Tears, Fears, Pride…and, Yes, Hope Too | WS.2
A short story that explores one symbol and four raw emotions
*Originally posted in Masterpieces on Medium
How did we get here? The mere thought of how one flag brings such relief and a welling of emotion for one man brings immense pride and connectedness to another. One man cries because he wants to become visible, and another man rages because he is becoming invisible. The dichotomy of the Confederate flag is as complex as two adjoined twins. It is the hip that binds our two separate souls, our two separate hearts, and our two separate minds.
I wanted to take a different approach to encourage discourse and discussion. I wanted to explore and transplant myself into genuine characters — white and black — from different times and immerse myself in their authentic emotion, connected to the Confederate flag.
White Tears, Fears, and Pride
Pop! Crash! I was startled out of my sleep. Jo-Jo!!, she screams. Where are you?! My mom reaches out towards me, still lying on the center floor, then crouches over my tiny body. She quickly crawls to the door and peers through. Boom! She falls back from the concussion of noise.
Horses gallop away. A cross burns. Our neighbor’s barn was engulfed in flames as men rushed to help put out the fire with tin pails in hand. My father grabbed his musket, tightened up his long gray uniform jacket, with cover in hand. He kissed my mom, told her she was the love of his life.
He then came and grabbed me, put me on his lap. “Son, our very heritage is under attack. They want to take it from us.”
Who is ‘they’ Pop-Pop, I asked. Scared. Confused.
Them, damn ni**er loving Yankees!
Son, our people may not have a lot. But, we deserve to live how we want. When grandpa got off that boat, as a stowaway from Ireland, his high hopes were dashed. He was treated a half step above the ni**er slaves. This war is proof no change has come. But that is about to change. Son, sometimes you have to fight. Fight for your existence. Fight against them trying to erase us. That’s why I need you to take care of your mother. Now, you are the man of the house.
Pop-Pop, will I ever see you again?
Son, I will do my best, but sometimes freedom ain’t free. And them Yankees ain’t gonna get what they want without a fight. He kisses me on the forehead. Go on now and protect your mother, eh.
I walked over to my sobbing mother and hugged her. Ma, I’m your protector now. Pop-Pop will take care of them ‘er Yankees.
She grabs me as her heart walks out the door. We both stare at my Pop Pop’s back, a dark silhouette carrying a musket in one hand and a water pail in the other. He faded into the line of running soldiers heaping water by the bucket at the engulfed barn across the street.
When the flames receded, the line sergeant barked an order, and all the men ran into an invisible spot on the dirt road and stood like stiffed boards. “For-ward…march!!” The men marched in time as the sergeant sang in cadence, God Saved the South:
God save the South, God save the South, Her altars and firesides, God save the South! Now that the war is nigh, now that we arm to die, Chanting our battle cry, “Freedom or death!”
That day was the last time I saw my Pop Pop. He died in his first battle — — the Battle of Chancellorsville. I later found out that he and most of his unit died from poor nutrition and gangrene. That never sat well with me. Because I knew he suffered. I knew he was fighting for our people. I knew he was fighting for me. And, the love of his life — Ma.
It boiled me over that we lost to them ‘er Yankees. Some people say it was Longstreet’s fault that he hesitated when he could have won. I don’t know how I feel about it. I just wish my Pop-Pop were still here. I miss him.
Everything that we worked hard for, with our own hands, was burned to the ground. Looted. Dead bodies, dishonored.
I kept remembering my dad. He used to say:
See, son. We are too poor to own slaves, so we never benefitted like them rich people you see in the pictures. They ain’t our kind, either. We hated them too, ’cause they made it bad for all of us. At least we knew them Yankees were scoundrels — no guessing that. Them rich people make you feel small. Like how they talk to you and how they look at you. Sometimes, they look right past you. Like, you ain’t even there. Hell, I had one throw two coins at me and laugh as I chased them rolling on the dirt road.
“Look at this poor, little bastard. Just as pathetic as them ni**ers.” He just kept laughing. I put the coins in my pocket and scurried to find something to eat before saying my farewell to Pop-Pop.
At his homegoing, Pop-Pop’s commanding officer knelt before my Ma and graciously handed her a 3-pointed and folded “Stars and Bars” in Pop-Pop’s honor. She sobbed. Then the honor guard aimed their weapons skyward and fired. Ready, Aim,…Fire! I stood like the soldiers and saluted, too. Pop Pop was gone. But his legacy, our heritage, and way of life — is in me. Until the day I take my last breath, I promise Pop-Pop, I will make you proud. I am a proud, white son of the South. A confederate son!
Black Tears, Fears, and Pride
It is 1984 — my big brother graduates from Hampton University, pre-medical school tomorrow. My family was excited. The graduation ceremony was inspiring as I watched my big brother collect this degree. I knew I would one day grow up to be just like him. My dad beamed with pride. My mom was happy to the moon and just kept praising the Lord’s Name. “Hallelujah. Won’t he do it? Amen, Father God. Thank ya Je-sus!”
Later that dad Pa grabs me and tells me to come along for a ride down to the next town over. He affectionately called me his little co-pilot in training. I took delight sitting in the passenger seat of my Pa’s work truck.
We took off about high noon because we had to make sure we were off the road, or at least, the city borders before dark. There was a small town just 10 miles shy of our destination city. That small town was trouble for our kind. We ain’t wanted there. Blacks were well versed as we kept an eye out for each other.
I guess Pa could see the worry on my face. He taps my shoulder, saying, “No need to worry, son. We got plenty of time to get up to town and back before it was dark.” I let out a sigh and smiled.
Pa loves 1960s blues artist John Lee Hooker. I like him too. As we rolled down Highway 95, I watched the rows and rows of tobacco leaves farms. Pa, you eva pick cotton? He laughed. Boy, where is your mind? No, I ain’t never picked no cotton.
Pa, look at that pretty white house. It looks like a mini White House. Does President Reagan live there too?
Pa laughs and shakes his head. I see I have a curious boy, huh? No, son, that’s an old plantation home.
You mean like the ones in my history book, where slaves and their master lived? Huh, Pa?
Yes, son.
Oh! Was our family ever in one?
No, son. Our people worked out in their fields. Just like these fields, you see right here. See, our folks are from Louisiana Delta. That’s where Grandpa was born and raised.
Was Pop-Pop a slave?
No son, he was the son of a sharecropper. Later, He learned how to be a shoe cobbler from an old white soldier. Built a nice lil’ business for himself.
A few miles down the road, we see a big ol’ Confederate flag. It waved about in the fresh, tobacco-smelling air.
Bright. Bold. Captivating.
Pa, what kind of flag is that? Pointing. I never moved my eyes off it.
That’s the confederate flag, son.
The confeda-who? What does that mean?
He doesn’t answer right away. Not a lot of good things, son. Not a lot of good things…his voice trails off.
Pa was quiet. Pa was distant, far away to some hallowed moment or experience long ago. He never shared it with me.
Pa, Pa? You okay?!
Son, let’s just listen to the music.
Okay. I nodded.
The truck starts suddenly shaking and then abruptly slows down to a dead stop as Pa strong arms the wheel to pull the rumbling truck to the side of the road. Stay in the car, son! He gets out and walks to the front wheel on his side. He puts his hands on his hips and curses, ‘Shit!’
What’s wrong, Pa?!
The tire is flat.
I crawl over to look out the driver’s window. As Pa is pulling the wheel off the axle, a passing Virginia police car quickly approaches us from the opposite direction. Pa did not notice it at first. My heart sank. Pa, the police are coming!
He continues changing the tire. I look up and now see the faces in the police car staring at our truck. Solemn. They slow down and make U-turn crossing the median, pulling behind us with flashing lights. The police car stops square behind our truck. The driver’s door opens with a portly white man getting out. His partner stayed near their vehicle. The portly cop slams his door and walks towards my Pa, who greets the officer.
Hey, Mr. Officer. Am I glad you are here? Do you mind helping me put this spare tire on? Then I will be on my way.
Flat tire, huh?
Yeah, it got me — nervous laughter.
Why don’t you step to the curb over here? He points to the front passenger side. Safety first, right?!
Sure thing, Mr. Officer. Pa complies.
So what brings you to these here part of town. You on business?
Nah,…No, Sir. I am on my way up to the next town over to grab some wood. I make furniture for churches. Sometimes, coffins too.
Well, I know you stay in business. Laughs. So look here. I can’t help you, but I will warn you. You better be out of this area before dark. Hear me, boy. We don’t like your kind too much.
Yes, Sir, I will try to get this tire on as fast as I can. I don’t have all the tools, so it is a little harder than it should be.
Be out by dark, or we will have a significant problem…You know I’m proud to serve and protect the people. The cop tips his hat, winking. He proceeds to walk back to the squad car, makes a wide U-turn, and drives out of sight.
Pa never looked at me. He walks back over and starts re-working the tire. I got out and tried my best to help.
No words of the cop were spoken.
We secured the tire properly before racing up to our destination.
I couldn’t remove that Confederate flag, tobacco farms, plantation homes, and that officer from my mind. I learned a valuable lesson. One, every brown and black person learns. That flag was a warning that we were not welcomed here.
Promised Heritage — A New Hope
We arrived at our destination town, and the wood we needed was packed and ready to go. The white men hustled to get it into our truck cab. Pa tipped them, and they were thankful. Thanks, Sir! Pa then takes my hand, and we walk into the nearby food store.
It smelled like a bakery, the cakes and cookies immediately catching my eyes, on full display in front. I point to the ones I want, and the older, white man behind the cash-register smiles. Gotta make the little ones happy, eh? Pa smirks and nods, Sure do.
As I bit into the jelly-filled pastries, I see my dad lock in on an old Army Troop photo conspicuously displayed on the wall behind the cash register. Pa points, Is that Alpha Company, 4th Battalion, 3rd Infantry Regiment?
The older white man walks to it and pulls it down. As he reaches for it, I noticed the Confederate Flag promptly displayed behind a tired, young-looking soldier with black soot on his exhausted face.
The older man walks back over and confirms my Pa’s suspicion. That’s my grandfather, Pop-Pop. He was pointing to a scrawny man in the second row of the photo. Virginia battlegrounds, Civil War, 1864. Then, the older man smiles with pride. Oh, yeah, my Pa responds. I served in that unit in ‘75-’79. I was so proud to wear the uniform.
They both repeated the unit motto, then looked at each other and laughed. It was like they knew each other from a past time. Pa was himself again. And the older man seemed to connect with a kindred soul.
As we depart, the older man begged my Pa when he picks up his next wood shipment…You come back now, ya hear. He shook my Pa’s hand and rendered a salute. Pa responded in kind. Pa then gingerly cupped the back of my head, and we headed back to the truck.
Son, remember, people are people. Some won’t like you ’Cause the color of your skin and all. But, there are some out there — they got a good heart. I nodded.
Yeah, I learned a lot that day.
We are more connected than we think. This connectedness is our strength. Let’s have a real conversation about healing and moving forward.
Shay
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