All Our Names Read Online Free PDF Page A

neither of us knew it at the time. He posed variations of the same question to randomly selected groups of boys for a week. He called it his “interrogation.” He would say to me, “I’m going to interrogate those boys over there.” Or, “Who should I interrogate today?” And before I could respond he was off.
    After the second or third time, I learned to watch without turning away. I saw that the risk of embarrassment and possibly even pain was necessary to the performance. He was pushed, threatened, laughed, and spat at, and, regardless, he returned to me with only a slightly dampened version of the confident glare he wore when he left. He could do so in part because he knew I was there watching, a witness rather than a mere spectator.
    Isaac’s “interrogations” ended once it became obvious that enough students knew what to expect when they saw him coming for them.
    “I’ve learned something important,” he said after he declared the end to his questioning. “All of the rich boys are named Alex. If they tell you something different, don’t believe them. Trust me—their real name is Alex.”
    That same afternoon, he began to wave at any student who bore obvious signs of wealth, while calling out, “Hello, Alex. Very nice to see you again.” Or, “Alex, where have you been? Say hello to your friend Alex for me.”
    It was an easy game for me to join him in. I followed him around campus yelling hello to the privileged boys; occasionally,when feeling bold, we approached a pair with our hands outstretched, and greeted them in unison as Alex.
    By the time they realized they were being mocked, we had walked away. If they yelled for us to return, we never acknowledged them. Isaac kept his stride, while I had to concentrate not to stumble.
    The only students on campus we admired were the ones who, like us, failed to hide the not-so-subtle marks of poverty. When I wasn’t with Isaac, I made a careful study of how they held their heads, if they looked down before speaking, and if close enough, what they said, what their voices sounded like when they spoke.
    Isaac had other campus heroes as well. Of all the would-be revolutionaries, there was one group he never mocked. They were from Rhodesia—independence was still years away. No one on campus had a more powerful cause, which took the form of a single white banner unfurled each morning that read: AFRICA IS NOT FREE UNTIL WE ALL ARE . Isaac had introduced himself to them, when I was not around to see it.
    “They’re from Rhodesia,” he told me, “but don’t use that word around them. If you say ‘Rhodesia’ they’ll tell you no such place exists. One boy told me that if I wanted to find Rhodesia I’d have to live inside of a white man’s head. I like them, but they don’t trust anyone.”
    That was as close as he could come to admitting that they had not taken him seriously. He continued to watch them, but I never saw him so much as wave to them or look in their direction.
    The real star of the campus for Isaac, and many others, however, was virtually invisible. He was supposed to be tall, young, handsome, and well read and wore only olive-green pants and shirts. Isaac claimed to have seen him from afar as he was leavingthe campus. He said he was certain he was either Congolese or Rwandan. “He’s tall and serious like a Rwandan,” he said, “but it’s the Congolese who know how to fight. Maybe he’s both.”
    “Maybe he doesn’t exist,” I said. “Maybe he lives only in the black man’s head.”
    There was an article in the campus newspaper with the outline of a head and a series of quotes from students who claimed he was a myth. The next week, messages written in black marker began to appear on the buildings and supposedly in the classrooms as well. The most famous of them, which every student knew by heart, read simply:
    Marx was a great man, and now he’s dead.
    Lenin was a great man, and now he’s dead.
    I have to admit, I’m not