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“My maw was in her cabin with a week-old baby and one night twelve Klu Kluxes done come to the place. They come in by ones and she whopped ’em one at a time.”
But this Klan we got in 1922 not concerned with hiding.
Sadie rolls big brown eyes at me, twisting her lips and lobbing a spitty mess of tobacco onto the rooftop.
Watching these Klans shamble down the street, I’m reminded of bales of white, still soaked in colored folk sweat and blood, moving for the river.
Frenchie gals loved cooking for colored soldiers. Liked doing a heap more than cooking too.”
“Had us some steak tartare and cassoulet, duck confit, ratatouille—Sadie, fix your face, ratatouille not made from rats.”
a man pounding out silver with raw, cut-up feet in a mine in Peru; a woman screaming and pushing out birth blood in the bowels of a slave ship; a boy, wading to his chest in a rice field in the Carolinas.
Body just crumbles away, as if it don’t belong here—which I assure you it does not. In about twenty minutes won’t be no blood or bones or nothing—just dust. Make it feel like you fighting shadows.
