This Is Where I Been

Trigger warning: racial slurs, racial violence

     Time had been when a man could do what he loved and let the money follow. That’s what my daddy always said anyway. Too bad those times, aren’t now – now the money runs the other direction, regardless of what you do. I’m not sure, maybe that bunch of clouds on the horizon were filled with rain, rain to nourish my dust-packed wheat fields; maybe not.

                Either way, that old shack we’d converted into an outbuilding loomed large before me, nothing but dead wheat shafts surrounding it as far as the eye could see. I felt a chill creep up my spine as I walked near. From behind I could still smell the stench coming from the dried out well – something must’ve died down there last week cause it was really getting rank now.

                For the first time in a long time, I felt in touch with the world around me. Just as summer was turning the corner heading for fall, it seemed the summer of my life was ending. The leaves were still green and the wind still warm, but the change was coming, and I couldn’t stop it. I wiped a bit of moisture from my face, not sure now if it was sweat or tears or even if it mattered.

                And there I was, bank foreclosure notice in one hand and my old Army rucksack in the other, contemplating the future while standing before remnants of the past. Like a summers wind, the memories enrapt me, hollow and disturbing but somehow welcome and familiar. I let go and allowed them to envelop and abscond with me. I am not here.

                My daddy used to say, “To know where you going boys, you gotta’ remember where you been.” This is where I been…

                Carl Stokes, my daddy, was a strong man, powerful hands and a willing back. He was smart too and had a good heart. He used to say to us kids, “One day all of this will be yours!”

                We were proud of that then, Danny, Shelby, and me; we figured we’d make it like he did. Marry our high school sweethearts, and fight over who got to fill up that old house with kids and tend the Earth as God had intended. What happened?

                 We used to play in that old bunkhouse, boys round the way used to tell us it was an old slave’s quarters. “Thas were they kep em niggers” Jimbo Southland used to tell in his drawling voice as we played. To call his words, especially in this case, slurs was most appropriate. “Can’t see as to why they’d bitch much! Don’t guess I know what was so wrong with bein a slave.”

                “I’d guess there’s a lot you don’t know Southland!” Danny cracked, elbowing Shelby, Danny was grinning ear to ear – Shelby wasn’t.

                “Jimbo, you’re dumber’n owl shit!” My brother Shelby, he was the oldest, always was the one to stand up for folk. In this case he took offense more so than usual as a little colored girl named Sam had caught his eye and he bristled at the word nigger.

                Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t much like the word neither, but I was the runt and couldn’t well hold my own then. I was only twelve you see. I was only thirteen when it happened – but, I’m getting ahead of the story a bit.

                Jimbo, being the fiery little red headed miscreant that he was, slugged Shelby once right upside his head. Shelby didn’t like that too awful much and he proceeded to whoop little Jimbo like I ain’t never seen, before or since.

                That is, with the exception of the whooping Daddy gave us when we got in. Old man Southland had come by the farm while we lollygagged around Anderson Lake, cleaning Jimbo’s blood off Shelby and Danny, and a little off of me too! Don’t guess he was too awful pleased with anyone beating his son, looking back I believe he could’ve stood a few more beatings. Where you been boy?

                Camptown in the 50’s was not that far removed from the modern version, with the exception of the modern part I guess. Same old delta river town, steeped in old tradition and belief, and bad memories. The big difference was the Knights of the New Order, what our local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan called itself. Sometime during the 60’s, the local powers banned the KKK and all such groups, but in the 50’s they reigned with an iron fist; maybe that’s why they were removed a decade later. This is where I been…

                I never once thought that Jimbo’s daddy being the Grand Dragon of the Knights and Jimbo’s racist outlook on the world was anything of a coincidence. But, it was this position that caused the majority of our whooping that evening. When I say that old man Southland came to visit the farm, I don’t mean that he stopped by in his Packard for tea in the evening sun.

                We came trudging in just before sunset that afternoon and for some reason, the air felt heavier than normal. Something’s wrong… The dogs were nowhere to be found; even the chickens that normally plucked the yard clean seemed to be hiding. But from what? As we neared the porch, a disturbing image made itself known to us. Across from our front door sat a bundle of fresh cut oak saplings, about an inch thick and three feet long, tied in a crimson cord. Like a present from some disturbed woods nymph they stood, the three of us knew what they meant, they were a warning.

                In those days, especially when it came to whites, the Klan would leave you a warning in the form of those sticks. If you figured out what offended them and stopped, you were fine, but, if you didn’t, they would return and beat everyone in the house with those sticks.

                The house was deathly still. Shelby was the first to speak. “Wonder what’s goin on?”

                “You know darn good and well Shel.” The color had drained from Danny’s face, but we were all thinking the same thing. They’re all dead!

                “Ain’t those a warnin? I had to ask, I guess I was attempting to remind my two siblings of the local lore – or maybe convince myself. “They leave those to scare you right?”

                “You scared yet?” Like the woods, the voice behind me sounded both deep and foreboding. I turned to see a huge blob of a man adorned in flowing white robe and hood, standing with a rooster throttled by the neck in his right hand. On his chest blazed a blood red cross, wrapped in roses and strange characters of a kind I’d not seen before. “Tell yer ma and pa we was here, they’re too damned scared to come out, chicken shit nigger lovers!”

                Good sense left Shelby, and for the second time in one evening he launched into an attack for the sake of a word. This time, however, he wasn’t quite as lucky. The big man slammed his fist hard between Shelby’s eyes, his nose mashing and blood spraying all around. Like one of those old trees, of the sort whose smaller parts sat upon our porch, Shelby fell to the ground, gurgling on his own blood and writhing in pain.

                Off in the distance to the east thunder rattled, from the kitchen window on the front of the house, the artificial thunder of a 12 gauge shotgun rattled. “Y’all clear out now!” Daddy screamed, fire in his throat, we could hear the chunk-chunk of the shotgun being reloaded. I just knew he would kill that man for hitting Shelby, I offered to smile at Danny, but after turning to him, I realized he was crouched on his knees, the ground below him freshly wet. “Clinton, get outta here now, I’ll shoot you dead!”

                “You won’t shoot me Carl!” No sooner had the words exited his mouth than a loud report answered from the living room window, across from the kitchen window. The hood was ripped off of the mountainous man, revealing Aubrey Clinton looking obviously concerned underneath. “Margie! Dammit woman!”

                “Don’t worry bout him Aubrey! “ Click click, Momma chambered another round as she bellowed. “I got this 30-30 filled to the brim, wonder how many a you I can poke holes in before I run outta shots?”

                “This ain’t over!” Mr. Clinton babbled, fear overtaking him, everyone knew that my Momma was one helluva shot – and she had a temper. “You know Jim Sr. ain’t too happy about ya boys ganging up and laying hands on Jimbo!”

                “It’s over!” Momma screamed from the window. Daddy chimed from the other, “Clint, you and Jim Sr. tend to your own, be assured that mine’ll be taken care of!”

                They went too far…

                Off in the distance, just inside the wood line, I could make out the red silken robes of the Grand Master lurking. An evil laugh wafted from his demonic form as fire crept from the ground and up into the sky, forming itself around a large cross freshly planted in the earth. Like some sort of signpost for an unholy mass, the once religious symbol glowed with hatred and fire. It was at this moment that I became acquainted with real fear, the kind of fear that had caused Danny to wet himself – if only that was all I did.

                …but, I took care of them…

                A soft rain blew in, fanning at the enraged flames with its light breeze, threatening to expel the evil icon. All I could feel now, besides the discomfort of soiling myself and my now prone position, was the warmth of the water trickling across my face and to the brown dust below. In sharp flashes, illuminated partially by the fire and the lightning now splitting the sky, I saw why the dogs weren’t around or even barking. All three of them hung from the maple tree in the corner of our yard, tied by thick ropes around the throat. They were hung by nooses, like people. …like niggers.