The Journey to Chatham

What she told us that last day of August was the height and depth and width of human profanity. Emmett had been murdered by a hatred that was ignored by a society that professed fellowship. In a country that fought for freedom from tyranny overseas, an inhumane horror thrived at home. Emmett’s murder was profane in its occurrence and heinous for being tolerated.

Mom showed us the local newspaper Pete had been reading. The headlines read, “Chicago Teen Murdered in Mississippi.” The paper reported the story of Emmett’s death. In gruesome detail the article recounted how he was found and the condition of his body. For us there was no more innocence. A part of us died that day along with Emmett, a very innocent part. All of us were changed on that warm August day, changed because a hatred we could not fathom oozed up from the bottom of a Mississippi river.

While Mom comforted us, I watched as Dad stared out the front window at the old walnut tree in the front yard. From one of the lower branches dangled an old tire that we used as a makeshift swing. It dangled from a rope we had tied to one of the lower branches. I could see the tire spin as it reacted to a breeze that had just kicked up.

My dad was not big; he never weighed more than 155 pounds. At 5’9” he was wiry, muscular. He was a singularly handsome man who wore his jet-black, wavy-hair straight back over his head. In the back of his neck, in what was referred to as the “kitchen,” a mass of black curls congregated. He wore his white blood on his face and was as close to an Errol Flynn look-alike as one could get. Yet he was unmistakably a black man. His good looks were a curse and a blessing. As a milkman he had developed strong arms and hands from carrying cases of milk to his customers. But at this moment he didn’t look strong. He looked small, frail, as if he had shrunken into himself. I couldn’t imagine his thoughts.

Above his shoulders, I could see the fields through the window. The tire spun lazily at the end of the rope. The wind picked up a few newly fallen leaves that did little dances in a small barren patch in the front yard. The sky reflected the mood; it had turned bleak. Off, far off, there was a deep, long groan. Thunder. A storm was coming.

Pete still sniffed back tears, while Marty squeezed onto Mom’s lap, frightened by the fear in the air, his seven-year-old mind shaken by the strangeness that had come over his family.

The newspaper story detailed the condition of Emmett’s body when he was found. It was bloated from being in the river for three days. He had gunshot holes in his head. The results of a severe beating were still evident, despite the deterioration of his body from the water. Barbed wire had been tied around his neck and attached to a 70-pound cotton gin, which was done to weigh his body down and keep it from rising up from the bottom of the Tallahatchie River. His fingers and other appendages were crushed. He had been tortured. His face was so battered that he was unrecognizable. The only clue of who he was, was the signet ring he wore on his finger. It had belonged to Emmett’s father, who was killed during World War II.

I wondered what was going on back home in Chicago. What would happen when we got back? I wondered whether the city would be changed because a kid died. Would everyone where we lived, 64^th and Vernon Avenue on the south side, be changed? Would the kids I went to school with change?

A kid died. A kid I knew died.