Maybe she didn’t know that I was drowning because she was drowning, too.
I’d always thought of my mother as strong. For as long as I could remember, the mere sound of my crying was intolerable to her. I’d presumed that she viewed my weakness as a virus she might catch if she didn’t eradicate it. But I’d been incredibly, desperately wrong. While she was raising me, my mother was barely holding on, carting around her own sorrows, too weighed down to carry mine as well.
It was while standing in front of the torn-down home of my mother’s youth that I suddenly remembered something. The entire scene began to play in my head. My mother is sitting in a chair at a casual family gathering. It’s one of the few times she’s talking about her past. She tells us that when she was a young girl, she lived in a house located next to a body of water. Sometimes when the water was rising, its sound would get louder, and as she fell asleep, she would often wonder if the waters would overtake the wall, flooding her home. Even the memory of this bothered her so much that, right there in her chair, she closed her eyes and rocked back and forth, and her shoulders shook as an almost imperceptible shudder went through her.
As the scene faded from my mind, I looked around for the river. I realized suddenly that there wasn’t a wall next to where her family home used to be, and the closest river was miles away. Where a wall should have been, based on her description, was a deep, dark collection of untended, untamed growth.
Had I somehow misremembered what she’d said?
Beneath my feet, surrounding me, stretching out as far as I could see, were weeds, grass, and vines intertwined with the abandoned planks and debris. It occurred to me that the lush, vibrant vegetation was reclaiming something. Snaking its way across the property, moving slower than the eye can see, the earth was consuming the stories and the memories of that place, making them a part of the woods.
I looked to the spot where I knew a bedroom had once been. There was a mess of green life and debris on the ground, and beyond it, a thick gathering of trees. It was in that space, just in front of the trees, that I was finally able to see my mother as she may have been in Greenwood.
She’s a little girl, and she’s trying to fall asleep. Her eyes are closed, and her pigtails, a rich, deep shade of black, rest against a white pillow. Under a thin blanket, her limbs bump up against her sister, who’s lying next to her. She inhales deeply and descends into a space where reality ebbs away and dreams can bend the mind. She hears something that makes her face twitch and her lips squeeze together. It’s a violent sound, one that beats and echoes, a pulsing ache of humanity that rises from the river, races through the fields, and moves into the depths of her. That roar will haunt her, but she will not know she is haunted.
In the still and quiet darkness, my mother hears the unmistakable sound of a river.
The Booker Wright Literacy Project
Yvette Johnson has created a foundation to support literacy efforts in the Delta and beyond. The Booker Wright Literacy Project works to identify ways to increase access to effective literacy initiatives for children and adults with dyslexia and other reading disorders.
For more information, please visit the following website: yvettecreates.com.
Thoughts on Sadness
This book deals with a time when I believed life was no longer worth living. In ways much less direct, this book also explores the lives we forge (or settle for) when unnamed traumas are lurking in our past.
I’m not an expert on how to get through the darkness. What I do know is that, even in the darkest of times, there are moments of unexplained light. Like a lot of other people, I usually have to fight just to feel life’s joyful light shining on me. But there are also times when the light shows up completely on its own. In other words, there are times when I don’t have to fight, and it just gets easier. Remembering this has helped me to hold on more times than I can count.
I’ve also learned a few practical lessons. Get help when you need it, even if you don’t want it. If you’re daydreaming about driving your car into a brick wall, then please, tell someone. Scream from the rooftops if you have to—not literally, of course; that location might be too tempting. Call a suicide hotline. Tell your primary care physician. Find a therapist.
However, you don’t have to wait until you’re in crisis to find a therapist. Just like in other relationships, I’ve noticed that I don’t click with every therapist I see for treatment. When I’m interviewing therapists I look for someone who I enjoy spending time with, who has some good ideas about how to improve my coping skills, who gets me, and who is interested in helping me live a life that aligns with my values, not theirs. When you find a therapist that works for you, I’d encourage you to stay connected to him or her so that if you do hit the wall, you’ve got a safe place to go.
In the meantime, consider this: I’ve gone through multiple periods in my life when suicide seemed like the most logical choice. I’m typing this while my oldest son is building a backyard furnace, my youngest is playing chase with his bearded dragon, and my lifelong dream of being a published writer is about to come true.
Life can turn around in an instant. Major change, the kind of change that our minds aren’t sophisticated or faithful enough to conjure up, is not only possible but also likely, if we can just hang on and wait for morning to come.
Acknowledgments
What amazed me most over the ten years of working on this project, and what continues to bring me joy, is the response people offer to Booker’s two-and-a-half-minute monologue. When my grandfather opened up, he was giving all of us a blueprint for how to move forward, reminding each and every one of us that no matter how deep our divisions, we share something: a sense of humanity that cannot be undone by hate, legislation, or anything else. In a world where movements flare up and then pass away, it’s the flame of commonality we all share that lasts forever.
Thank you, Booker Wright, for gifting me with this beautiful story that has changed my life in ways I am still uncovering. A video of Booker’s monologue can be found at yvettecreates.com. His expression of heartache stands the test of time.
During the ten years that it took to bring this book from dream to publication, there were three people who sacrificed the most. Milton, thank you for being such a good sport about all the travel I’ve done. More than once I picked up and took off with very little notice, but you were always there to make sure our boys’ lives continued as smoothly as possible.
Bishop and Dexter, there are no words. My entire life is made fresh and new every day because of the joy you bring. Thank you for being born.
And this might be the hardest note of gratitude. Wherever you are, Bob Ricker, thank you for seeing me when no one else did.
* * *
And now, to the building of this story. What follows is a sampling of the many people whom I owe deep thanks.
John T. Edge was the first person to tell me about Booker’s story, but he himself heard it from others. For more than a decade John T. held onto it, studied it, even cherished it, and then handed it over to me. Thank you for your stewardship of this great work.
A spunky, fast-talking college professor named Dr. Sherry Rankins-Robertson lent me her belief in this story each time mine faltered. In the four years between when I heard about Booker’s news appearance and when I actually had the chance to see it for myself, she was there. Dr. Rankins-Robertson introduced me to an expert in the rhetoric of the movement, Dr. Keith Miller; an expert in family history writing, Dr. Duane Roen (who is known for saying “only write on the days that you eat”) and; lastly, she introduced me to an expert in exploring what it feels like to be Black today, Dr. Neal Lester. Thank you all.
In 2011 I was swept up in a tsunami of sorts when I went from being a stay-at-home mom to a film producer who did live television interviews and traveled the country giving talks about Booker Wright. This was only possible because of Raymond De Felitta. Raymond is a special kind of filmmaker. In life and on the screen, he is alw
ays interested in who people are behind their masks.
In addition to bringing my grandfather’s story to the masses through film, Raymond offered me advice that ended up being quite profound. He told me that 1) a bad book that’s finished is always better than a good idea for a book that never gets finished, and 2) he shared that when he was a little boy he’d hear his father banging away at a typewriter for hours on end. Many times when I wanted to give up on this project I pictured Raymond’s dad, Frank, in his small, windowless office, staying the course until the day’s work was done. Thank you, Raymond, for giving me the tools to continue when doing so seemed utterly futile.
Frank De Felitta, who welcomed me into his home and celebrated my mere existence at one of his famous grand, decadent, yet somehow lazy afternoon lunches. Frank was a writer and a filmmaker, so he made a film that told a story. We may not always be able to turn our lives upside down to become activists. Look at Frank’s example: Stay where you are, make change there.
Moirtri Ghosh, thank you for all of your work in helping to capture Booker’s world in Booker’s Place: A Mississippi Story.
Being ahead of their time seems to be something NBC does well. In 1966 they told a story about the South that few wanted to hear, and just after the new millennium began, a producer named Tim Beacham discovered Booker’s film clip and began pitching it to them as a story to be revisited. Because of his persistence, millions of people were able to learn about Booker while watching an episode of Dateline in the summer of 2012.
* * *
Now, to the even harder stuff. Writing.
Just after Christmas Day 2011, I got a call from an agent in response to my horribly written proposal. If anyone has ever taken a chance on this book, it was Scott Hoffman. What is this book, anyway? A memoir? A biography? Historical nonfiction? He didn’t care if it didn’t fit nicely into a box; he cared that it was good.
When the lack of being able to easily categorize this book made many editors turn the other way, Scott threatened to open his own house and publish it himself if that’s what it took. Thankfully, he connected me to Malaika Adero, who saw what I was trying to do with this story. She moved on before I was finished but left me in the capable hands of Todd Hunter, who worked behind the scenes to keep this book alive while I struggled with draft after draft.
In 2015 I hit a wall. I’d given the writing of this book everything I had, and it still felt like a kind of Frankenstein. There wasn’t a through line. The story was all over the place, and I declared, in Shakespearean fashion, that I could never again fall in love with this book. I decided to hire an independent editor to restructure it, tell me what to do, and get me over the finish line.
Enter Stuart Horwitz, who gave me the sweetest gift of all. He told me I didn’t need him. To be clear, he still cashed the checks I sent, but he also reminded me that at my core I am a writer. He was happy to dig in and restructure the story, but he was convinced I could do it on my own. Thank you for helping me to finish this book, Stuart. But even more, thank you for treating me like a writer.
For sharing their memories of Booker, Rosie, and the town of Greenwood with me, I am indebted to Vera Douglass, Leroy Jones, Katherine Wright, Margurite Butler, Bo Williams, John Pachter, Anita Batman, Allan Hammons, Bill Ware, Allen Wood, Jess Pinkston, Mary Carol Miller, Eddie Miller, Benton Jordan, Silas McGee, Honey Wright, Noll Davis, Hiram Eastland, Rena Jones, Cassandra Jones, and Senator David Jordan. Emily O’Bryant, thank you for taking me on a memory tour of Greenwood. Amy Evans, your writing about Lusco’s Restaurant was an invaluable resource. Andy and Karen Pinkston were kind enough to open up the Lusco family vault of videotaped memories so we could have a few more glimpses of Booker.
Nicki Newburger and Kathryn Green unearthed critical information time and time again in their work researching this story. Also, a note of thanks to Chris Epolite, Jess Winget, Sarah Collins, Jason Baumann, Adeline Low, Alison Moser, Erin Loosli, Linda Wolf, and Darcy DiCosmo for taking care of the things that mattered most while I did this important work.
For reading early drafts of this book: Julie Bailey (who read five versions of this book in total). Suzanne Collette and Jenna Free, who both read it when it was almost twice as long as it is now. Allen Wood, your reading and reaction to this book warmed my heart. Thank you for seeing what I was trying to do and for pointing out where I could do better.
And for making sure that I did not walk the writer’s path alone: Jenny Milchman, Windy Lynn Harris, Jodi Picoult, and Susan Pohlman. Hedgebrook Writer’s Residence came along and provided me with the time and space I needed to remember that writing is about much more than words.
And Jeffrey Berglund for opening my eyes to all that is possible when people manage to write down their souls.
For carrying this project over the finish line: Lisa Nicholas and Sonja Singleton, the most patient woman in all of publishing.
This book would most likely not be in your hands right now if not for the people I affectionately refer to as the Dream Team: Robert Raben, Donald Gatlin, and Oliver Wells. Thank you for your guidance and insight, and for all the ways each of you is helping to make this world a better place.
About the Author
When she’s not writing, Yvette Johnson works as executive director of the Booker Wright Project. In this role, she creates and facilitates workshops on unconscious bias and privilege. The organization seeks to find new and innovative ways to address diversity without increasing division. Yvette is also a filmmaker and public speaker. Her award-winning film Booker’s Place: A Mississippi Story premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2012.
MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT
SimonandSchuster.com
Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Yvette-Johnson
Facebook.com/AtriaBooks
@AtriaBooks
Notes
In writing and researching this story I had the opportunity to interview, on-camera and off, family members, business leaders, activists, community leaders, and lots and lots of everyday folks.
Their voices fill multiple audio-recording devices, along with hours and hours of video recordings. What follows is a description of source material used in the making of this book.
Information about Lusco’s history came from interviews with John T. Edge, Karen Pinkston, and an oral history article (although at 129 pages, it might really be a book) written by Amy C. Evans from an interview she did in 2003 with Karen Pinkston. Amy’s article can be downloaded from the Southern Foodways Alliance at the following link: southernfoodways.org/interview/karen-pinkston/.
Information about life on the Black side of Greenwood was supplied by many interviewees, including my father, Leroy Jones, John Pachter, and several others.
Most of Rosie Turner’s story was shared with me by Honey Wright and later by Rosie’s daughter, Margurite Butler. The details about Booker’s childhood came from both Honey and Margurite, but also from Katherine Jones, Vera Douglass, and Marie Tibit.
Preface
I was first introduced to the story of the 1927 Flood when I was reading about weather disasters with my kids. When I wanted to learn more about the river, the source that seemed to be the most quoted and the most respected was a book called Rising Tide: The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 and How It Changed America by John Barry (1st edition), published by Simon and Schuster in 1998. I cannot recommend this book enough.
It’s so much more than a book about a flood. Barry captures the stories of real people, including their quirks, hopes, insecurities, and failings in a way that makes his more-than-five-hundred-page book almost impossible to put down. I relied on it heavily in my effort to understand why the Mississippi was unique, a river among rivers. Barry’s work also provided me with invaluable insight into the minds of the people who spent their lives trying to tame something that was always more of a willful being than a natural waterway.
Many of the quotes in the Preface are extracted from Rising Tide, pages 97–98.
; In 1994, the Oxford University Press published a paperback edition of a book by James C. Cobb, The Most Southern Place on Earth: The Mississippi Delta and the Roots of Regional Identity. The book is a treasure trove of first-person accounts of lives lived in the Delta. Cobb’s book provides a rich and often troubling window into Black life in the Delta, from its early plantation days into the late twentieth century. It describes the hardships Blacks faced on the young plantations and how they were required to work constantly. The quote about slave masters raping their female slaves and then raping their daughters is from The Most Southern Place on Earth.
James Eastland’s proclamation about his right to kill Blacks can be found in the Harper Perennial 2013 reissue edition of Let the Trumpet Sing: A Life of Martin Luther King, Jr. by Stephen P. Oates. There are several other sources in which people recall receiving one of the aforementioned flyers. A few have misquoted Oates and claimed that Eastland actually said those words, but it would appear that he arranged to have them distributed during his speech.
Where He Was King
In the summer of 2007 I interviewed my father, Leroy Jones, over the phone. During that phone call he took me back to Booker’s Place and shared how Booker handled himself inside his restaurant.
The quote from the Ku Klux Klan can be found at a variety of sources on the Internet. It’s been quoted in multiple books, including The Ku Klux Klan in Mississippi: A History by Michael Newton, published in 2010 by McFarland Publishing. I received copies of the hate sheets from the University of Mississippi at Oxford’s library archives.
Other sources for this chapter include Charles Payne’s I’ve Got the Light of Freedom: The Organizing Tradition and the Mississippi Freedom Struggle, published by the University of California Press in 1995. Payne’s book was critical in helping me gain an understanding of the steps made by individual people that created a nationwide movement and changed federal laws. The majority of the descriptions in this chapter about punishments inflicted on Blacks by the White Citizens’ Council come from Payne’s book, specifically pages 38, 41, 46, and 158.
The Song and the Silence Page 26