The reckoning, p.12
The Reckoning, page 12
“We’re going over to Evergreen Street to pull down that statue of that Confederate soldier. You can videotape it.”
Lamar had seen the statue many times before. The Confederate soldier stood erect, atop a marble pedestal, clad in a Confederate uniform. He held a rifle in front of him. The monument was more than twice Lamar’s height. Lamar didn’t know when it had been built, but he knew it was old. He knew, too, it was one of many such monuments in Morton that honored the Confederacy, those who fought to secede from the United States during the American Civil War of 1861–1865. Those statues had been a part of the culture of the area for decades.
“Why are you doing that?” Lamar questioned, surprised. “I thought you told Gramps you didn’t care about Black ‘stuff.’ That’s what you said.”
“Man, that old statue should have been pulled down a long time ago,” Ray answered with a shrug. “They taking down statues like that all over the country. My ol’ man say that thing is all about the slavery days. It’ll be fun pulling it down.”
“We ain’t here for fun, Ray,” Lamar spoke up. “We’re protesting for justice for my grandfather.”
Lamar wondered how many at the protest were like Ray, looking for a good time. There were always people like Ray who caused problems for others who were trying to do the right thing.
“So you ain’t coming?” Ray asked defiantly.
“No, I ain’t coming,” Lamar answered decisively. “You gonna get in trouble.”
“Naw, I ain’t. Nobody’s gonna know about it till it’s done. I’m out, dude.” Ray hurried down the sidewalk and caught up with Jimmy, Frankie and several other boys from Morton High School. They turned the corner onto Evergreen Street.
Something bad is gonna happen, Lamar thought. Should I tell Mom and Dad and Attorney Smith? But I don’t wanna be a snitch.
Lamar walked into the kitchen and placed his empty cereal bowl in the sink. His father and mother had already gone to Thomasville to meet other lawyers whose counsel Attorney Smith had sought. Kyra had left for school. His cell phone rang.
“Hey, Lamar, did you hear what happened to Ray?” It was T.C.
“What about Ray?” Lamar asked.
“He’s in the hospital. He, Jimmy, Frankie and some other guys tried to pull that statue down. You know, the one on Evergreen. The police ran them off when they first tried, but they went back late last night. A group of Whites tried to stop them, and a big fight broke out. Ray got beat up pretty bad. Others got hurt. Some White people, too. But Ray got the worst of it.”
“I should have told somebody they were gonna do that,” Lamar said.
“You knew ’bout it?”
“Yeah, he told me.”
“Well, too late now. I’m on my way over to your house.”
Lamar grabbed his backpack and video camcorder and headed out the door. He knew he wasn’t supposed to take the camcorder to school. Mr. Deloria encouraged students to pursue extracurricular activities, but not when they interfered with schoolwork. Lamar thought, What would Spike Lee do? He decided he would stash it in his backpack, so that he would have it when he went to the protest after school.
As soon as Lamar reached the bottom step of his house, he saw T.C. coming up the sidewalk.
“Oh! I forgot,” T.C. said, preparing to drop more bad news on Lamar. “Somebody set fire to Mt. Moriah Baptist Church last night.”
“What?! That’s the church on Longfellow Highway?”
“Yeah. My cousins go to that church. The fire department got there, but the sanctuary got burned pretty bad,” T.C. said. “People are saying White people did it as payback for that statue. That’s wild, ain’t it, Lamar?”
“Sure is. What’s going on around here? First Gramps is killed and now a church is set on fire.”
At school, they were directed to the gym for assembly. Principal Deloria wasn’t there. He was always at school. Even when he was feeling ill, he still showed up. But it was Ms. DuBois, the vice principal, who walked to the podium.
“Good morning,” she greeted the students. “For those of you who are wondering, Principal Deloria has gone to the hospital to visit a student who was injured last night.”
It has to be Ray, Lamar thought. All that attitude he had when Gramps tried to show him that documentary.
“Students,” Ms. DuBois continued, “for the near future, we will have assembly every morning before classes. All of you are expected to remain in school until the dismissal bell rings. Do not leave this campus! I repeat! Do not leave this campus! And after school, you should go home unless you are with your parents or have gotten their permission to go elsewhere.
“The issues we’re facing here in Morton aren’t unlike those being faced in other places,” Ms. DuBois continued over the buzz in the gym. “But we want to make sure that we at Morton Middle School maintain the culture we have spent months building. We’re not where we want to be, but we have made progress. Our motto is still our North Star. And what is it?”
“ONE FAMILY WITH ONE GOAL: THE PURSUIT OF EXCELLENCE,” the students responded.
“That’s correct. And we will continue to pursue that. Say it again!”
“ONE FAMILY WITH ONE GOAL: THE PURSUIT OF EXCELLENCE.”
“Now move quietly to your classes,” Ms. DuBois told them. “Follow the directions of the teacher in front of you. And have a great day.”
Not much learning took place during the school day. Teachers tried to maintain their regular class routine, but students were too wired about what was happening in their town, the church that was burned and of course, the killing of Joshua Phillips.
After school, Lamar and T.C. ran as fast as they could to the protest. Following last night’s incident, Lamar didn’t know what to expect. Would people still be allowed to protest? Would there be more counter-protestors?
There were even more people protesting for justice for his grandfather. Some were probably there because the church had been burned. There were more White people who had joined the protest. But more counter-protestors were there as well. A larger contingent of police officers and sheriff’s deputies were deployed, too. Their body armor, vests and helmets made them look as if they were ready for a space war. They formed a long line and kept the protestors for justice for Joshua Phillips on their side of the street, near the courthouse. Reverend Thurmond and peace-keeping volunteers walked up and down the line of protestors as they marched.
“Let’s not give the police a reason to turn on us!” Reverend Thurmond reminded them. But Lamar could sense that the growing number of counter-protestors alarmed him.
“Let’s be cool,” he continued to warn his people. “We’re here for a righteous reason. Let’s not forget that.”
“Stay on the sidewalk,” Kyra ordered. “Keep marching in line. Don’t go into the street. We’re supposed to stay on the sidewalk.”
Lamar wondered where his parents were. Then he remembered they had gone to Thomasville with Mr. Smith.
A short while later, Reverend Thurmond introduced Reverend Flanigan, the pastor of Mt. Moriah, the church that had been set on fire. The cheers and applause from the protestors were almost deafening as the short, balding, middle-aged minister took the platform. Lamar readied his camcorder and focused in on Reverend Flanigan.
“Praise the Lord!” the pastor exclaimed, almost brought to tears by the way he had been received.
“Praise the Lord!” came the enthusiastic response. Reverend Flanigan gathered himself.
“As most of you know, my church, Mt. Moriah Baptist Church, was set on fire last night and the sanctuary was burned pretty bad. We can’t conduct services there now. As y’all know, Mt. Moriah is an old church. According to the fire department, accelerants were placed all around the church and inside the sanctuary. Once the fire was set, it was difficult to stop. We’re thankful the church didn’t burn down completely.”
Still teary-eyed, the minister looked out at the attentive protestors.
“We would have celebrated our seventy-fifth anniversary this September,” he told them. “But we’re gonna rebuild the sanctuary. The Lord hasn’t brought us this far to leave us! We wanna thank all of you for your prayers. We’ve already started to receive donations. Our sister churches have opened their doors to us. Would you believe a White church reached out to us, too? This Sunday, at three p.m., we will have our regular service at New Revival Baptist Church on Plank Road. I wanna thank Reverend Washington and his congregation for their generosity in making their church available to us. And thank all of you for your support.”
People rushed to embrace Reverend Flanigan after he stepped down from the stage.
“This terrible incident is being investigated by the fire department and by the police,” Reverend Thurmond said, now addressing the crowd.
“Like they’re investigating the murder of Mr. Phillips?” someone from the crowd derided him.
“They’ll get away with this, too,” someone else shouted.
“That’s why we’re here,” countered Reverend Thurmond. “We’re fighting so that they won’t get away with it. So, let’s continue to stand up for justice! No, it will not be easy. But what alternative do we have?”
A small rock landed near one of the officers. Another one followed, barely missing a second officer.
“Please don’t do that!” Reverend Thurmond yelled. “Don’t throw anything. We want to remain peaceful. We must remain peaceful.”
Quickly, peace-keeping volunteers grabbed the rock throwers and escorted them away. The counter-protestors continued to yell from across the street. Those protesting for justice yelled back. As he kept on videotaping, Lamar wondered how much worse it would get. He knew his grandfather wouldn’t be happy with the aggressive antics of some of the protestors.
Lamar was exhausted. On television, protesting looked like fun. But he knew now that it was work. And he didn’t have to do all that walking like the full-day protestors.
“What’re you doing?” Lamar’s father asked, entering his son’s room.
“Transferring some of the stuff I’ve videotaped to my computer!”
“Your grandfather knew what he was doing when he helped you buy that camcorder. He was always thoughtful like that, knowing what you cared about. I miss him. I miss him a lot.”
Lamar’s dad moved slowly toward Lamar’s bed and sat down.
“I don’t think we’ll ever find out what really happened to your Gramps,” he said in a quiet voice. “Another Black life will just be tragically lost, and no one will be held accountable.”
He buried his face in his two large hands.
Lamar looked at his father. For the first time, he had expressed hopelessness.
It is going to take everyone fighting for justice for Gramps, he thought. No one can lose faith or express doubt. Not now.
He thought about what Gramps had told him that day they’d visited the place where his grandfather was born and raised. Gramps knew I didn’t know that much about Black history, and he was concerned. He said, “It’s our fault. Me, your dad, your mom, the school. None of us have done a good enough job sharing the real history of Black people. We dropped the ball. Knowing your history, who you really are, helps prepare you for most anything.” I’m beginning to understand what Gramps meant. If I knew more about our history, would I have been so surprised that there are still racists? Gramps was a fighter. I gotta be a fighter, too.
“Dad, if we keep protesting, if we don’t give up—”
“If there ain’t a witness who saw what happened, Lamar, all the protesting in the world won’t matter,” Lamar’s dad interrupted. “That man isn’t gonna come out and confess that he killed Papa!”
“We can’t give up! We can’t! Gramps wouldn’t give up if he was fighting for justice for one of us.”
“I know, Lamar. But your grandfather was someone special. I guess I didn’t understand just how special he was.”
“Dad, what’s wrong?” Lamar asked, realizing that something else was troubling his father.
His father thought for a long moment before he answered. “I’ve just been thinking a lot since Gramps got killed, son. A lot has been running through my mind.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A lot of things.”
“Like what, Dad?” Lamar continued to probe. He realized this was the first time he had ever questioned his father so directly. But this was a different time. So much was at stake.
“Well, like maybe I haven’t done what I’m supposed to do to help you and Kyra make it in this society. That’s for starters.”
“What do you mean, Dad?” Lamar turned away from the camera and laptop and faced his father.
“I have been so focused on building a life here for myself and my family, you know, working hard and acquiring material things. But I forgot to provide you and Kyra with the kind of foundation you need to make it as Black people in this country. This whole thing with Papa has made me realize that. Sometimes, I guess you close your eyes to things. And when you do that, you can go on like everything is all right. Everything is okay when it ain’t. Papa was involved in the community in so many ways. But I have been absent.”
“I guess Kyra is just different, huh?”
“I think she’s more like your grandfather. You’re just learning about Papa’s history. I should have been sharing it with you all along. I should have spent time with you like Papa had started to do before he was killed. Me and your mom left it up to the schools to teach things you should know. But that was our responsibility, too. Papa and people like him fought to make things better. They made it possible for me to pursue a better life. But, son, what have I done to make it better for those coming behind me? That’s the question Reverend Thurmond asked all of us at Papa’s funeral. What are you doing to make things better?”
Lamar had never heard his father speak that way before. His conversations had always been about getting a better position at his job or getting a raise. Sometimes he talked about fishing, a sport he loved or the new car he wanted to buy.
“This town has made some progress, and I’ve benefitted from it personally,” Lamar’s dad continued. “I got a pretty good job, and so does your mother. But other Black people don’t. There’s still a lot to be done to make sure people are treated fairly and have opportunities no matter what color they are or how poor they are. That’s what Gramps tried to do—make things better for others, not just for himself. In a way, I have lost connection with my heritage, my past.”
“Maybe that’s why Gramps took me to his old homeplace. There was no house there. Just land all filled with tall grass and bushes. Maybe he wanted to stay connected to his past.”
“When was that?” Lamar’s dad asked, his interest piqued.
“A few days before he was killed.”
“I know where it is. I didn’t know he took you there.”
“He talked about how he and his family picked cotton,” Lamar told his father, “and that he didn’t go to school for real until he was twelve years old, when they moved to Morton.”
Lamar’s dad stared at the floor for a long moment, then rubbed his eyes with his hands, trying to keep the tears from welling up in them. Then he rose slowly from the bed. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. A lot. But I know that now.”
A knock at the front door interrupted them.
“I got it, Dad,” Lamar said, and hurried to the living room. Philyaw stood in the doorway.
“What’s up, lil’ brother?”
“You, Phil.”
“No, it’s you.”
By now Lamar’s dad had walked into the living room.
“How’re you, Mr. P.?” Phil greeted him.
“I’m okay, Phil. Come on in.”
“Kyra ain’t home, is she?” Philyaw asked.
“No, she and her mother went out.”
“No news about your father’s case yet, Mr. P.?”
“Not yet, Phil. We still have hope, though. We ain’t gonna give up.”
The remark drew a smile from Lamar.
“Well, if there’s anything I can do, let me know. I’ve been at some of the protests. I was there today.”
“We appreciate that, Phil. But you better be careful. You got a lot to lose. You’ve got all those scholarship offers.”
Lamar looked at Philyaw to see how he was going to answer. The basketball star bobbed his head up and down and looked around the room. Then he stared Lamar’s dad directly in the eye.
“Mr. P., there are things more important than basketball. I had a lot of respect for your father. He was an OG. I mean, I know the opportunities I got are because people like him fought so hard to make life better for all of us. The least I can do is support the call for justice for him.”
Lamar was surprised. He hadn’t expected that answer. He thought Philyaw was all basketball. Just a big-shot jock. It goes to show, he thought, that you have to be careful how you judge a person. He had seen Phil at the protests. But he thought Phil was there just to be near Kyra.
“I appreciate that, Philyaw. I really do,” Lamar’s dad told Phil. “Yes, my father was a good man.”
“No problem, Mr. P.”
Phil hit Lamar with a playful tap on the shoulder.
“Be cool, lil’ man,” he told him. Then he turned to Lamar’s father. “You know, Mr. P., you have the next big-time movie director here. I see Lamar at the protests. He’s all over the place filming everything.”
“You’re the one who’ll be big-time, Phil,” Lamar shot back, sounding like T.C. “You’ll be all NBA in a few years.”
“I’m trying, dude. Listen, I’ll check y’all later. Tell Kyra I dropped by. And, Mr. P., please tell her not to be so hard on a brother. I mean to marry her one day. You know, when we’re both ready.”
“I will, Philyaw,” Lamar’s father assured him. “Kyra just likes being tough. But I’m proud of her.”
