We approached Emmett’s casket, its bronze hue radiating under the museum lights. It sat open, exposing us to a photograph of what Emmett’s mother, who insisted on an open-casket funeral, had chosen to show: what white supremacy had done to her son. I had seen images of it before, and did not need to listen to anything other than the soft buzzing light above us to know of Mamie Till Mobley’s unceasing sobs. My grandfather looked at the casket, his eyes moving unhurriedly across its frame. “He was killed in the next town over from where your grandmother and I lived. Only a few miles away,” he
...more
