(Upon
seeing the cover of Roberta Senechal de la Roche’s book:
“In Lincoln’s
Shadow: The 1908 Race Riot of Springfield, Illinois”)
I never want to meet this person alone, and face to face!
This is the face, sinister, prideful and unapologetic that forever altered the history of my people who were stolen from their homes and brought to this land.
This is the face my father warned me about, saying, “Boy, you can’t go over there with those people. . .You be careful when you go downtown.”
This is the face that chased my father’s car down Mississippi roads ‘til he found refuge at a restaurant and stayed there ‘til some Black college students escorted him across the state line into Tennessee. He saw the face in his rear-view mirror and later described it to me.
This is the face that has haunted my dreams since the very first time I learned what racism looks like and what hate sounds like; it chased me back to my part of East St. Louis and yelled, “You better stay in the South-End, Black Boy!”
This is the face that held a gun to my head and thundered, “What the hell you doin’ in this part of town, Nigga?” when I was a teenager lost in Alton on my way to a hayride.
This is the face that yelled at me and said, “You damn well betta git outta that wadda, Darkey,” as I swam with fellow soldiers in the waters off Biloxi beach.
This is the face I averted my eyes from and slightly bowed my head to as I stepped off the wooden sidewalk in Hattiesburg to allow it to pass.
This is the face I watch for as I travel Route 127 through and out of Pinckneyville, past the sign on the outskirts of town that reads, ‘Coon Club’. This is the face that makes me never ever drive that same route to Carbondale late at night, but travel the extra 35 miles that keep me on the interstate.
This is the face that causes me to shy away from being an outdoors person, for fear I might meet it one day in the deep brush.
This is the face that leads me to drive I-70 or I-40 on family road-trips out west rather than I-80 or I-94, and I’d really like to see Montana, Wyoming and Idaho.
This is the face that whispers behind my back when I walk down hallways and snickers at me in restaurants.
This is the face that disapprovingly looks at the car I drive and the house where I live and wonders, “Who is that, Jigaboo? or Who does he think he is?”
I’m certain of it; this is the face. I’m afraid of this face! I hate this face!
I never want to meet this person alone, and face to face!