When the Reckoning Comes

by LaTanya McQueen

How long, did you think, after all of this, it would be before their souls finally came for you in the night? These men and women remember. They remember the sight of their husbands and sons hanged from the trees they worked under. They remember the feel of the cold metal on their ankles. They remember the taste of it as the iron bit was forced in their mouths. They remember the taste of their own blood mixing with their saliva as it dripped down their faces, soaking what rags of clothes they wore. It is too late to speak of such stories now, for they are coming—ready to sneak into your rooms, tiptoe through the familiar hallways, to find you and your loved ones in their beds, and maybe some of you will sense a shift in the air, something unfamiliar in the room, and maybe you’ll open your eyes to see, catch a glimpse, but it will not be long, for make no mistake—they will not flinch, they will not hesitate, they have come for you, they have come, and as you open your eyes the last thing you’ll see is the ax as the blade strikes down.

A person moved through the world with no knowledge and no assurances, only hope and faith to guide them through the belief they were making the right decisions.

Mira knew what her mother meant, as if that was all it would take to alter her life’s trajectory, as if as long as she did these things—lived a life of yes and no ma’am pleasantries, of never speaking beyond the answer to a question, of being watchful of her tone, even when upset, of never asking, never challenging, of being polite, respectable—somehow, in some way, she would be saved.

Celine stealing Chiclets from the gas station, smiling to the clerk as she walked out unafraid. Jesse doing it too, although hesitating before jamming the packages of candy in his pockets, a small recognition of fear of being caught, knowing deep down the repercussions wouldn’t be the same for him, and yet—Celine had done it and she’d been okay. For all his judgment toward her they were similar in this way, because he could not stand the idea of someone else getting away with something he couldn’t. Every day the world reminded him, both directly and subtly, that because he was black his life held different rules, and Jesse behaved the way he did in defiance of this reality.

Mira stood flustered as the man strolled along, nodding at the constructed lies built as truth. Who could look at this and not see it for what it was? To not see the slave system the cabin represented? Instead of a slave cabin they saw a modest-looking room they could have lived in and ignored the truth. None of them wanted to see anything else because the narrative that had been created affirmed whatever falsehoods people wanted to believe.

Around her, all the guests had settled into such an easy narrative without even the hesitation of a questioning thought, and Mira wanted to know how they were able to do it—to enjoy a moment like this, drinking in contented peace, while admiring the view. To look out and say—oh, how lovely, and not think any more beyond the perceived beauty before them. To marvel at the twisted limbs of the surrounding trees, their branches climbing toward the sky, toward their heaven, and not see lynching trees.

memory can shift in its recalling, making the past become not what one remembers but what one believes.

The marks of the world are on us, Mira thought. It’s often as simple as looking at a person’s hands to know who and all of what we’ve been.