Death of Innocence : The Story of the Hate Crime That Changed America (9781588363244) (19 page)

He was very convincing. His questions did make me stop and think. Mama and I talked about it. She had been as firm as I had been at first. He couldn’t go. But there were other people, besides Bo, who were also sharing their feelings with Mama and me, telling us there was no need to worry so much, that the boys would be looked after. Mama wanted to pray on it. After a while, I decided I would go to talk with Papa Mose about the whole thing. As I was parking my car in front of Willie Mae’s house, I saw another car I knew so well, parking across the street. It was my mother’s car. I guess Bo had been working on Mama, too. My mother always had a lot of influence over me, but I didn’t realize until that moment just how my thinking had been shaped by her. We were reacting in exactly the same way, at exactly the same time. People inside laughed when they saw Mama and me, these “two hens coming to fuss over this one little chick.” They thought it was amusing that we would be coming at the same time with the same thing in mind. The real funny part about it was that I had no idea she was going to be there. She had no idea that I was coming either.

As it turns out, we had such a wonderful time that day at Willie Mae’s. It was a great joy to be there. We were able to spend time with Papa Mose, Willie Mae, and the rest of her family. And, oh, Willie Mae always wanted
to feed you. If you were at her house, you had to eat. That woman made the best fried chicken. I don’t know what she did to her chicken, but you could never get enough of it. I mean, every time you ate a piece, you wanted some more. We just had a beautiful evening together. Family had always been so important to us and I felt so relaxed spending time with my family. I began to give in on the journey Bo wanted to make. But Mama and I still wanted to talk to Papa Mose, to get him to assure us that the boys would not be left on their own, ever. He agreed that those boys would not be going off to town alone. He made us that promise. And that was that. I heard Emmett’s pleas. I heard Papa Mose’s assurances. I heard myself, finally, agreeing to let Emmett go on the trip.

Every generation has its cautionary tale. Mine was the story of that little girl who was punished by the white man her mother cleaned for, the little girl who died slowly and painfully from her punishment while her mother was forced to finish her day’s work. That was the story I had heard, somewhere, somehow, growing up. There had been no tales for Emmett. There had been no reason. For Emmett, there had been no danger, no discrimination, no deprivation. He had lived life the way it was supposed to be lived. Without limitation. Which is why he had never seen a difference between himself and white kids he might have encountered in school out in Argo, or white adults like the milkman or the iceman he had hustled for work. It wasn’t only that he was taught that he was just as good as anyone else. It was that he was made to feel that way, in every way. It was that he always had that awareness simply because of the way people treated him, the respect people always showed him. I had never had a reason to feel the kind of anxiety about him, about his safety in Argo and in Chicago, that I felt about this trip to Mississippi. Even though I knew he would be with other people who knew how things worked for black folks in the South, I couldn’t leave anything to chance. I knew I had to give him the talk. It was the talk every black parent had with every child sent down South back then. It might have been a time of great black migration to the North, but in the summer, there were quite a few black kids from the cities of the North who went south to visit relatives. For our kids, it was as close to summer camp as they were going to get. So, I had to talk to Bo about strange things in a strange, new place, things that lay in wait for him.

He had to understand that he would not be in Chicago and had to act differently. I wanted him to be aware of this at all times. That was so important. We went through the drill. Chicago and Mississippi were two
very different places, and white people down South could be very mean to blacks, even to black kids. Don’t start up any conversations with white people. Only talk if you’re spoken to. And how do you respond? “Yes, sir,” “Yes, ma’am.” “No, sir,” “No, ma’am.” Put a handle on those answers. Don’t just say “yes” and “no” or “naw.” Don’t ever do that. If you’re walking down the street and a white woman is walking toward you, step off the sidewalk, lower your head. Don’t look her in the eye. Wait until she passes by, then get back on the sidewalk, keep going, don’t look back.

I’m not really sure where I got all this. It must have been from all those meetings people had at our house as I was coming up. I believe in listening. To my mother, to all those cousins, everybody. Now I wanted Emmett to listen to me. I was trying to make him see that he had to watch everything he did. And I went further, because I wanted to make it look as bad as I could possibly make it look.

“If you have to humble yourself,” I said, “then just do it. Get on your knees, if you have to.”

It all seemed so incredible to him. “Oh, Mama,” he said, “it can’t be that bad.”

“Bo, it’s worse than that,” I said.

In fact, if you were a black man in the South, not only should you never look a white woman in the eye, you should never be seen even looking at a picture of a white woman. Now, I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing my son get down on his knees in front of some white man. But I figured that putting that image in his head would make him think about everything he did down there, every encounter. I wanted to make sure he was careful.

Emmett just listened. And I kept stressing the points I was making. He finally spoke up again. “Mama,” he said, “I know how to act. You taught me how to act.”

Then, he went on to remind me of things I had taught him, things I had told him as a child, things he assured me he always did. If he was talking to an adult out in Argo, there was a proper way to do it. As he walked around out there, he had to speak politely to everybody he saw. And he was taught to answer anyone speaking to him by saying, “Yes, Mrs. So-and-So,” or “No, Mrs. So-and-So.” Never just “yes” or “no.”

So, he thought he understood all that he needed to understand. But there were basic things, things that ran deep in the awareness of people who lived in the South, things he couldn’t possibly have understood. Everything Emmett had come to believe all his life had to be unlearned as he prepared for the trip. He had developed a sense of dignity, pride, confidence,
self-assuredness. He was used to having certain things in his contented life. He was comfortable with himself and the things he had. So I warned him about the ways of the South. And a funny thing occurred to me as we were going through it all: This was the first time I had ever really spoken to Emmett about race. I was giving him some pretty strong instructions about how to avoid problems but, before this, there had never been any reason for race to come up in any way. So, I wondered whether I had done enough to make up for all I had never had to do before. After all, how do you give a crash course in hatred to a boy who has only known love?

A few days before Bo left, we went shopping. There were things he would need for his trip. Some new dungarees and shoes for the country. He also wanted a new wallet. We went to a flea market near Sixty-third and Halsted, and found a nice selection of wallets that all came with stock photos in the photo holder. Bo had the hardest time picking between his two favorite wallets. It wasn’t the wallets so much as the photos inside. One had a studio shot of the actress Hedy Lamarr. The other had a picture of Dorothy Lamour. After going back and forth for what seemed like an eternity, Bo finally made his choice. Hedy Lamarr.

He was consumed by the adventure he was about to experience. He talked about it on his visits to Argo. He showed off the new clothes he was going to wear to his friends. And everywhere, he heard the echoes of my voice, my lecture. He stopped by to visit my friend Ollie shortly before he left and told her how much he was looking forward to going. She told him to be sure to behave and to be careful in the way that he talked and the way he carried himself. She knew how independent he was and how he was accustomed to doing whatever he chose in Chicago. He was free to go where he wanted and do what he pleased.

Bo also ran into his cousin Sam Lynch one day when they were both on their way to Wheeler’s house in Argo. “We’re going down South,” Bo said.

“Nice,” Sam said. “That’s real nice.”

Bo couldn’t contain himself. “Why don’t you go with us?”

“No,” Sam said. “I can’t go down there.”

Bo never wanted to take no for an answer. He offered to ask Sam’s parents for him. After all, nothing could have been harder than convincing Mama and me. But Sam explained that Bo would not have to ask his parents for him. He couldn’t go because he couldn’t get past all the things he had heard about the South. He didn’t
want
to go. Bo spent the better part of the next hour walking around Argo with Sam, trying to change his cousin’s mind. But Sam’s mind was made up. He would not be moved.

Finally, even Bo had to give up. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll see you when we get back.”

I had never said anything to Emmett about his father’s death, not about the specifics, anyway. And he had never really asked. Emmett was nearly four when I got the telegram. Much too young to absorb any of it. For him, all that was left of his father’s life was the ring that had been returned to me by the army. The one with the initials
LT
, and the date
MAY 25, 1943
. Probably the date the ring was inscribed. Emmett had looked at the ring a few times over the years. He even tried it on, but it wasn’t a good fit. Just a couple of days before he was to leave for Mississippi, he pulled it out again. With a little tape, it might fit his ring finger. Or maybe he could just wear it on a different finger. And that was when he asked me about his father.

We had talked about the fact that his father was a soldier in World War II and that he had been killed overseas. The only thing I could tell him at that point was the only thing I was told by the army. The cause of death, I explained to Emmett, was “willful misconduct.” I didn’t know what that meant, and when I tried to find out, I never got a satisfactory answer from the army. A lawyer and friend, Joseph Tobias, had tried to help in 1948. But he was told by the Department of the Army there would be no benefits for me due to the willful misconduct.

At that moment, though, as Emmett and I talked, the only thing that meant anything to him was that silver ring. He wanted to wear it, to show it off to his friends. I agreed. He put it on the middle finger of his right hand. That seemed to work. I thought about how I might try to have another keepsake made for him. A medallion with a picture of Louis Till, in his dress uniform. I could have that made as a gift for Emmett’s next birthday. That would give me plenty of time to make the arrangements.

Emmett was about to get back to preparing his things for the Mississippi trip, when he turned to me. I don’t know what made him think about it. Maybe it was the conversation we had just had about his father. Maybe it was the thought of having a complete family. Maybe it was all those playful conversations with Gene. I don’t know. But whatever it was, it made him smile. “Now, don’t you and GeGe run off and get married before I get back.”

On Saturday, August 20, 1955, we were in such a state. Everyone was supposed to meet up at the Central Station at Twelfth Street downtown. I was bringing Bo, and Papa Mose would come with Wheeler. But we were running late. My friend Mary Lee had come up from St. Louis to visit
with me and other friends. We got to talking and Bo was making lastminute preparations and we knew we were not going to make it downtown. I could see that far enough ahead to tell Papa Mose that we would meet at the train stop at the Englewood Station at Sixty-third and Woodlawn. The
City of New Orleans
left downtown at seven-fifty in the morning, and it left Woodlawn at 8:01. But this change would make a big difference. We were practically around the corner from the Englewood Station. Barely five minutes away. It might have taken us nearly an hour to make it downtown, even at that time of the morning. So that was our plan, and I busied myself getting the food ready for Bo, while he got himself ready. I had fried some chicken. He liked the dark meat. He was not keen on white meat, which was just fine by me, since it meant I could save a little for myself and Mary Lee. There was also some cake, and some treats he had bought for himself, along with something to drink. He would not be able to use the diner on the train, but he would have everything he needed, plenty of food in a shoe box, the same as I always had when I traveled to the South as a child.

Even with our extra time, we still were running late getting to the train station. The train was already there. It was a diesel-powered coach streamliner, with an observation car that seemed to glow there in the early morning, sitting high up on the elevated platform. I had felt so much tension rushing to get Emmett to the station for a trip I had never wanted him to make in the first place. Oh, we had cut it so close. The time was running so fast, I just wanted to slow everything down a bit, to give myself enough time to say good-bye, to hold on. As we bought Emmett’s round-trip ticket, there was a loud blast above us, up on the platform. It was the train’s horn sounding off, followed by the conductor announcing, “All aboard.”

Emmett started up those steps like nobody’s business, carrying his suitcase and his box lunch. I called to him. “Bo,” I said. “You didn’t kiss me good-bye. How do I know I’ll ever see you again?”

He stopped, turned around, and headed back. “Aw, Mama,” he said, as if he was thinking I could have come up with something else to say. I felt so silly about it at that time. I mean, why would I say something like that? At least he came back, though, and gave me a kiss. Then he took off his watch and handed it to me. He said he wouldn’t need it. So I took off my own watch and put his on my wrist. When I asked him about the ring, he told me he wanted to keep that. He wanted to show it to the boys, and that made me happy that I had given it to him.