To Black Men

Batman had us all on high alert that night. Gotham's citizens were pissed off, and rightfully so. Back before I was running around in this Signal suit, I would probably have been with them. On the streets, holding a sign with all my friends and allies, demanding change in a sick, sad world. The belief in justice and the power of the people is what fueled We Are Robin, and if the group were still active, I would have led as many of us as possible to support the protestors.

Problem was, it wasn't just the protestors out there. Not everyone in Gotham believed that two kids should have the freedom to walk down the street at night without being killed by someone sworn to protect them. When Namzmiren's verdict was announced, that side had two responses; celebration and preparation. They toasted and cheered and took pictures and hashtags celebrating what they believed was justice done well. They boarded up their shops, pulled out their guns, and prepared for their neighbors that believed it hadn't.

There was a march led from City Hall to the police headquarters. It wasn't Black Lives Matter, NAACP, BYP100, or anyone else leading. "Fuck it, I'm going to the station," was the rallying cry, delivered via TikTok by a reporter who had been waiting for the verdict to drop. Young Black dude for one of those online pages...I think it was The Root or The North Star, but it might have been Ebony or Essence. I guess he figured that Gotham was special; we weren't in the South and we had an Independent mayor, an open-shut case like this should have been easy. When the judge declared Namzmiren innocent, that had been the last straw for the reporter. He said "Fuck it, I'm going to the station," and stopped the live stream. No one was sure if he expected anyone to follow him, and more than likely he wasn't, but people did anyway. His words weren't deep or profound or even thought out, but it was exactly what everyone needed to hear. It was the type of spontaneous action that people write poems about, but only rattle me to my core.

Bruce and I had tried warning Gordon before any of this jumped off, but he wouldn't listen. He'd taken all his expert analysts at their word and assumed that everything would be fine just because there wasn't any chatter on the message boards of a right-wing terror attack, and all the community activists were 'small potatoes'. The thing about rage is that it tends to just sneak up on people.

Soon as a bunch of Black people started traveling through the city, those white boys got scared. It wasn't enough to just grab their guns, they needed everyone to know they had them. Soon the cop's supporters had organized themselves through word of mouth and internet chatter. I imagined Gordon's analysts frantically panicking as their computers lit up with online discussions of weapons distribution, strategic occupation points, and other combat tactics. The good old boys of Gotham had nearly a hundred men and counting stationed the same block as the police station in less than half an hour, while news of the march across town was still breaking out.

The news was talking about two armies about to converge, but all I saw was lemmings. There's a joke I see online a lot but have never been in the types of discussions with the type of people that would allow me to make it myself: Black people see one nigga running and then they all want to run. The march was like that. In my head, I called it the Get Out Challenge and had even slipped up and called it that in front of Alfred, who (luckily) had no idea what I was talking about. One nigga started walking, and next thing you knew, damn near every Black person in Gotham was following him. There's another thing I saw online: Everybody wanna be a nigga but nobody wanna be a nigga. Whites, Asians, Latinos, everyone sees what we do and they copy, they don't even realize it. Sometimes it's just inappropriate or embarrassing, like white girls saying 'yas queen.' But at times like this? It was hard to be mad, after all, they were just trying to help. Still, it was a problem. One nigga started running, so all the niggas started running, and then some people that weren't niggas put on their jogging shoes because they only know to follow us when we act.

A secret about me that no one else knows? I don't have Black friends. I'm a nerdy Black kid, so that was always hard. And I'll admit that when I was younger, I believed too many people when they told me I was special, so that made it even harder. I built a wall between myself and my people, and I wound up not even hearing about the impromptu march until Batman radioed in. I wonder if I would have been one of those lemmings if I had that connection to my people.

The news reported it as two armies about to converge. But unlike them, I looked down on the protest first hand. Far above it all, on the rooftops I'd adopted as my primary mode of transportation when I accepted this role, I could see the world. I saw signs and water bottles and first aid kits. I saw people holding hands and singing songs. I saw people taking selfies as they posed for pictures. I couldn't see a single gun, and Alfred trained me to spot those a mile away. Those protestors were no different from me or the other Robins of the old We Are Robin. Every last one of them, even the elderly struggling along after being in too many similar marches (or not enough), was just a kid. They were a scared kid in a homemade costume that thought they could take down the evils of this wicked city. And they were about to face a rogue militia alliance, and then the militarized and corrupt Gotham police department.

"I don't think I can do this," I said. I wasn't sure whether my stomach was spinning or if I had it confused with the world around me. The rotation of the earth withdrew from the realm of complex ideas and became a tangible, unfortunate reality as I struggled to balance. Put me down on the ground in front of a bunch of white boys with army training and I could handle myself. I'm Signal. I was a Robin. I was trained by Batman and Alfred Pennyworth. I'd fought metahumans and assassins and madmen alike. When I was just a kid, I was ready to stand up to the fucking Riddler. Beating this enemy would be easy, protecting everyone else in the process...there were just too many. People would be hurt, lives would be lost, that was inevitable. Bruce knew it, I knew it, everyone in Gotham did.

There was a commercial I saw once, it was criticized as fascist propaganda. A single riot officer stood in a unit of many more as a tidal wave of protestors prepared to cascade upon him. He nervously flashed back to his time in the army, and we compare the two uniforms to see how small he is now in comparison. He takes fire from terrorists shouting something unintelligible (literally, it's not any language known to Twitter). Commercial clips to a day on the beat, as a criminal he's pursuing fires three shots into a crowded playground. He pauses, unsure whether to pursue the criminal or to check on the children. Transition to his home, where his little sister is about to get into a car with her friends. She's blonde and pretty, vulnerable. Later, as she's leaving a club with her friends, a man with a thick beard and tan face follows them as he shields his face with a hoodie. Clips back to the cop. He lowers his visor, and the shot clips back to his military service as he straps in his helmet. I was with everyone on Twitter for the longest and saw it as propaganda, and I still do. But as I stalked the protestors through the streets, nervously waiting for some counter-protestor to strike at them, I felt like that cop. What does that make me?

It wasn't long before the march met the counter-protestors on the block outside the station. They couldn't surround the station itself, so I guess they figured it was the next best thing. By the time I arrived, the armed counter-protesters had nearly doubled their numbers. They were carrying high-velocity rifles and tactical vests. Some proudly displayed their military ranks while others displayed their imagined ranks. They boasted all types of brotherhoods and militias and political parties. They weren't one single unit, but they operated like one. Their lines were neat and their movements tactical. They were an army protecting the police that was, in turn, being protected by the police. GCPD had rolled out a riot brigade and stationed them between the two parties, but they had their backs turned to the armed 'protestors.' It was a stark picture, and from high up, I could read the dawning realization on the faces of the protestors below.

"It's a trip, ain't it?"

I jumped when I heard the voice. I knew who it was without looking. I'd studied his videos religiously since the first one came out. I'd be lying if I said he didn't interest me in a weird, macabre way.

Minstrel walked forth from the shadow of a roof-top shed. His grin wasn't as wide as it usually was, and that put me at ease. His movements were slow and small, his face not nearly as horrific despite the jet colored face and bloody lips. I believed then that I was receiving the rare gift of seeing a calm, reserved Minstrel.

I reached for the nightsticks at my side and readied into a battle stance, "What the hell are you doing here, Minstrel?"

He didn't respond. He only walked to the ledge of the building and sat down. He invited me to join him by tapping the space near him, but I refused. We both knew that he'd have only pushed me off. Still, he shrugged as if I was being difficult but he would entertain my reservations.

"I wasn't feeling very well, so I came out for a laugh," he explained.

"You think this is funny?"

"Of course it is! Look at them, they've got no chance! They're marching straight into death and calling it bravery. But I'm wrong! I'm crazy for doing the same thing. These assholes walk up to men with a gun holding a sign that says 'shoot me' and they're fighting for their rights. I do it and I'm 'expressing a concerning lack of disregard for my life and trespassing on a firing range.'"

I didn't laugh. Batman warned me that's what his type wanted.

"I swear," he continued as he leaned over the ledge a bit more than I would have been comfortable and looked down on the crowd below. "Our people will follow any nigga in a nice haircut and a suit."

"That's not why," I commented, giving him precisely the type of engagement I'd always been warned to avoid with Joker.

He counted on his fingers with each name he mentioned, "Al Sharpton, Jessie Jackson, Booker T. Washington, W.E.B Dubois, Martin Luther King Jr., Al-Hajj Malik Shabazz...shall I go on?"

I sighed, "That's not a fair comparison at all. Each of those men was vastly different from each other. Their presentation does not undermine the political, spiritual, and cultural philosophies that informed their very different tactics and ideologies!"

His face widened as air exited his lungs in a high, choppy laugh, "Sorry, sorry. I just really didn't think you'd recognize that many Black names at once."

I was getting sick of his game quickly, but I had to be careful. I couldn't figure out what he was planning, and I didn't want to do anything hasty that led to people getting hurt.

"They're all the same," he said with a disgusted tone. I couldn't tell who he was talking about.

"What are you going to do about it, then?" I asked.

He flicked twirled his fake, yarn dreadlocks around his finger as he crossed his legs and his eyes in thought, "I don't know. What do you think?"

I sighed, "I think that you're a passionate but confused person that wants to do the right thing, but doesn't realize how. But I think you know that what you're doing is wrong, or else you wouldn't be talking to me?"

"Yeah, this is a fanfic written by a narcissistic sociopath, not a Hallmark movie."

I was going to argue, but he cut me off before I could say anything. "Why do you think you're better than they are?"

"I don't think I'm better than anyone," I answered.

He sucked his teeth, "You big lipped bitch! You know damn well that you're better."

He gestured to the ground below, but I legitimately couldn't tell who he was indicating. The protestors, the counter-protestors, the cops? I wasn't sure.

"You said I know that I am better, I don't think that. Why do you ask why I think something you've already accepted as true?"

"Because, Duke Thomas," he said with a sudden leap from the ledge. He landed in front of me and I jumped back anxiously, trying desperately not to lock with his wide eyes, "I'm trying to understand the depth of your madness."

"You're the one that dresses like Jim Crow and has the emotional consistency of an Animaniac," I retorted. I didn't ask how he knew my name, because I could tell that's what he wanted.

"This is no laughing matter, Mr. Thomas!" He said that in between his own cackles and struggled to continue, "You're suffering from pathological Negroism, or That Nigga Syndrome as coined by Professor André Benjamin."

I rolled my eyes, "Again, I think you're describing yourself. You can reference Black leaders in politics and thought and make an Outkast joke at the same time. You're clearly smart enough to realize why what you're doing is flawed. You're spreading so much fear and chaos that you're making things worse. Yeah, the white folks that really run this city are scared of us and hate us, that isn't some profound realization! But you're making it harder for the few that are on our side to support our cause. If the mayor looks at you running around, kidnapping people and castrating them on tv, all he's going to do is hire more gun-crazy cops ready to shoot every Black dude that breathes. You have to see that this is all pointless!"

He put two fingers in his ears and stuck his tongue out at me.

"Do you realize that your name popped up more than any other keyword on 8chan the very second that the verdict was released? And on Twitter, you have people wishing that you go out and just kill Namzmiren. None of this would be happening if it weren't for you! I wouldn't even be out here if it weren't for you!"

I hated myself the moment I said it. But there was a lot of truth to it. Riddler had just escaped prison. Rumors were circulating about League of Assassins foot soldiers working their way through the Gotham underworld, looking for recruits. Poison Ivy had recently resurfaced and was seen assaulting civilians. I would still support the movement in any way I could if I didn't have Minstrel to worry about, but the idea of being on the ground with the other Robins, holing a Black Lives Matter sign was a fantasy. I'm Signal, which means super-criminals take precedence.

"Perhaps you're right," Minstrel said. "Einstein defined madness as irrational distrust borne from inadequate living conditions, after all."

I prepared myself for another one of his bad jokes, but he surprised me by silently reaching behind him, then pulling out a gun. I reacted quickly, grabbing my nightsticks from my side and bracing myself for a fight. But he didn't point it at me. He held the gun in front of himself, contemplating its design for a moment as he muttered words. I couldn't tell if he was speaking to me or to himself.

"That Nigga Syndrome is a serious illness. Luckily we've found a treatment. One Gangsta's Pill should do the trick."

Minstrel looked up at me, eyes wide and smile even wider, "Do you know, Duke, what a Gangsta's Pill is?"

I'd heard it before, but I couldn't figure out the answer. Minstrel was nice enough to explain. He raised the gun and pointed it at his temple.

"That's a little piece of lead, taken to the head."

"Minstrel, don't!" I reached forward, but it was too late. The sound of the shot filled the air, echoing off the walls and windows of every skyscraper around us. Minstrel fell to the ground in a lifeless heap, the gun falling from his hands and clattering ominously on the concrete rooftop.

In the next moment, I heard screams from the crowd below. The sounds of accusation and fear permeated my ears. I looked over the ledge but already knew what I was about to see. In the streets was chaos, pure anarchy. The shot had only fired a few moments before, but already people in the streets were fighting. I watched the family I was so estranged from being shoved and beaten by cops and militias. I saw some of them punch back and swing their signs like clubs. People overturned trashcans and hurled them, then used the spilled contents as projectiles. I turned my gaze away when I saw the first tear gas launcher.

"It's a trip, ain't it."

His voice was deeper. Harsher. It didn't carry that same, affected, maniacal air that he'd been using the entire time so far. Was this a mask being pulled back? Was I finally hearing the real Minstrel? I didn't care. The cries of anguish and please for mercy entered my soul and lit a fire. I raced to Minstrel, grabbed him by the collar, and leaned him against the side of the building.

"You're a bit too young for me...wait, how old are you?"

"WHY!"

"So I know if you're legal before-"

I punched him in his mouth. The lipstick that smeared on my glove was too red for me to be certain that my strike had any effect, so I delivered him another one in his gut. I didn't like that type of merciless violence, but it to measure my anger. Down below, the same people Minstrel claimed to fight for were suffering worse.

"You do not fire a fake gun, or ANY gun, in the middle of a protest!"

"Why not? I thought it would be fun." The sound of blood clogged his throat and made his voice disgusting.

I rolled him around and forced his head over the side of the building, "They were peaceful before! They wanted to be peaceful! You ruined everything!"

Minstrel laughed. It was a wet, wheezy gargle that he was clearly forcing out against his will. "Nearly half a thousand men and women showed up to face down confederate wannabes and the same police force that killed a child and showed no remorse. Why would they gather in such a large number? What did they think would happen? They wanted to fight!"

"Then why didn't you stop them!" I screamed.

"Where's the fun in that?"

Minstrel suddenly jerked his body to the side. The shock made me stumble and nearly trip over the edge of the building. I quickly composed myself but had to let go of Minstrel in the process. He didn't offer me much time to recover. The second I'd stabilized my body against the ledge, I felt the air around me shift, and my base instincts sent a jolt down my arms, pushing me away. A banjo dropped down on the same concrete spot where I once leaned.

"Come on, come on," Minstrel said as he crept towards me. Banjo raised over his head and eyes wild and bloodthirsty, the sight of him sent a chill down my spine with every step his lumbering feet took. "You know this is what it has to be. You gotta make it look good for your boss."

"Batman is not my boss!" I shouted this as I swung a leg up in a wild drop kick meant to drive distance between us.

"It's better than being a token like Luke, I suppose." Minstrel said with a laugh and another swing of his banjo. I dodged it expertly and it only caught air.

"Who are you? How do you know so much about us," I demanded.

"I'm the guy that distracted you long enough for that to happen."

Like an idiot, I turned around. I felt my stomach boil with worry as I looked down on the crowd. I didn't know what it was that I expected to see, but nothing had changed. Fire, destruction, pain. Clouds of gas covering parts of the streets, and cops moving like Stormtroopers as they forced people to the ground. I thought something worse would lay before me, but what could be worse than this?

I turned back to face Minstrel. I was sure that it was all just a trick to distract me. But he wasn't in the same spot any longer. My instincts drove me to whip my head around and check my six, but he wasn't there either. As suddenly as he appeared, Minstrel was gone.

I looked down on the crowd. So much pain and destruction all caused by one man.

"Signal, report in," I heard Batman call over my commlink.

"Copy, Batman. Signal on scene."

"Minstrel's been spotted in your area. Your objective has changed. Stop Minstrel before he escalates this situation. But do not engage without reporting in."

I turned my microphone off for a moment so I could curse.