This Is My America(73)

I’ve never been so close to something like this before. In this town I call home, a man was lynched, and people are living here who were complicit. Involved. Dean’s parents knew it. I think back on the way Dean’s dad stood by the burning cross on our lawn and glanced over at Mrs. Evans. He’d known all along who had been in the Klan.

The white cloak haunts me with its bloody history. The fear it shaped, and the lies they told to incite terror toward Black people. My stomach’s nauseous; shivers run down my spine.



The door opens.

Dean. Alone. Thank God.

“Put it away.” Dean shoves the cloak back into a box with a heavy weight of shame.

“Has this stuff always been here?”

I’m hoping he says no. That he’s never seen it before, because then I could try and believe that Dean’s dad wasn’t involved.

“I remember my mom having boxes of my grandpa’s stuff delivered after he passed away. She wanted his things, so my dad helped gather them for her.”

Dean keeps a slight distance, like he wants to touch me but can’t.

“Does this mean my mom’s involved with the Klan? My dad?” Dean puts his hands to his head. “What does that make me, Tracy? Klan legacy?”

I think about Daddy, how the town accused him so effortlessly. My anger grows. I’m not sure I can contain it.

“They couldn’t be involved,” Dean continues. “I’ve never heard my dad say one racist thing in my life. Hell, he voted for Obama. Klan wouldn’t do that, would they?”

“I don’t think he’s Klan.” I sigh. Mr. Evans has always been good to us. I wouldn’t think someone active in the Klan would have dinner over at our house, much less hire my mama.

“But my grandpa was, wasn’t he?” Dean pauses. “And my mom…it’s no secret, her thoughts. She’s said things, things about our worlds being too far apart. But nothing that would lead me to something this…heinous. She can’t think like they do, can she?”



There’s nothing else to explain the robe and the photos of his grandpa. His mom was certainly raised around it.

“Why do you think your dad was pulling these out?” I try to keep my voice flat, even though I can feel a scream building. I have to stay calm.

“What happened at your house could’ve triggered him. Like he wanted to get rid of it? Or he thinks he can find out who did it by going through the boxes?” Dean’s voice sounds hopeful, but it teeters and cracks, because he’s not convinced. Neither am I.

“He said he’d get Steve information. He could’ve already done that. If he has, that’s good, right?”

I think about something Mr. Evans said to Officer Clyde. How this shouldn’t be happening in our town. That’s what he was thinking. That it died out with the previous generation. I’m sure the town doesn’t want to raise skeletons of the past. Even though it’s been lingering at the Pike—infecting the next generation.

“What about the rest of the boxes?” I point to the pile in the corner.

“I don’t know,” Dean says.

I begin searching the rest of the boxes. Sorting through papers, unearthing a few more photos that I pull out and stack together. We comb through the boxes for an hour, silence taking over the room.



I skim through a notebook. At first it looks like nothing in particular, but then I notice initials, names, almost like attendance records.

“I think this is a membership list,” I say. “Meeting records of who was there? Like it’s a damn community organization or something.”

“What?” Dean takes the notebook. “All the writing is the same.”

Dean’s hands rattle. I place mine over his, so they stay steady. Both of our hands are cold.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I recognize the handwriting.”

“Tell me it’s not your dad’s.” A sinking feeling weighs me down. I hope it’s not true.

“No,” Dean says. “The squiggly-lined cursive and the loops on the t’s that aren’t supposed to be there—they’re like my grandfather’s writing on birthday cards. I—Tracy, how could the person I loved be filled with so much hate?”

I don’t say what I’m thinking. I don’t want to hurt Dean. But if he recognizes the handwriting, and all this came from his grandfather’s house after he passed, he was definitely some kind of leader in the Klan. My mind is spinning. There’s Klan in my community. People I know could be members. Raised to think these things. They burned a cross at my house. They went after my brother.



My dad.

“We’ve got to take a closer look at this stuff,” I say.

“But what about my parents? My dad will notice.” He doesn’t say “mom.”

“We can take a few things and put everything back like it was. We’ll replace it in a few days.”

Dean holds on to the box. I can see why he wouldn’t want things to be exposed about his family. The photo of the man being hanged. I can’t stop thinking about that man’s family. Their pain.

I feel lied to. Crowning Heights had its own set of rules—a life could easily be taken if you’re the wrong color. No wonder they were so quick to blame Daddy.