Even decades after his death, just the mention of his name would cause some of the local Blacks to stop in their tracks, and with looks of indignant defiance, refer to him as an “uppity nigga.” More than one Black woman complained that Booker only dated “light-skinned girls,” while other people didn’t give a reason for why they remembered him as a “scumbag” who was “lowdown” and “mean,” even going so far as to say that when he was murdered he got what he deserved.
But there were also Blacks who couldn’t wait to tell stories about Booker’s generosity. Like how he let young Black boys eat in his place for free after school just to keep them from running with the gangs, or how he allowed families who were down on their luck to live in his rental properties for free until they were back on their feet. “You’d never meet a nicer person,” one man recalled wistfully.
What Greenwood Blacks could all agree on was the popularity of his restaurant, Booker’s Place.
Booker understood that when people came to his restaurant they were often in need of something beyond just laughter and good food. Many of his customers were seeking respite from the humid, mosquito-filled air of Greenwood, which, for most of their lives, had been thick with fear and uncertainty.
Greenwood was at the center of a colossal battle of wills. By the mid-1960s, two opposing groups had laid claim to Greenwood and both were acting as though the small town was their “hill to die on.” The first was the Council of Federated Organizations (COFO), which included the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC). COFO was a national grassroots group committed to a variety of civil rights activities, with a primary focus on getting Blacks to the polls. Their volunteers were coming into Greenwood from all over the country to encourage people of color to organize, protest peacefully, and register to vote. Many Greenwood Blacks were grateful for their presence, agreed with their message, and risked their very lives by participating in the cause. At the same time, other Blacks feared that the influx of agitators would make their already difficult lives even more difficult. They weren’t entirely wrong.
The other group convinced that Greenwood was a “must-win battleground” was the White Citizens’ Council, whose national headquarters were located in the small town. Initially founded to stop the integration of schools, the council evolved into also opposing other civil rights movement initiatives, like the integration of public facilities and equal voting rights for Blacks. Made up of bankers, businessmen, politicians, members of the planter class, and other people of influence, they used the power of their members to oppose integration.
Blacks involved in the civil rights movement, or rumored to be, often had their rents raised, mortgage renewals on their farms refused, and saw their insurance policies cancelled. They were fired from jobs, and if they happened to be doctors or dentists, their patients were warned not to see them. One bank refused to do business with a Black grocer unless he gave them the records for the local NAACP office he ran in his spare time. So long was the arm of the White Citizens’ Council that some Black activists were even audited without cause by the IRS.
Many elected officials, both state and local, were members. That may be why in 1962, in a move many felt was a direct punishment for local Blacks involved with the civil rights movement, the county’s board of supervisors voted to stop regularly scheduled federal shipments of food, a decision that left twenty-seven thousand residents, of whom most were Black, near starvation.
Word of the unrest in Greenwood became a common topic among the nationwide leaders of the movement. In 1964, Martin Luther King Jr. made plans to visit the small town. The night before he was due to arrive, a woman saw Greenwood police officers throwing bricks through the windows of Booker’s Place and two other Black-run businesses in the area. The message was clear: Do not engage with MLK.
Given the town’s virulent response to the civil rights movement, by simply stepping foot into Greenwood King was putting his life in grave danger. With this in mind, US Attorney General Robert Kennedy contacted the Greenwood Police Force and asked if they would protect King during his visit. They refused.
Kennedy called President Lyndon Johnson to discuss the situation, expressing his concern about how the nation would respond if King were assassinated in Greenwood that summer. President Johnson got the message. He called J. Edgar Hoover, director of the FBI, and gave him instructions to have his agents protect King during his visit, specifying, over and over again, that he wanted King guarded both from the front and the back.
King’s visit occurred without incident, but after he left a flyer was distributed throughout Greenwood. It was most likely created either by or with the influence of a man named Byron De La Beckwith, who was a member of the White Citizens’ Council, as well as a member of the Ku Klux Klan. The flyer included the following excerpt:
TO THOSE OF YOU NIGGERS WHO GAVE OR GIVE AID AND COMFORT TO THIS CIVIL RIGHTS SCUM, WE ADVISE YOU THAT YOUR IDENTITIES ARE IN THE PROPER HANDS AND YOU WILL BE REMEMBERED. WE KNOW THAT THE NIGGER OWNER OF COLLINS SHOE SHOP ON JOHNSON STREET “ENTERTAINED” MARTIN LUTHER KING WHEN THE “BIG NIGGER” CAME TO GREENWOOD. WE KNOW OF OTHERS AND WE SAY TO YOU—AFTER THE SHOUTING AND THE PLATE-PASSING AND STUPID DEMONSTRATIONS ARE OVER AND THE IMPORTED AGITATORS HAVE ALL GONE, ONE THING IS SURE AND CERTAIN—YOU ARE STILL GOING TO BE NIGGERS AND WE ARE STILL GOING TO BE WHITE MEN.
In this calamitous, murderous, fear-filled world Booker managed—whether through raw ambition, genius, luck, or a combination of all three—to create a space that felt set apart and untouched by terror. The town of Greenwood was politically on fire and just beyond his restaurant door; McLaurin was host to all types of violence between residents and random attacks by local police. But, unless he was standing by that door to play the role of club bouncer, Booker was almost always a picture of uncomplicated ease. His ability to relax in the midst of all that was going on in his community made him seem controlled, powerful, even peaceful.
When he was in his restaurant, Booker spent most of his time moving between tables and chatting it up with his big spenders while an unlit cigar—his “stump”—hung from the corner of his mouth. But it wasn’t just the big spenders who received Booker’s attention. No matter what Booker was doing, each time the front door opened, he’d look to see who was entering, a wide smile would spread across his face, and with the sound of that smile in his warm, raspy voice, he’d call out over the hum of laughter and conversation, “Welcome to Booker’s, glad to see y’all tonight.”
His charm was undeniable, but his food was just as memorable. So popular were the dishes he served that even some Whites made their way not only to the Black side of town but onto the crime-riddled street of McLaurin just to eat at Booker’s Place.
During the height of the Jim Crow era and the tensions of the civil rights movement, this young Black man owned one of the hottest establishments in the Delta, paid cash for cars, had Whites who called him friend, and was wealthy, at least by Greenwood standards. He was viewed as a community leader and many Blacks consulted him on their own business matters.
But there was one more thing.
Most days of the week, an hour would come when Booker had to turn the running of his restaurant over to someone else so he could go to his job at Lusco’s, where he waited tables, serving local Whites. In the early afternoon, he’d leave Booker’s Place and step into the penetrating light of the Delta sun, then climb into his car, which he parked on the curb right out front.
While driving down McLaurin, Booker had to transform himself in a way not unlike a seasoned actor in the precious moments before stepping from behind the curtain. At Lusco’s, he would don his costume of crisp black slacks, a sparkling white shirt, a clean towel folded over one arm, and his trademark smile. Then, he would step into the dining room where he displayed his façade, one that enabled his customers to eat, drink, laugh, and forget that just
beyond Lusco’s storefront, Greenwood’s traditions and its shameful inheritance were burning to the ground.
In the handful of minutes it took to travel the eight blocks that separated Booker’s Place from Lusco’s, his elusive, untranslatable quality shifted, and Booker assumed a different face, one never required of him in the place where he was king.
Scattered
Historian James Cobb once noted that when people announce plans to visit one of the cities in the Mississippi Delta, they rarely say they’re going to Greenwood or to Clarksdale; instead they speak of going “down into the Delta,” as if it were a place to descend to. He called it “the most Southern place on earth.” Famed historian Howard Zinn wrote an entire book on what he referred to as the “Southern Mystique,” in which he concluded that the South, far from being “a sport, a freak, [or] an inexplicable variant from the national norm,” is a place that actually “crystallizes the defects of the nation . . . It’s a mirror in which the nation can see its blemishes magnified, so that it will hurry to correct them.”
I went to Mississippi a few times when I was a child, but it was on a trip I took with my older sister that I first began to see the Mississippi that has captivated so many others. I was eleven and my sister, Shundra, was fifteen. We were traveling by ourselves while my parents stayed behind with my three-year-old little brother. Up to that point, my mom had only shared a few details about her father with me. I knew he’d owned a café and that he’d died before I was born, but I didn’t even know his name.
The absence of information about her family didn’t strike me as odd because my mom rarely spoke about her years in Mississippi. It was as if her life began when she left the Delta. Maybe that’s why, when my aunt picked my sister and me up from the airport, I was overwhelmed with a sense of apprehension. Then, as we began to drive out of the city, I noticed that everything—trees, houses, and signs—appeared to be staring at us as if we were going the wrong way and it pained them to watch us do so.
As we got closer to Greenwood, the vast multi-lane interstate turned into four lanes separated by a dividing wall. It continued to narrow until we were traveling down a lonely country road flanked by fields and bushes whose shapes I could scarcely make out in the darkness. Every few minutes, we passed a house with a random light shining out at us and I exhaled, relieved to see evidence of life.
“What do you guys do for fun in Greenwood?” Shundra asked. We were sitting next to each other on the backseat, and she was leaning forward with her hand on the headrest in front of her.
“Well . . .” my aunt said slowly as she watched the road, “I think we may have a bowling alley.”
“Is that still open?” the cousin who’d tagged along for the ride asked from the front passenger seat, her voice heavy with doubt.
“What about the mall?” my sister pressed. “Do kids hang out at the mall?”
“Now, we don’t have a mall here in Greenwood,” my aunt said in a voice that sounded like a warning to lower our expectations and to do it quick. After a few beats of silence, she added with an air of optimism, “We do have a JCPenney, though.”
“Do people go to the movies?” Shundra sounded increasingly alarmed.
“Some people go to the movies, but the nearest theater is in Jackson. We don’t have any movie theaters in Greenwood. Maybe we’ll do that while you’re here, maybe we’ll go into the city for a movie.”
Shundra leaned back in her seat and looked over at me. Our eyes locked and I wondered if she was asking herself the same question I was: “What had we gotten ourselves into?”
I’d lived almost my entire life in San Diego and I didn’t even know it was possible for a town to not have at least one shopping mall, let alone a movie theater. Even more perplexing to me was that I couldn’t picture my mother—the football player’s wife who stood out at every party in her high-heeled shoes, red lipstick, and mink coat—coming from the kind of place my aunt and cousin were describing.
My mom used to say that when she left Greenwood to join my father in California, people told her she’d be back, that she wouldn’t make it out west. So determined was my mother to leave Greenwood behind that it often felt as though she came from no place at all. Like a flower that came into being by bursting forth from the ground as if powered by its own will, my mother was a blossom of uncompromising, unflappable beauty. But she wasn’t weak. When it seemed that life was determined to assault her, she revealed a stem carved from steel.
“I found lipstick on his shirt,” she said one day. I was nine years old and we were in the recreation room, a loft-like space on the first floor of our house that had vaulted ceilings, brown leather couches, and a full-size bar. On one wall hung a larger-than-life wood engraving of my father making a tackle.
I looked up at my mom from where I sat on the carpet. She was standing next to a bunch of laundry piled up on the couch and with her hands she was folding and refolding a faded washcloth. Her face was turned toward the clear glass of the arcadia door, her gaze fixed on something beyond the yard.
She said it again: “I found lipstick on his shirt.” I knew she was talking about my father. “Does he think I’m stupid? The clubs close at two and he doesn’t come home until the next day. I know where he’s at. He’s sleeping with hookers, with prostitutes.” Even at that young age I understood that certain emotions would fit the moment perfectly. My mother might feel humiliation, shame, fear that he’d leave her, fear that he’d leave our entire family, sadness because of the betrayal, but my mom seemed to feel none of those things. She was angry.
I wasn’t surprised by her anger or by what she’d said. A lot of people were enamored with my father because of his job playing professional football for the San Diego Chargers. He’d been a guest on the local morning show, was written about in the paper, and it wasn’t uncommon for kids on the playground to ask me for his autograph. Like the crowds that orbited his world, I didn’t really know him. I experienced my father from a distance even though we lived under the same roof.
While my mother almost never spoke of the life she lived before her move to California, my father made a habit of launching into stories about his childhood experiences in the Delta at the dinner parties my parents frequently hosted. On those nights, when the meal was done and the adults were sitting around consuming amber-colored liquid from thick, decorative glasses, my father would reminisce about life in the Delta.
There was a showmanship to the way he spoke of his childhood. He was funny and nostalgic but revealed next to nothing about himself in his elaborate tales. Even if he had attempted to unpack his real biography, I was too young to grasp how a person could escape the geography of a place but still be ruled by its unspoken norms, like a former prisoner who can’t fall asleep without gripping a piece of metal sharpened to a murderous point. Whether to protect us or himself, my father kept his most precious memories locked away. To me he was like a celebrity in a magazine and I would’ve believed almost anything about him. That’s why, when my mother was folding laundry and telling me she suspected that my father was sleeping with prostitutes, his absences finally made sense to me.
So splintered was our family that, when my dad left, we were rarely told where he was going. I didn’t know anything about training camp or how long it took for him to get to his away games. In the years after my mother shared her hypothesis with me, I just assumed that when my father was gone, he was holed up in a motel room with a woman he’d paid to be with.
What did surprise me had nothing to do with what she said, but that she was saying anything at all, because my mother was all but completely defined by turbulent silence. Unless there was another grown-up in the room, she was usually quiet, though rarely at peace.
As a little girl, I made a habit of following her around the house because I craved the sound of her voice. If she was in the kitchen, I’d sit at the table. If she was on the couch, I’d sit on the floor. If she was doing her makeup, I’d perch myself on the side of the tub.
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One night, she was walking down the stairs in a long shimmery pale-green nightgown when I accidentally stepped on its hem. In a ruckus of screaming, flailing arms, and lots of bumps, she tumbled down the steps and landed hard on the blue Spanish tile below.
“What was that?” my father called from the other room.
My mother stood up, slowly turned around, and with her hands balled into fists she looked at me and screamed as though in the throes of an uncontrollable fit, “Stop following me!”
But I couldn’t. She was magic. My mother had impossibly light brown skin, a perfect smile, a laugh like a song, and she floated through my world just beyond reach. Sometimes when she was doing the dishes I’d walk over to her, reach up, and wrap my arms around her waist. I’d wait for her to return the hug, but she’d remain silent, stiffening her body against my embrace.
I struggled to wrap my mind around the thing that seemed to plague my mother because I loved her, but I also needed to understand her for my own preservation.
When I was in the fifth grade, my best friend, Amy, lived up the street. One afternoon, she was over at my house and I needed to change my clothes. Amy was at the bottom of the stairs and I was at the top. To make her laugh, I started unbuttoning my shirt while swaying my hips. I was performing a mock striptease. Amy couldn’t stop laughing, and after a few breathless giggles, she said, “That is so funny, I’m gonna go get your mom.”
I stopped dancing and opened my mouth to stop her, but no sound came out. I didn’t know what to say. I watched her run off, her blonde hair bouncing on her shoulders. As if I was standing in a forest watching all the birds suddenly fly away, I knew something bad was about to happen.
The Song and the Silence Page 2