A Heart Divided (24 page)

The state of Israel—
it’s causing problems
all over the earth
for people of color.
We will never bow down to the
white Jewish Zionist onslaught.
I say to all Jewish people:
Stop pushing your Holocaust
down my throat.
Stop your cover-up of the worst Holocaust
humanity has ever seen
perpetrated by
you
against
my
people.

That flag?
That racist, disgusting, cracker
loser of a flag?
Burn, baby, burn.

N
IKKI
R
OBERTS
(
R.H.S. Student
)

(
As before
)

T
HE
D
AY OF THE
V
OTE

What happened was,
the day of the vote,
a lowlife brain-dead white boy
staged a demonstration
in front of the school
in support of the flag.
In reaction,
another group,
which unfortunately
was led by my brother Luke,
began demonstrating against them.
Which I thought was misplaced energy—
because we were going to win.

The principal
used the demonstrations
as an excuse
to cancel the vote.
He said it was “postponed.”
(
she sneers and shakes her head)
It wasn’t until that day
that I really
got
racism.
That I truly understood:
The ones with the power
will do almost
anything
to hold on to that power.
(
she looks at me with steely resolve)
Let them underestimate me.
That’s fine.
Because I am my father’s daughter.
I will
never
give up.
I will
never
give in.

P
AUL
M
C
S
ORLEY
(
Principal, Redford High School
)

We meet in his office immediately after school. His desk is covered in papers. There are photos and awards on the wall behind him. Kids’ voices can be heard in the hallway. Mr. McSorley is a paunchy fifty-one. He has a gray crew cut and wears a plaid sport coat with an American flag pin.

W
E
M
AY
N
EVER
K
NOW

I taught American history for fifteen years
before becoming principal.
I’ve put twenty-five years of my life
into public education.
I
willingly
scheduled the flag vote—
at some peril to my professional standing—
because I believed
it was the right thing to do.
What did I get for that?
Disruptive demonstrations
in front of my school
that very nearly turned into a riot.

I believe in freedom of speech,
but the
safety
of my students comes first—
especially in this day and age.
I perceived the situation that morning
to be potentially very dangerous.
That is why I immediately informed
the Board of Education,
and why the vote was postponed.
I’ve been accused
in print and on TV and Lord knows what-all
of canceling the vote. I
postponed
the vote. And I stand by my judgment. This is my school. The buck stops right here. (
he jabs a forefinger on his desk for emphasis)

Never in my twenty-five years
as an educator have
I seen anything as terrible
as what happened
before that football game.
But the media barely mentioned
that of the eleven—
the people on the field
who burned
the Rebel flag that night—
Of eleven, only
six
were my students.

Do you know that there
are twenty-four amateur videos
of the brawl and
not a single one
shows the shot being fired?
Not a one.

Lord knows what the shooter was
really aiming at.
Certainly not your sister.
We may never know.
It was just a tragic accident.
Tragic.
It fell upon me to decide
what the consequences should be
for the Redford students
who participated in this.
The only fair thing in my book
was to mete out equal justice.
The six students
who burned the flag
as well as
the six football players
who led the charge onto the field
were all expelled.
(
he stops, sighs, drums his fingers on the desk)
They were mostly starters,
so that ended our season
right there.
There are still folks
who want to run me
out of town on a rail
for that.

L
UKE
R
OBERTS
(
R.H.S. Student
)

(
As before
)

H
OW
T
HEY
D
O

My friend’s aunt wears a maid’s uniform.
She cooks for the Redfords
and serves their food.
She calls Sally Redford (
he clears his throat)
, “Mrs. Redford.”
Calls Jack Redford (
he clears his throat)
, “Mr. Jack.”
They call her “Dora.”
I said:
“Tell them to call you Mrs. Washington.”
She said:
“Go on, boy. That’s just how they do.”
She doesn’t mind
long as they pay her good
and treat her good and
she ain’t
about
to risk gettin’ fired.

When we burned that flag
we were saying:
“We don’t care
how you do
and we don’t care
about the risk.
We refuse
to stand
in your bread line
for the crumbs of power.”

I got my nose broken.
James got thirty stitches.
My boy Malcolm got a concussion.
That boy is fierce—yo,
he plays for the Rebels—but
when some white jock
grabbed me
and some other white jock
bashed in my face
Malcolm pulled them off me.
He chose his real boys, you know what I’m saying?
We knew there’d be a fight.
The crackers who jumped us
took their hits—believe
that.
But what happened after—
your sister getting shot—
(
he rubs his face, obviously upset
)
I have a sister, too. So I can imagine….

I’ll tell you this:
It was a white boy pulled that cop’s gun.
No doubt.
A brother might murder
for drugs or money—
which too often occurs because
he feels so put down and used up
that he commits
suicide by homicide
though he doesn’t recognize it as such.
But no brother
steals a gun from a white cop
and shoots it into a crowd
of innocent people
with other white cops
swarming all over the place.
No brother is that big a fool.
Think about it.
If a brother had actually done it
he’d already have been lynched for it.
Hell, a brother’ll
probably get lynched for it anyway.
Cuz you know
that’s just how they do.

J
ARED
B
OOSE
(
R.H.S. Student
)

Jared is a senior at Redford High. He’s average height, very thin, with a narrow face and darting eyes. He wears a jean jacket and a backward Confederate flag baseball cap. We’re in the stadium bleachers. He points to various locations as he narrates his version of events for me. It’s a blustery afternoon, and he moves around a lot to stay warm. He has a strong Tennessee mountain twang.

T
ALL
, C
OLD
L
ADIES

Me and Sandy
had a big-ass blowout that night.
I stopped to pick up a six-pack
and she wants a brew and
I’m all:
“You know you ain’t supposed to drink when you’re pregnant, girl.”
So
she gets all pissy and pulls out her smokes.
So
I grab ′em and throw ′em out the window.
I’m all like: “You’re gonna be a momma.
You gotta be more responsible.”
So she just went off—
Went off.
How I ain’t her daddy and I don’t tell her what to do.

The girl’s slapping me and cussing me out and
I’m all: “Damn, girl, get off me!”
I seen it was still early.
So
I drop her ass off at the game
and tell her I need to go
blow off some steam,
you know what I’m saying?
So I drive around for a while—
crank up my man Travis Tritt.
Just me and my tall, cold ladies
getting me a nice buzz.

Then I head back.
I find my girl,
we patch things up,
and shortly after that the preshow commences.
And well.
You know what happened after that.

What gets me is how
everyone gets theirs in America.
Blacks, women, Mexicans, or whatever.
But come up white and poor …
Like my daddy.
He worked over to the shower curtain factory for twenty years.
Company up and moves to Mexico
an’
just like that
my daddy’s out of a job.
Ain’t no one reaching into the goody basket for me and mine.
That flag—
That flag says F you to all y’all.
And them people set fire to it?
And what?
I’m supposed to sit there
with my thumb up my ass
and take it?
So, hell yes
I jumped that fence
to defend my flag.
And I’d do it again.
So, I’m right in it—
BAM! BAM! BAM!
(he makes a fist and mimes throwing hard punches)
I seen this big black guy—
ain’t never seen him before—
I seen him pull that cop’s gun.

They hauled all of us
down to the police station
and I done told them what I just told you
and they said:
“Jared Boose, you’re drunk,”
and they book my ass!
Said I got me an agenda and
no one else collaborated
[sic]
my story.
They don’t do squat.
I mean
I’m just some
pissant Joe-dirt white-trash redneck, right?
My word don’t mean diddly
Cuz you know that’s just how they do.

P
ETE
P
RIDE
(
Automotive Design Engineer
)

Mr. Pride is forty-five. He is of medium height; his brown hair is thinning. He has kind eyes. This interview takes place a month after the shooting. We’re in the family room. He’s sitting in his favorite chair, a Barcalounger, with the leg rest raised. He grew up in New Jersey and sounds like it. He’s my father.

I R
EMEMBER

Your mom and I
had gone to see a French film
in Nashville that night.
Things were kind of crazy at home.
I remember
you were having a really rough time, Kit-Kat.
Someone had written a vile play
and stuck your name on it
and people believed you had written it.
I remember you got
death threats.
I wanted to—
I felt like I should—
A dad is supposed
to protect his daughter.
Daughters.

So your mom and I talked and
we decided you could go home
to Englecliff to finish your junior year.
So that was the plan.
I remember
your little sister—
A friend’s mom was shlepping these kids
to the football game, and
I remember
before Porsche left we were talking—
She didn’t want you to leave
because she’d miss you too much.
But she didn’t want you to stay
and suffer either, which is just so …
(
he stops and rubs his face)

Thank God I forgot to turn off my cell in the movie.
You called and I walked outside and
you told me that Portia had been—
That something terrible had happened
at the football game.
And I had to tell your mom
and we had to get to the hospital.
I don’t remember driving.
I mean I must have,
but I don’t remember.
You and Jack
were in the waiting room.
Someone came out to tell us—
to say Portia was in surgery and
it was serious and
the bullet had shattered.

I remember
the hospital—
They were really good about
keeping the media and everyone away from us,
but they let in Sally Redford.
She came with the best of intentions—
that was clear to me—
to ask what she could do to help.
And your mom got right in her face
and said—
I remember this exactly—
she said: “Your town did this.
Your
town.”
(
he stops, looks off, sighs)

The night before,
Porsche had a nightmare.
She asked me to check her room for monsters.
She still did that sometimes.
So I checked—you know—
under her bed and in her closet
just like when she was a little girl.
And I remember
sitting at the hospital thinking that
she’d never again believe that her daddy
could keep away the monsters.

D
R
. K
ARLA
E
PSTEIN
(
Trauma Surgeon
)

Dr. Epstein is a trauma surgeon at Williamson-Redford County Medical Center. We meet in the noisy hospital cafeteria. Dr. Epstein is forty-eight, with a full face free of cosmetics, surrounded by curly dark hair tied at the nape of her neck. She wears hospital scrubs, drinks black coffee, and speaks matter-of-factly. Her beeper goes off many times during our talk.

W
OUND
B
ALLISTICS

I specialize in wound ballistics,
which is the science
of the motion of projectiles.
Your sister was struck by a nine-millimeter round
fired from a Smith & Wesson
standard-issue law-enforcement sidearm.

How badly you are hurt by a gunshot
has to do with the mathematics
of wound ballistics.
Um. For example.
Low-velocity bullets,
like those from handguns,
do their damage by
crushing tissue.

Your sister was shot at a distance of approximately fifty yards—
we’re able to ascertain that by
examination of the scene, the bullet’s trajectory,
and the wound itself—
which allowed much of the kinetic
energy of the bullet to dissipate.
She was fortunate
in that her body was
turned toward the boy next to her
(
she illustrates by sliding sideways in the chair)
at the moment of the bullet’s impact,
so the bullet entered this way,
(
she uses her right hand to gesture to her right side, then swivels back to me)
which is what probably saved her life.

When the round fragmented
inside her body,
a fairly large piece
lodged against upper lumbar disc L-3,
causing it to bruise,
putting pressure on her spinal cord,
and resulting in significant
spinal cord injury.
I was able to fix the internal damage
from the passage of the bullet.
But where the fragment had lodged,
cutting could do more harm than good.
So that’s why I didn’t remove it.
Which is why we didn’t know
if your sister would ever walk again.