Guitar Bains Narrative

Guitar Bains was my friend until I found my identity.

When I was younger, there was no such thing as murders or riots or hate. I lived in a fantasy world, but it all ended when I met Guitar. We would still play around, but our actions had greater meanings and effects. We would try to sneak a beer or two, and maybe listen in to what the older guys were talking about at Feather’s pool hall like we understood what they were saying. Once Guitar got old enough to really understand what they talked about in that pool hall, he went wild and never really returned to the real Guitar. He was fine before he could generate his own opinions.

After I met Guitar, I was always aware of race. We knew the challenges that came with it from experience. You never saw a white man walk down our street, and if you did, it was news. We never really

I was afraid that maybe the Days would change their rules about not killing negroes, but Guitar wasn’t worried about that. The intention of my death as one of the Day’s kills was Guitar’s way of restating his warped, excessive ideals. Guitar’s mind had gone far beyond just the hopes of getting the gold. For all intents and purposes, there was no gold. Guitar had been so upset that I had disagreed with him in his fundamental views of race relations that he had attempted to kill me, and would it again.

Guitar felt as though I was not a real black. He was disappointed that I, his friend, felt very strongly against his extremist views on retaliation. In killing Pilate, he invigorated in me not a sense of sadness, but of passion surrounding my real name, my real identity, my real family. I had discovered more than the value of the gold would have given me. Although I jumped off that cliff having accepted death, I am happy to be here today. I fly a plane in the Vietnam War, but pay respect to those who fly through their own