A Rose, by any other Name

“Hello?”

“Rose Alison Walker?”

“Speaking, how may I help you?”

“Hello Mrs. Walker, I’m Anthony Bannister, I work for NPR, and I was wondering if I could interview you about your memories of the events of May 31^st and June 1^st 1921.”

“Are you a white man Mr. Bannister?”

“Yes, Mrs. Walker, I am. But I’m proud to say that my parents marched with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and I want to let the world know what happened to you and your town.”

“Well it’s about time young man. White folk always wanted to cover it up.”

“I’m coming to Tulsa next week, may I visit you at your home?”

“Yes, Mr. Bannister, you may. I was only 12 at the time, but I’ll be happy to tell you everything I remember.”

“How about next Saturday afternoon, is that OK?”

“That suits me fine. See you then.”

On Saturday I stop by at a local flower shop, “Rose’s Florist” to pick up a bouquet of a dozen red roses that I had ordered as a gift to the old lady I’m about to visit. “It seems appropriate, since her name is Rose, and the name of the Florist is too.

When Mrs. Walker answers the door I present the sweet smelling bouquet with a smile, and she’s taken aback, recoiling with a look of shock on her face and gasping for breath.

“The roses!” the words burst breathlessly from her lips as she starts to reel backwards.

I understand immediately and throw them on the ground behind me, then I reach out to help her steady herself.

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Walker, I had no idea you were allergic to roses.” I help her and we go to sit in her living room as she catches her breath. I wait patiently until she speaks.

“You almost gave me a heart attack young man. But you couldn’t have known. Ever since June 1^st 1921, I can’t stand to see or smell roses. They bring back all the memories so vividly it’s like I’m living that horrible day all over again. It’s been ages now that everyone I know calls me Alison or Ali. No one calls me Rose anymore.”

“I’m truly sorry Mrs. Walker, may I call you Alison?”

“You may young man. At least, now, for your interview, everything is just like it happened yesterday.”

“May I record our conversation?”

“At last someone wants to know what happened. Of course I agree, if you promise that everyone will learn about what happened to us.”

“It won’t be a secret any longer, I promise Alison, the whole world will soon know about this tragedy.”

I start recording. After staring into space for a few minutes she starts to tell her story.

“May 31^st was my twelfth birthday. My father had asked one of his white friends to go to DeHaven’s Flower Shop and buy a dozen red roses as a surprise for me. Fresh roses were rare, and very expensive, but DeHaven’s had them. They only let white people in the store though. Our family was well to do, my father was a physician and he was already 40 when WWI broke out, so he didn’t serve in the army. We had a large two-storey house on North Hartford Avenue in the Greenwood neighborhood filled with beautiful furniture and a large grand piano. I had started taking piano lessons when I was 6, and my heart was set on being a musician. That dream was shattered along with all the rest the next day.

When he came home on the evening of my birthday, my father put the roses in a vase and placed it on the grand piano on a pink and red granny-square that I had crocheted. I had never smelled roses before that day, and these boasted a particularly fragrant perfume. My dad sat down at the piano and played “Happy Birthday” while my mom brought my birthday cake into the living room and the whole family sang. I was right in the middle, with two older sisters and two younger brothers. After I had made a wish and blown out the candles, my mother cut a piece for everyone. My father asked me to play something for the family. I chose a composition that I had only mastered recently; "Les Roses D'Ispahan" Opus 39, No. 4, by Gabriel Fauré. As I played, I could see from their smiles that my parents were both filled with pride and admiration.

The phone rang and my dad answered, and as he listened a worried look came over his face. As we were used to his being called for emergencies we all presumed that someone needed help. But it wasn’t the case this time. He didn’t take his doctor’s kit as he rushed out the door, but before leaving he told us all to come together for a big family hug, and he told us how much he loved us all. We were asleep when he came home, and I never learned where he went that night.

Early the next morning we were woken by the sound of gunfire and the smell of smoke, and we saw people running past the house; all black people from our neighborhood. Houses were burning all up the street from us. My dad went outside and we could hear him talking with some white men. They all had guns, and they ordered him to come with them. He begged them not to set the house on fire, but that’s what they did after he went with them. We tried to get out, but they had set all the doors on fire. All of us kids huddled together with our mom in the living room, terrified. They wanted to burn us alive! We heard a crash as a window shattered in the kitchen at the back of the house, then my dad rushed into the living room. He had succeeded in slipping away while the mobsters were busy dousing the house with kerosene. We all climbed through the broken window after my dad had smashed out all of the glass. As we ran down the street with all of the other black folk, an airplane overhead dropped burning balls and someone was also shooting from the plane. I saw an old man drop dead to the ground in front of us, but we had to keep running for our lives. Dad stopped to help a pregnant woman and he told us to keep running. We never saw him again. My mom and us kids were picked up and brought to the YWCA in downtown Tulsa, where they had prepared mattresses on the floor of the gym. We were put there with lots of other black folk, mostly women and children with a few old men.

When all of the white folk had left our neighborhood we went back. There was nothing left but ashes and smoke. Anything that had not been burned had been destroyed. We had nothing, and no father to help us rebuild our life.

Now, young man, perhaps you can see why I cannot stand the sight or the smell of roses, and why everyone calls me Alison now. I asked everyone I knew not to use my name.”

I thank her for her time and her contribution, and iterate that many people want the truth to be known. As I leave her house I pick up the bouquet that I had thrown behind me. When I get home I hang it upside down to let it dry.

Now the bouquet of dried roses sits in a vase on my piano (it’s an upright, not a grand) and I've recently learned how to play "Les Roses D'Ispahan".

Note: this story is fiction based on a real event that occurred on the 31st of May and the 1st of June 1921 in the community of Greenwood in the city of Tulsa Oklahoma, USA, known as the Tulsa Race Massacre.