As our first visit together wound down to the end, I wondered if I should tell Tamarvan Barnes the truth. He’d made it clear that he’d only agreed to speak with me because I had mentioned VIV, but I hadn’t told him that I didn’t actually know VIV. Or Viv as I had presumed she was to him. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that I couldn’t deliver any message for him unless he could give me information about VIV. I decided to continue asking questions and I hoped for the opportunity to ask him more about the woman; maybe at least some of those things he knew would still be true.
The longer I sat with Barnes, the more I found myself liking him. I didn’t want to like him, what he did was horrible and he deserves to rot forever, but he is an interesting person to talk to.
“Are you crazy, Mr. Barnes?” I asked frankly. “Seriously, I don’t ask this lightly. I thought about whether to be so direct and there are definitely other people who can give a more objective answer, but you seem cogent and intelligent. Please answer for me, are you crazy? You said before that your actions, essentially your terrorist actions, were an art piece and if you view it that way, then I think you have to be crazy.”
“It’s all semantics, Maxwell. Am I terrorist? If so, what makes me a terrorist, the use of a bomb? If I had shown up to town hall strapped with bullets and guns, would you think me a simple thug? Or is what I did an act of civil disobedience, maybe I am a political dissident? All those words, all words actually, are a matter of personal views. Very few people in the media called what I did a terrorist attack and the reason for that is my race. Only a person of Middle Eastern descent, someone too different to be a real American, can be labeled a terrorist, and that is despite the modus operandi of the crime committed. A white assailant can only cause tragic events to occur, while a black assailant is a thug usually associated with gang activity. To answer your question, the way I refer to the incident cannot possibly color me insane or otherwise. It can point to my motivations, which you seem to be curious about and should pay attention to. Questions about my sanity must revolve around my actions immediately before and after the incident; knowing what it took for me to go through with it and how I coped with the reality that I was responsible for the death of innocence would tell you the most about my mental faculties. Would you agree with that?”
“I guess so.” He was very sharp, and even though he was schooling me, he didn’t seem to be gloating about it. “But I don’t want to jump too far ahead just yet. I guess I asked the wrong question. Have you ever had any problems that required the help of counselors or therapists? Were you ever diagnosed with anything?”
“No, never, although when I went to university I had a friend who studied psychology and described me as an extreme narcissist. It wasn’t a formal diagnosis and I never gave it any thought really, though I never considered myself to be particularly self-centered. But since I have been here, I’ve had time to think on it, and it might be true. I had assumed that my character traits were that of a shy boy and man, but my introverted, almost agoraphobic nature could definitely be described as egotistical. I refused friendships and social interactions, I wasn’t denied them as a child; I was very much a loner by choice. But that is not insanity. If anything it is the emerging new normal, what with the prevalence of social interaction disorders in subsequent generations.”
“Did you feel different growing up in Ladoga?”
“I don’t know. Not really. It’s hard to say because feeling different or weird is a function of getting older, isn’t it? Part of maturation is feeling awkward and learning to deal with that until you learn to be comfortable in your own skin. I do know that I appreciated things that most people my age did not. I liked to watch the sun rise and set and no one I knew my age seemed to appreciate that.
“My old friend Rogelio used to tell me that evil is a force that seizes us if we are not careful. Do you believe that Max? Roger thought everything was a force that took hold of us, goodness, evil, romance, love, envy, we are just empty vessels waiting to be filled I guess. But I can’t believe that. I know that I am what I am.”
“And what is that?” I asked
“I am the son of Calvin and Esther who was meant to be great by any standards. I wasn’t better than anyone, I just gravitated toward the things that supposedly breed success. I could have the American dream that was denied to my parents, my brother even, because I was smart in the way that mattered and I could navigate the mainstream, not make my living on the black market like the majority of the people I grew up around did. I know this will sound crazy because of everything that went down, but I sincerely love my town, I love Ladoga and the people in it. But love for a place doesn’t eliminate it’s flaws and the structures in place there, the design of the city itself, the local government presiding over it. Its very history is designed to encourage white supremacy and it’s no wonder that my family feels mired in strife and unable to go after the American Dream. And even when one learns to navigate those oppressive structures, fate steps in to render hope benign. I sound like a fatalist, I guess I am, but I didn’t come to it lightly.”
The visitation ended as he finished.
“Same time tomorrow?” I asked, not meaning to, I had meant to say it as a statement as I left, but there was a part of me that assumed he was still skeptical of me and may not want another visit.
He just nodded silently and left the room.
PRL Serials 