I lay silent in the darkness
Hoping for some light,
While gulf coast waves warn
Of the crushing nature of eternity.
On the beach I sit,
On the sand I lie
Frozen in flames.
The eyes of a child watch
As flames turn hideous,
As old men in white bonnets
Drink and dance in an erotic rampage
Of hate burning and crashing
Upon the black
Naked bodies of
A father and his son:
Imprisoned, raped, and slaughtered.
I have not spoken of these things that I witnessed as a child, except to my former therapist. I have been more frightened than brave. Yet on April 13 when Frazier Glenn Cross (allegedly) fatally shot a 14-year-old boy and his grandfather in the Jewish Community Center in Overland Park, Kansas, and another woman at Village Shalom, a retirement community several blocks from the Center, I had to speak up. We are all shocked and heartbroken, even outraged at these acts of racism and hatred. All our prayers go out to the victims and their families. Now, four days later, we all know of Cross's history of anti-Semitism: former leader, Grand Dragon of the Carolina Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, his activities in the neo-Nazi group called "The Order," and his conviction and imprisonment for operating a paramilitary camp.
This tragic occurrence brought back flashbacks and memories from childhood--not new memories, but ones that I have buried deep. I am afraid that if I speak up, talk openly about what I witnessed back in the 1950s and 60s in Topeka and Galveston that they will find me and torture and kill me. Not rational, but so real that I become paralyzed. The chill of horrific terror quivers beneath my skin from head to toe, and I lay motionless, hoping for some light to bring warmth, yet still cowering before the malefic flames in the night.
I am frozen in the flames, yet here I sit now, writing a brief part of my story. Not so pretty is the account, and there is so much more that I have chronicled in secret. I mourn the seriousness of my life, grieve over the racism, hatred, and murders witnessed. I mourn the acts of aggression and violence that others have endured, and this knowledge is a gift of compassion that encourages me to speak up. Writing, even a small part of a child's experience growing up with racism and KKK activities, is a courageous step out of the darkness.
This tragic occurrence brought back flashbacks and memories from childhood--not new memories, but ones that I have buried deep. I am afraid that if I speak up, talk openly about what I witnessed back in the 1950s and 60s in Topeka and Galveston that they will find me and torture and kill me. Not rational, but so real that I become paralyzed. The chill of horrific terror quivers beneath my skin from head to toe, and I lay motionless, hoping for some light to bring warmth, yet still cowering before the malefic flames in the night.
I am frozen in the flames, yet here I sit now, writing a brief part of my story. Not so pretty is the account, and there is so much more that I have chronicled in secret. I mourn the seriousness of my life, grieve over the racism, hatred, and murders witnessed. I mourn the acts of aggression and violence that others have endured, and this knowledge is a gift of compassion that encourages me to speak up. Writing, even a small part of a child's experience growing up with racism and KKK activities, is a courageous step out of the darkness.