Silent Tears

What would have happened if I had acted that night instead of sitting frozen in the backseat of that Coupe de Ville while tears streamed silently down my face in the darkness? Would anything be different…would I, would they? That night was over 50 years ago and as I watch the horror of the racism in our country today, I realize the answer is no. And yet this event has haunted me since it happened one sultry, summer evening riding down a country road so long ago in the Mississippi Delta.

It was the summer of 1966 and I had just finished my freshman year in college. My dad helped me get a job working at the county campaign office for the favored gubernatorial candidate because he knew the campaign manager, Mr. Charlie Johnson. I was excited to be able to make extra spending money. My parents could only afford to send me to the local two-year community college, but luckily I was awarded a scholarship to a university two hours away from my hometown. We were a lower middle class family with little left after bills were paid. Although we didn’t have money, everyone loved my dad and he loved everybody. He was friends with the janitor at our church as well as the mayor of our small Southern town and even Mr. Charlie, who was the wealthiest man in the county. Friendship lines were more defined for us kids. My friends came from families similar to ours in economic status, but occasionally I would be invited to a party hosted by the popular, wealthier girls if they were inviting most of the class. Like many towns in the deep South back then, everyone was pretty status conscious, and you could only be accepted into the inner circle if your Daddy made enough money to afford a house in the “right” part of town and you could dress the part.

Of course, I am only speaking of the white people because schools were still segregated at that time and blacks lived in separate neighborhoods. I remember questioning my parents about why we didn’t all go to school together and why blacks couldn’t eat in the same restaurants and why they didn’t attend our churches and on and on. They usually told me that black people preferred their own schools and churches and they liked different foods, or sometimes the answer was simply, “It’s just always been that way.” I wasn’t really satisfied with their answers, but I grew up being taught that children respect adults and don’t question. We were literally taught to be “seen and not heard”. “Why” questions were not welcomed from anyone who was still dependent on their parents. I remember one time when I was about thirteen and was persistently questioning my mother about racial issues. Finally, as punishment she made me go to my room with no dinner for being disrespectful. Interestingly, I didn’t think of my parents as racists because I never heard them use derogatory language about or toward black people and hadn’t witnessed either of them overtly treating a person differently because of skin color. Segregation and racial bias never made sense to me and I was pretty obsessed with the subject, but growing up during that time in that place, distorts your perception and ability to see or even think clearly about the injustices around you. I was naïve, sheltered and ignorant of much outside of my narrow, little Southern existence. But I couldn’t fight the feeling that I had been born in the wrong place or at the wrong time.

Mr. Charlie called to say the campaign office was opening on Monday and he would meet me there for orientation and to go over my daily responsibilities.  He introduced me to Mr. Ed Hightower, his assistant campaign manager, who would be my primary contact for questions. I had heard colorful stories about Mr. Charlie and his wife, Mrs. Dorothy, from my dad. They were in their early 60’s, were known for their elaborate parties at their mansion on the hill, and were prominent pillars of the community. When I was in high school, I worked at the corner drugstore after school three days a week and during summers. Mrs. Dorothy came in one day and asked me to help her find lipstick to match her new candy apple red Cadillac that Mr. Charlie had just given her. He had also purchased a white matching sedan for himself. She said he always bought both of them a new Cadillac every two years, but this was her first red one. I remember being in awe of such wealth and privilege. I imagined that this must be the way Hollywood stars live. I knew Mr. Charlie owned a ranch and showed Tennessee walking horses and I never asked how he got to be so wealthy. The love of horses was the common denominator between him and my dad. Although my dad had a passion for quarter horses, he had a reputation for knowing more about horses that almost anyone in the area and that commanded Mr. Charlie’s respect. So there I was in June of 1966 at the age of 18 working for this local powerful man and he was telling me that part of my job would include going with him and Mrs. Dorothy to political rallies around the state. I was feeling pretty fortunate and looking forward to my summer.

There was rarely anyone else working in the office with me and I loved the independence. I spent my days answering phone calls, handing out bumper stickers and campaign buttons to visitors who stopped by, stuffing envelopes, and preparing materials for the next rally. Mr. Charlie and Mrs. Dorothy were so gracious and invited me to their home for dinner several times where I met senior members of the campaign from the state headquarters. Many times after dinner when the political work discussions were winding down, I would go into the kitchen to chat with the maid while the rest of the adult group migrated into the living room with their cocktails. Her name was Jesse and I loved our conversations. She told me about her family and how much she wanted to go to Chicago to visit her sister. Her dream for both daughters and her son was for them to get a college education. She told me that maybe she should just be grateful if they could graduate from high school and get jobs. You could feel her love and pride as she talked about her children. She had one of the kindest faces I had ever seen. Jesse had worked for the Johnsons over 10 years and she said they were very good to her. We developed a special bond during those long conversations and agreed we shared good bosses in Mr. Charlie and Mrs. Dorothy. They made me feel like a valued member of the team, but I wasn’t sure it was the same for Jesse. After all, she wasn’t invited to sit down with us for dinner which I couldn’t understand. We had never had a maid and neither had anyone I knew other than the Johnsons, so I didn’t have much of a reference point.

It was the first week in August and my last week working for the campaign. Our candidate was leading in the polls and almost certain to be the new governor. I was feeling excited as I prepared all of the promotional materials for the night’s rally which would be my last. The work had been fun and I learned a lot about the internal complexities of political campaigns. In addition, I had saved enough to buy new clothes for next semester. I drove to the Johnsons for the last time, loaded all of the posters, buttons, brochures, etc. into the trunk of Mr. Charlie’s Cadillac and climbed into the back seat with Mrs. Dorothy. Mr. Hightower was in the front seat with Mr. Charlie as was the customary seating arrangement. The rally was about three hours away, so Jesse had packed a cooler with drinks and lots of yummy homemade snacks.  Jesse had already gone for the day when I arrived, so I didn’t get to say goodbye to her. I wanted to hug her and tell her how much I had grown to love her, but that never happened. I didn’t realize this would be the last time I would ever see Mr. Charlie and Mrs. Dorothy.

We spent much of the travel time to the rally laughing and talking about various events of the summer surrounding the campaign. Jesse’s delicious snacks were consumed by the four of us with many comments from the Johnsons about what a loyal, dependable maid she was. The three-hour drive passed quickly as we drove through the Delta with cotton fields on each side of the road. Mr. Charlie was especially jovial because he had worked hard to get his candidate elected plus had donated thousands to his campaign. As we approached the fairgrounds where the rally was being held, we could see there was a record crowd. Mr. Charlie found someone to unload the collateral material and we four headed to the main tent to meet up with the key speakers including the winning candidate who was obviously overjoyed with the prospects of being elected. It was the best rally of the summer.

Still drawing from the enthusiasm of the crowd although it was getting late, we headed back home. The men lit cigars and I remember Mr. Charlie saying with a huge belly laugh, “Damn, Ed, I think we’ve got this one in the bag!” I had just looked over the seat at the clock on the dashboard and the time was 10:30. We were about an hour and a half from home when it happened. The men were still feeling energized and were telling stories about growing up in Mississippi. Most of the tales were funny and innocuous. Mrs. Dorothy was dozing in the backseat because I’m sure she had heard most of the stories before and was getting tired. I was wide awake and enjoying the two older gentlemen having such a good time reminiscing although I was totally quiet and they probably thought I had fallen asleep too. Then, Mr. Charlie asked Ed if he had ever told him about the time he and his brother had discovered that a 16-year-old boy on their plantation had stolen a radio from the guest house. Ed said, “No, man, I don’t think I’ve heard that one.” Mr. Charlie chuckled and began to relate the story. I had no warning that something was about to shift inside me and I would never be the same. He said his dad was pretty upset about the radio but decided not to make a big deal of it because James’ family were great workers and it was just one mistake. Mr. Charlie and his brother, David, who were both home for the summer had always thought James was a little “uppity” black kid and decided to take matters into their own hands. James was walking back to his family’s shack one night about dusk when Mr. Charlie, 19, and David, 17, ran out of the bushes and chased him into the cotton fields. My heart was racing as I started to realize this story was not like the rest. Mr. Charlie continued, “We caught him about 200 yards between the cotton rows and threw him down in the dirt. He was begging us not to hurt him. We had already determined we were not just going to teach him a lesson. It was pretty dark, but I could still see the whites of his eyes and smell his fear. I had brought my deer knife and we sliced him open.” James commented that he probably wouldn’t be listening to any music on the radio now….uppity N…. “Yeah, I always thought he was worthless. We had hidden a saw in the bushes, so we stuffed all of the pieces into a cotton sack.” I realized tears were pouring down my face and I had been holding my breath. I couldn’t think; my head was spinning; I was totally nauseous. What do I do? Somehow I realized in that moment that as an 18 year-old in this situation, I could not do or say anything. All my programming came flooding into my mind at once….be respectful, he seen but not heard, never confront an adult, don’t ask questions, be quiet. I don’t know if it was my survival instincts, immobilizing fear or just pure cowardice that took over. I still can’t adequately describe that moment after all of these years. I think I left my body so I couldn’t feel anything because I have no memory of anything the rest of the night, even driving myself home. I didn’t hear anything that was said after “stuffed all the pieces into the cotton sack”. I suppose I said goodbye to the Johnsons, but I’m not sure. All I know was I was consumed with guilt, shame, deep sadness and horror. I had just heard the accounting of a murder and felt like I had personally witnessed it….and I DID NOTHING. I walked around in some sort of altered state before going back to college. I never said a word to my parents about that night and although they were concerned about my behavior, they decided it was just anxiety about going back to school. Two weeks passed before I completely fell apart. I left classes crying uncontrollably. I thought about Jesse and wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t know how to call her and what would I even say to her. I woke up soaked in sweat from nightmares about bloody cotton sacks. In one nightmare Mr. Charlie was laughing at me and saying, “Damn, I think we’ve got this one in the bag.”

And here we are in 2020 and George Floyd has been murdered. The tears are still streaming down my face, but I have not been silent since that summer in 1966.