Ring Shout

by P. Djèlí Clark

With all the flag-waving and cavorting, you might forget they was monsters.

“White folk don’t care ’bout pepper and spices. Like they food bland as water.”

You see, the Second Klan was birthed on November 25 back in 1915. What we call D-Day, or Devil’s Night—when William Joseph Simmons, a regular old witch, and fifteen others met up on Stone Mountain east of Atlanta. Stories say they read from a conjuring book inked in blood on human skin. Can’t vouch for that. But it was them that called up the monsters we call Ku Kluxes. And it all started with this damned movie.

“White folk earn something from that hate. Might not be wages. But knowing we on the bottom and they set above us—just as good, maybe better.”

“My people make money and we are ‘greedy capitalists.’ We call for an equitable society, and we are ‘dirty Bolsheviks.’ Those who wish to hate Jews will always find justification. They hung poor Mr. Frank here in Georgia after all, despite reason or the law.” Chef grunts. “Reason and law don’t mean much when white folk want their way.”

Ask me, it’s plain evil them Klans let in, eating them up until they hollow inside. Leave behind bone-white demons who don’t remember they was men.

“That movie, what you call a spell, I believe, works to induce hate on a mass scale,” Molly says. “Like how a lynching riles individuals into a mob.”

“Girl, every choice we make is a new tomorrow. Whole worlds waiting to be born.”

“You see, the hate they give is senseless. They already got power. Yet they hate those over who they got control, who don’t really pose a threat to them. Their fears aren’t real—just insecurities and inadequacies. Deep down they know that. Makes their hate like … watered-down whiskey.

Songs full of hurt. Songs of sadness and tears. Songs pulsing with pain. A righteous anger and cry for justice. But not hate.

What I have is beautiful music inspired by struggle and fierce love. What he got ain’t nothing but hateful noise. Not a hint of soul to it. Like unseasoned meat.

“You know it come to me that it ain’t right this blade only binds the spirits of slave-trading chiefs and kings. What about the white folk who bought them slaves? Who worked them to death. Ain’t they got penance to pay?” Aunt Ondine gives the foxiest of grins. “Why Maryse, that’s a whole other sword.” I almost choke on the mint julep. Another sword? A hundred questions form on my tongue.

“I’m glad you taking time to rest. But I’m afraid there’s evil afoot.” I sigh, returning to my mint julep. Naturally. Always evil a-footing.