Chapter 11
Whipping the Klan
Glen
Burnie, MD - 1966
The second time I ran away from home was
in the middle of the winter. It took about three hours to walk from our home in
Glen Burnie, into Baltimore City. I was thirteen years old at the time. Once in
the city, I roamed the streets in search of a place to eat with the three
dollars I had in my pocket.
The Reads Drug
Store, next to the Mechanic Theater was still open, but the only thing I could
afford was a cup of coffee and a slice of cherry pie. I sat at the counter
shivering, slowly eating every bite as if it would be my last. It was almost
8:30 in the evening when the waitress approached to tell me she was closing up
for the night. She was an older Negro woman with a kind face and personality. I
could tell right away she had children of her own.
“Where are you
from?” she asked, leaning over the counter, speaking to me in a whisper.
“Um…” I replied,
with my head down, gazing at the now empty plate.
“You ate that
pretty fast. Haven’t you eaten today?”
“Uh… sort of.”
The questions
made me nervous, imagining she could tell I was a runaway. (She will have to report me. I need to get out of here!). Picking
up on my unease, she gently touched my hand.
“How old are you,
Son? You seem pretty young to be out this time of night. Where are your
parents?”
I froze, not knowing
whether to speak to her or take off running.
She leaned in
closer, whispering, “Did you run away from home, is that it?”
Finally, I gazed
at her with tears in my eyes trying to speak, but no words would come out.
Immediately, she leaned across the counter and hugged me.
“It’s all right
baby, I’m not going to tell on you. Why did you run?”
Through my tears
I told her my sad story and she began to cry with me. An older, unshaven white
man with a cigarette stuck between his lips poked his head out of the kitchen.
“Agnes, time to
close up!” he barked impatiently.
“Okay Ed!” She
shot back.
When he was gone,
she quickly grabbed two more donuts, a sandwich, and poured the remainder of my
coffee into a to-go cup, filling it to the brim.
“I have to close
up now, but you take this,” she said, handing me a bag with the goodies and
giving me another hug. “Don’t you worry, okay? I know life is hard, but the
streets are worse. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“That’s all I’m
going to say. Take care of yourself and give some thought to going back home. I
know your Momma must be worried sick about you. Will you do that for Ms. Agnes,
son?”
“Yes Ma’am.”
That night I
found a heating grate beneath a set of stairs to sleep on. It kept me warm and
provided cover from being seen as well, but I couldn’t sleep. Ms. Agnes was
right — my mother would be worried sick. At about 1am I got up and began
heading for home, practically running all the way. Just before leaving the
city, I spied a Baltimore Sun
delivery truck. The driver was bent over, leaning against the truck, moaning in
pain.
“Hey mister,
what’s the matter?” I shouted.
Startled, he
looked up, surprised to see me. “Go away kid, leave me alone!” he grumbled, and
then turned on very shaky legs trying to walk it off. He began to fall. I raced
over and caught him, offering my shoulder as support under his left armpit.
“What happened?”
“I think I tore
my hamstring! Getting off the truck I slipped… damn-it! It felt like a rubber
band popping!”
“A rubber band
popping?” I said, and just like that a thought popped into my mind. I could see
myself touching the back of the driver’s leg, and with his help, bringing light
to the area.
“Mr., if I help
you make your leg feel better, will you give me a ride back to Glen Burnie?”
He was taken
aback momentarily. “Son, if you can make the pain go away I’ll drive you around
the goddamn world!”
“Ok, I do this on
myself all the time. When I touch the back of your leg, you need to imagine
seeing a burst of white light exploding from your leg.”
“A burst of white
light… got it,” he said, grimacing.
“Clear your mind.
Breathe in through your nose deeply… slowly…”
He began to
breath in slowly.
“That’s right…
breath… stop thinking of the pain and close your eyes.
He closed his
eyes, breathing. A calm came over him.
“On three… the
burst of white light… ready?”
“Yes…”
“One, two, three…”
At the point
where my hand touched the back of his leg, a swirl of red, orange, yellow,
blue, and purple light expanded out-ward, turned radiant white, and then
collapsed beneath my hand into the man’s leg.
“I saw it! I did!”
the man squealed. “Reds, blues, and purple spinning into the brightest white I
ever seen!”
Suddenly he stood
up straight, hesitantly stretching the leg out. Then a smile stretched across
his face. “I’ll be damned!” he said, taking a tentative step, and then another
with renewed confidence. “It’s gone! The pain is gone!”
“That’s awesome!”
I replied. “Now, can we go?”
He wiggled his
leg a couple times in disbelief. “How the hell did you do that, son?”
“Hell had nothing
to do with it. You did it,” I said.
“I did it?”
“You saw the
light, because you brought the light into yourself. I just helped you anchor
it. Now, can we go?”
“You look kinda
young to be out so late. What are you, a runaway or something?”
The question
startled me. “Uh… I…”
“Don’t bother.
Where in Glen Burnie? I’ll drop you right at your front door!”
Not wanting him
to know exactly where I lived… “Near the Department of Motor Vehicles, if you
don’t mind.”
“I gotta go down
by the DMV to drop off papers. So that ain’t even out of my way. Come on — get
in. Hot damn, I can’t believe what you just did! My name is Riley, what’s yours?”
“Everyone calls
me H,” I said, stepping into the truck. “But, like I said… you healed yourself,
not me.”
He didn’t seem to
believe me, and continued to go on talking incessantly about what I could do
for the good of mankind and such nonsense. At my insistence, he dropped me off
in the DMV parking lot.
From the DMV
parking lot, it would be a quick jaunt through the woods and home. As I made my
way towards the thicket of live oaks, birch, and pine trees, I could see a fire
glowing in a large open field about fifty yards into the woods. Then, behind
me, and approaching fast were two sets of headlights. I quickly ducked for
cover amidst the underbrush. I heard the sound of vehicles skidding to a stop
and car doors opening. The sound of country music echoed in the night air. Then
more vehicles approached, followed by the sound of footsteps tromping the
underbrush just a few yards away from where I was hiding. I stayed pinned to
the ground.
Now it was known
that the KKK from time to time met in those woods to burn crosses and hold
their rallies. It was something everybody knew about, even the police, but no
one ever did a thing to stop them. Rumor was, members of the County police
department were involved directly with the Klan. Once a year they would meet, and
then after the meeting drive through our neighborhood throwing rocks and
Molotov cocktails at the homes.
The way my
neighborhood was situated, there was one main entrance off Ritchie highway,
which went right past our house, leading to the only way out. The last seventy
yards were lined on both sides with a thicket of trees. As soon as the coast
was clear, I snuck closer to see what was going on and sure enough, it was a
gathering of hooded men dressed in their finest Klan robes.
The sight of the
ominous convention, to my surprise, filled me with a strange fascination. I
admired the sheer beauty of the flaming cross. The shadows cast by hooded men
upon the tree-lined clearing, felt strangely familiar to me.
Suddenly, a wave
of images flashed across the movie screen of my mind of another place and time,
with hooded men standing around a burning cross. In their midst I could see
flashes of a black foot, with blood dripping from the place where the big toe
used to be. In the vision I felt a small, wet object in the palm of my hand. Slowly,
I opened my hand to see… a bloodied
severed toe!
Snapping out of
it, I tore out of there, running as fast as I could along the pathway through
the woods. The first person I ran into was Coon — the biggest, blackest,
meanest Negro in our neighborhood. The path emptied directly into his parents’
back yard, and Coon had made a practice of jumping kids exiting the woods,
holding them up for money or candy. It was 1:45am and he was still up, sitting
on the back porch in the dark. I practically jumped out of my shoes when I
heard…
“Don’t even try
to run little Nigger, just come on over here and empty your mutha-fuckin’
pockets!”
“Coon, the Klan!”
I shouted, catching my breath.
“The who, Nigga?”
“The Klan, with
hoods, and they’re burning a cross in the woods!”
“You sure, boy?”
“Yes, I swear! I
seen ‘em with my own eyes!”
Coon thought for
a moment.
“Go on home and
tell your ol’ man. Tell him I’ma round up some Niggas and we gonna meet right
in front of yo house! You hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“Now go on, get!”
I took off
running.
“Nigga wait!”
Coon shouted. “What you got? Some candy, what?”
I still had the
bag Ms. Agnes had given to me.
“How about some
donuts and half a chicken salad sandwich?”
“Well, what you
waiting for, Nigga, toss it ova here and get!”
Arriving home, I
burst through the door to find my Dad sitting up in the living room as if he
was waiting for me to walk through the door. Immediately he stood up and without
saying a word, decked me, right onto my back, but I didn’t feel a thing — spirit
had already taken flight.
“Boy, where the
hell have you been? Your mother and I have been worried sick about your ass!”
Through a haze
from the floor, I shouted, “Dad, the Klan!”
“The what?”
My mother
appeared at the door, rushing to give me a hug.
“Are you all
right, H?” she said.
(I was until a moment ago) I thought.
“Mom, Dad — the Klan! They’re burning a cross up in the woods. Coon told me to
tell you, he was going to get some Niggas together and meet in front of the
house!”
“You saying the
Klan is burning a cross up in the woods right now?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well you know what
that means,” he said to mom. “They gonna be riding down through here causing a
terrible mess.”
“Can’t we just
call the police?” mother said.
“I am the police, but you know damn well
those County pigs ain’t going to do a goddamn thing! We gotta take care of this
ourselves!”
“But people could
get hurt,” she cried.
“You damn right
they are! Boy, you ain’t off the hook by a long shot, you hear me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I need you to
run to Mr. Roach’s and tell him to call Junebug and Baldy. He’ll have a package
for you — don’t open it! You hear me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Now go on, get!”
Two blocks away,
Mr. Roach, aptly named, was at first annoyed to see me standing in his doorway
at 2:00am. But as soon as the words Junebug and Baldy came out of my mouth, he
stood up straight and marched to the phone. I watched as he whispered
something, standing with his back to me. Then he hung up the phone and
disappeared into another room.
When he returned,
he was holding a large brown paper bag, with a box inside. “Give this to your Daddy,
and don’t look inside! You hear me boy?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Tell your Daddy,
it’s done, and I’ll see him in ten minutes. Now go on, get!”
Really, did they
think I wasn’t going to look in the box? A quick peek revealed a black handgun
with duct tape wrapped around the handle.
Within less than
thirty minutes there were carloads and truckloads of Negroes arriving at our
front door by the dozens. They were carrying bats, iron bars, chains, pipes,
shotguns, knives, and pistols. Once it seemed everyone who was going to make it
had arrived, dad stood on the hood of his Plymouth to speak.
“Now listen up!
There ain’t going to be no killing out here tonight, is that straight?”
“Why not,
goddamn-it!” came the response from many in the group. “Those Bitches deserve
it!”
“Be that as it
may, I don’t want to see a single man standing here going to jail for these
worthless pieces of shit! Somebody gets killed, and this neighborhood will be
crawling with the law. It’ll be bad enough after we finish with them. Kill ‘em,
and we’ll never have peace.”
“You got that
right!” came a few voices.
“So put the guns
and knives back in your vehicles! And I mean it! I sent Junebug and Baldy on
recon. You boys go on and tell everybody what’s up.”
“There’s about
twenty-to twenty-five of them,” said Baldy, a big, rough looking, no-nonsense
kind of Negro you didn’t want to mess with.
“It’s them
Crackers from up the road near Severn,” Junebug said. He was tall and lanky,
black as coal, with his lips seemingly stuck in a permanent snarl. “Couple of
pigs, a State cop. Shit’s gonna get ugly if somebody get keeled. Do what
Stanly’s telling ya’ll, and put away the heat!”
“Look what we got
— at least a sixty of us, right? So yeah, beat them to within an inch of their
lives, but don’t kill ‘em! Agreed?” Dad said.
“Yeah!” came the
response in unison, reminiscent of a high school football pep rally.
“All-righty…
let’s get to work!” Dad snapped, and everyone dispersed.
The time was
2:45am, and I was sitting on the front steps of my parents’ home, when we heard
the first of the car horns honking in the distance. The KKK had just entered
the neighborhood. Behind me the screen door opened, and I was summarily
snatched up from the steps and into the house by Mom. Scrambling to the bay
window, the sound of bottles breaking, horns honking, and the shouts of ‘Nigger, Nigger, Nigger,’ rang in the air
like an encroaching storm drawing nearer and nearer.
Finally, the
flash of headlights from speeding vehicles streaked by, one after another
proceeding toward the final stretch of road. A Molotov cocktail flung from one
of the vehicles, literally bounced off the brick exterior to our home, and exploded
in the grass starting a circle of fire. The next sound we heard was the
screeching of tires. I bolted for the door with my sisters close behind.
With the
headlights as spotlights, we watched as the carnage proceeded. Vehicles parked
in the woods on both sides of the street had blocked the Klan’s progress front
and back. Then, like a scene from a Tarzan movie, an army of raging Negroes
dashed from the woods, descending upon those hapless Klansmen trapped in their
vehicles. Windows were smashed, and Klansmen were dragged from their vehicles
into the street.
What followed
next was a complete massacre, as fists, bats, tire irons, crowbars, feet,
sticks, and spare tires were used to beat the living daylights out of those
white boys. Dad could be heard shouting, “Don’t kill em!” over the sound of
carnage, and the Klansmen’s screams of agony. The attack lasted for just under
ten minutes, and then just as quickly as it began, Negroes were piling into
their cars and trucks, fleeing the scene. It was at this point dad came running
up the street, swooshing us all inside.
“H., take this
and hide it quick,” he said, handing me a leather satchel. “Don’t tell me, or
anybody else where it is until I ask you for it!”
I figured the
tool shed out back where we kept the lawn mower and chemicals for the in-ground
swimming pool, was a good place to hide it. Inside the hundred-gallon barrel of
granulated chlorine would be the last place anyone would look. But of course, I
couldn’t resist taking a peek inside the satchel, and was surprised to see it
filled with wallets. The first wallet I grabbed had several rubber bands
holding it closed. Once I got them off, just inside the flap was a gold shield,
with the letters F.B.I., and the name Sinclair right under it.
“What the fuck…?”
I was just about
to inspect it further when something bumped into the outside of the tool shed,
scaring me half to death. I quickly shoved the wallet into my pocket and the
bag into the chlorine drum, covering it over with the chemical granules, and
then clamped down the lid. I stood quiet for a beat before venturing out to see
what had bumped into the shed.
“Who’s out here?”
I whispered. No one answered.
Then I heard what
sounded like a moan coming from my left. Turning quickly to the sound, my eyes
adjusted to the darkness. The figure of a man appeared on the ground. He was
slumped over against the tool shed.
“Please… help me…
I’m undercover… FBI,” he said.
Moving closer, my
stomach wretched at the sight of him. He was white, but there was so much blood
covering his face and hands, it was hard to make out exactly what he looked
like. His breathing was greatly exaggerated, with a wheezing sound coming from
the top of his chest. Then I noticed his shirt would move in a certain spot
each time he tried to breath, like he had a hole in his chest.
“Undercover
agent,” he said, barely managing to get the words out. “F.B.I., need your help…
please….”
Even with all the
blood, he seemed young for an F.B.I. agent, considering the only other agent I
had ever seen was Efrem Zimbalist Jr., on the TV
series. (The wallet must be his) I
thought. Moving behind him, I stooped down cupping my hands beneath his
armpits.
“Can you stand
mister, if I help you up?” I asked.
“Think soo…” he
moaned.
He couldn’t. I
pulled with all my might, getting him to both knees, and helped him crawl to
the tool shed entrance, just as…
“Nigger you betta
get yo ass in da house fo the po-lice come,” a voice shouted from the tree
line, about thirty yards away.
“Who’s that?” I
shouted.
“It’s me, Coon!”
He was approaching
quickly from the rear of the shed, which blocked his view of the man.
“Hurry mister,
crawl inside before he gets here!” I said, giving him a final shove inside with
my foot, just as Coon came to within twenty feet. He was huffing, bent over, and
grasping his knees.
“I seen one of
them Klan bitches running this way,” he said, barely catching his breath. “You
seen ‘em?”
“No, what’s he
look like?”
“Busted up!”
The sound of
sirens echoed in the air, getting closer.
“Shit! They gonna
be here any moment. You better go on and get inside,” he said.
“Me? I got less
that twenty feet to go. You better get on up the street, because the police
will surely blame your big ass for all this mess,” I said, laughing.
Coon chuckled.
“You right about that, little Nigga,” he said, and then took off running in the
direction of his home. I knew any moment Dad would be looking for me. The man
was now sitting up, leaning against our riding lawn mower. By the moon’s light
I could see his face a little clearer. On his left cheek was a gaping wound,
beginning just under his lower eyelid, extending down to his chin, and it was
oozing blood. His right eye was swollen shut.
“Mister…
ambulances are coming. We need to get you out of here and closer to the road so
they can see you,” I said.
He blinked a
couple of times with his good eye and nodded his head. I got behind him once
again, and with all my strength hauled him up from the tool shed floor to his
feet. Blood was now all over my shirt and hands.
“It’s about fifty
feet to the road. You ready?”
“Yes…!” he
gasped.
I started moving
with him as fast as he could move his feet. It felt more like we were falling
down the whole way than walking.
“H! Where the
hell are you boy?” I heard dad shouting in a whisper from the back of the
house.
“Mister, we have
to hurry, or my dad is gonna see us!” I said, practically picking him up and
carrying him to just beyond the hedges. It was then I noticed his right hand
was moving funny, as if it wasn’t… (Is
that a bone sticking out?) I thought. The sight of his broken wrist, almost
made me pass out.
“H! Where are
you?” came my dad’s voice, even louder this time.
END EXCERPT
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