting with, is familiar to many of us even if we didn’t have a term for it. In the first layers of this story, we find Jean-Michel showing us a particular front as he deals with a sassy scientist, then another with a crowd of hostile journalists brutally interrogating his life choices and grossly insulting him and his mother. In each case, he’s treated as lesser, a foolish teenager stubbornly refusing to submit to the will of his superiors, whom he questions and dismisses with justified irritation and anger. His code will be switched as his very self is transferred into a new body that he will be able to re-skin at will–just like so many privileged teens who are not subjected to the same media circus because of the skin color they’re born with. The racism is cruel and pervasive, the double standards clear, and as we delve deeper into this world, we’ll go beyond the surface to find issues that are way beyond skin deep.

Escape Pod is part of the Escape Artists Foundation, a 501(c)(3) non-profit, and this episode is distributed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International license. Don’t change it. Don’t sell it. Please do share it.

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Our opening and closing music is by daikaiju at daikaiju.org.

And our closing quotation this week is from Edwidge Danticat, who said: “It is perhaps the great discomfort of those trying to silence the world to discover that we have voices sealed inside our heads, voices that with each passing day, grow even louder than the clamor of the world outside.”

Thanks for joining us, and may your escape pod be fully stocked with stories.