In this fictionalized short story, Money Mississippi, notorious for the brutal murder of Emmett Till has had a one hundred and eighty-degree turn from its old ways. A mile from the infamous Bryant’s Grocery and Meat Market sits a big shiny blue Walmart along an avenue populated with fast food restaurants and a Starbucks. Young black men with pants sagging walk along the broad sidewalks holding their girlfriend’s hands. No one bats an eye if the girl is blue-eyed and blond. At times a pickup truck bearing confederate flag license plates will rev its engine, but the young seem unfazed. A prosperous black population lives along the banks of the Tallahatchie River. Their ranks culled from nearby military installations and new industry. Still, taboos exist, and people remember the old Money Mississippi you will wonder if the spirit of Emmett lurks in the murky waters of the Tallahatchie. |
The Fan
What y’all aim to find by digging up his old bones? Old old bones, old and innocent bones Why y’all want to disturb him? He ain’t with his bones. He down here in the muck with me and ain’t nobody trying to dig my rusty ass up. His Mama, bless her heart, she got the bones and that head that looked like a bad cabbage. Thousands seen it in Chicago. Millions through Jet. Where was my picture? I suffered. I used to gleam prissy and howl now mud bugs nest in my teeth. I kept the good stuff off that boy—his spirit, his soul, his spleen caressed it out of his naked body The real Emmett sometimes he runs up the road to Money gooses that white gal between her legs—boy still gots that spunk in him. Then he runs back to me for shelter. Carolyn wakes up, rubs her thigh goes back to sleep. 1955 was a long time ago She wants to rest. I want to rest, and even Emmett. You got the pictures. You won’t forget Every now and agin some black boy still gets drugged behind a car, still gets strung up in a tree or the roof rafters of a county jail They still make fans like me heavy enough to drown boyish devilment. |