Shaking the Sugar Tree (31 page)

Father Ginderbach came over before mass to greet Noah, smiling at us, happy we’d come out in force, even if it was just a once a year thing. Mama had made a special offering to have mass said for the repose of Daddy’s soul, something she did each year on the Sunday after Noah’s birthday party.

We drove to the graveyard after mass and wandered among the graves until we reached a corner on the west side where the Cantrells were traditionally laid to rest. A large, double headstone rested at the head of one plot. Daddy’s date of birth and date of death were engraved into the rock of it. Mama’s date of birth was on the opposite side, her date of death still waiting.

“Loving Husband and Father” were written underneath Daddy’s information.

Mama put a wreath on the grave, folded her hands to her chest and prayed silently.

“You don’t talk much about your dad,” Jackson said quietly to me as we stood there and watched.

A familiar lump of pain swelled in my chest.

“He was an alcoholic,” I said. “A violent man. I hated his guts and sometimes I think I still do. I try not to. He was my daddy, but I don’t remember him ever telling me that he loved me. All I remember now is just a lot of yelling and screaming and what a relief it was when he died.”

Jackson put an arm around my waist and we stood there, holding a vigil of sorts.

“Is that why you try so hard to be a good dad?” he asked.

I had never thought of it that way.

“Or maybe that’s why Bill worries so much about Noah,” he added.

“Could be,” I agreed.

Noah came and stood in front of me. I held him, putting my arm across his chest, while we looked at the grave.

Papaw stood next to Mama, looking down at the grave with her.

“At least the Christless peckerwood finally shut up,” Papaw observed.

“I know, Daddy,” Mama said sadly.

She turned to look at us, taking comfort in our presence.

“Well,” she said, breathing deeply, “there’s
that
done for another year.”

We said good-bye to Aunt Mary and Uncle Rowland and their kids.

Let’s go see your mother
, Mama signed to Noah.

We got back into our vehicles and drove across town to the Baptist cemetery where Kayla was buried, her grave still quite new. Noah carried the flowers we’d bought at FoodWorld that morning.

He was not a happy camper. He put the flowers on his mother’s grave, then came to stand between Jackson and myself, holding our hands.

Bill looked at us frankly, standing there with Noah between us. I thought he might be mad, but instead, he offered a small smile.

“Y’all will have to take care of him now since his mother is gone,” Bill said.

“We will,” I said.

“I know you will, Wiley,” he replied. “I know you
both
will.”

His eyes lingered on mine for a long time before he turned away.

O
N
S
EPTEMBER
fifteenth, which was Jackson’s birthday, I packed Noah and my guitar in the back of Jackson’s Jeep and we drove to the headquarters of the American Family Alliance, which was a couple of blocks off West Main in Tupelo, not far from where I worked. We parked in the lot for the skating rink and walked down the block.

Noah and I wore Gay Pride T-shirts despite the chilliness of the afternoon.

The American Family Alliance had a complex of large buildings lining both sides of the street. With a proper protest permit from the Police Department, which George always obtained for us, we could walk up and down the street as well as the adjacent sidewalks, though we could not block any traffic, motorized or pedestrian, from going to one building to the next. We had to keep moving. We could not “congregate” or “disturb the peace.”

“I’ve never been to one of these,” Jackson said nervously.

“We’re old hands,” I said.

“You’re not scared?”

“Why should I be?”

“You’re not afraid for Noah’s safety?”

“What are they going to do a ten-year-old boy?”

We met George, who was unpacking protest signs from the back of his SUV. Jasmine and her partner Lisa joined us. We unfurled signs and waited for the others to come, but when one o’clock rolled around, our numbers had only swollen to sixteen.

“Lucky sixteen,” Jasmine said brightly.

“We’ve got to start somewhere,” Lisa added, passing out signs.

Our numbers included three lesbian couples, several heterosexual supporters, another gay man besides myself and Jackson, and three kids.

“I called the media,” George said. “They might show up, you never know.”

They usually didn’t, but we said nothing.

I noticed the police presence, which consisted of two conveniently placed patrol cars, the officers sitting inside, staring at us through sunglasses.

“You ready?” Jasmine asked me.

“Think we’ll start with some Dylan,” I said, feeling unaccountably nervous.

I put the guitar strap around my neck, did some last minute tuning.

“Let’s line up behind Wiley,” Jasmine said loudly, taking charge. “Remember: Peaceful protest. We’re singing songs, being friendly, holding our signs. We’re not hurting anyone. We’re not going to argue or engage with anyone. We have the perfect legal right to be here.”

There was not much traffic on the road between the American Family Alliance buildings. Only a few people came and went among the buildings. That wasn’t the point, though. The point was to show up on their doorstep and let them know that there were a handful of gay people and their supporters in Tupelo, Mississippi who did not appreciate being referred to on the airwaves as Nazis, thieves, and liars, as mentally ill, as threats to society and culture and public health. We were human beings, and we wanted them to see who it was they were routinely trashing on their radio programs.

A pointless pursuit perhaps, but there it was.

I began to sing.

“How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?”

The others eventually began to sing with me, especially on the choruses.

This was the third direct protest of the AFA that we had staged. We had done other demonstrations elsewhere, including one against the “school-to-prison pipeline,” as it was known in Mississippi, which involved schools being so harsh in their discipline of black students that many wound up in jail on extremely minor offenses.

About five minutes into the protest, many more cars began to arrive and a slew of additional supporters got out to join us as if they’d been waiting to see if we were really going to do it. After thirty minutes, there were about fifty of us walking up and down the street, singing, protesting peacefully.

I was surprised to see Bill and Shelly’s SUV park down the street. They got out, stood there with Josh and Eli on the sidewalk, watching us.

Then cameramen from WTVA and WCBI arrived, hastily setting up their equipment to film the goings-on.

I launched into a newly energized version of “The Times They Are A-Changin’.” We all took energy from the growing crowd.

As I sang, I looked at the AFA buildings and noticed several of their employees standing in windows, watching us. A few even ventured outside and stood in front of their buildings.

Two more cop cars showed up, and now all the officers got out and took up positions, keeping an eye on all of us.

Jasmine hurried off to the television station cameramen to give impromptu interviews.

All this time, Jackson strode rigidly by my side, holding Noah’s hand and glancing about nervously. He was clearly not comfortable doing protests. His nerves seemed to increase as the numbers of people increased.

“Come mothers and fathers throughout the land,

“Don’t criticize what you don’t understand….”

I sang for all I was worth, singing the whole song through three times to stretch it out. I was getting tired of the walking, though, and when the cameraman from WCBI indicated that he wanted to do some filming with me standing still, I was happy to oblige, though not at all happy that someone was filming me.

I offered a song of my own, a call and response spiritual, which we had used before during these marches.

“Someday there be freedom,”
I sang, which the others repeated as they gathered around, careful not to block the walkways between the building complexes.

“Someday there be joy….

“Someday we’ll build up a world….

“We can all enjoy….

“Someday there be happiness….

“And peace in our souls….

“Someday there be freedom….

“At the end of this hard, hard road.”

It was a simple song in the call and repeat style of Negro spirituals. The more we sang it, the stronger it became. Someone started a slow clap and it soon sounded like a bit of a Gospel revival right there in the street. As I sang, I saw Bill and Shelly and the kids come to join the crowds, joining in with us.

At this time, a man in a suit came strolling out of one of the AFA buildings with an unhappy look on his face.

George went to meet him, sensing trouble.

I couldn’t hear what was said. The man gestured and pointed at me. No doubt we were blocking something or other, or not moving along as we had agreed to do. When the WTVA cameraman aimed his camera at George and the man in the suit, I fell silent, and everyone else did too.

“You need to keep moving,” the man said loudly, waving a hand at all of us. “Y’all know that. You’re blocking the road now. There’s too many of you.”

Two of the police officers strolled in our direction, wanting to know what the dispute was about.

“Let’s keep moving,” George called.

“We’re not blocking anyone,” Lisa called out.

“Even so,” George said.

We started marching down the street again and I launched into “Sunny Side of the Street,” a song by Billie Holiday that seemed appropriate for the circumstances.

We crowded over to the sidewalks to let a Ford truck pass through. The driver rolled down the window.

“Shame on you!” he called out angrily. “Faggots! You’re going to hell!”

“I used to walk in the shade with my blues on parade,”
I sang loudly, ignoring him. “
But now I’m not afraid. This rover crossed over!”

By the time our hour-long protest ended, there were about seventy people on the street, the most that had ever shown up for one of our events.

I knew some of the faces, but many were strangers to me. George, Jasmine, and Lisa were the organizers, knew everyone, and now urged us to remove ourselves to the parking lot at the skating rink since our permit had expired.

“You sing really nice,” Jackson said as we made our way through the crowd looking for Bill and Shelly.

“Thanks,” I said.

“This was pretty amazing,” he added.

“I’m sure it’s nothing like the marches in Boston,” I said.

“Don’t put yourself down,” he said earnestly. “You’re always doing that and I don’t like it. This is really amazing for downtown Tupelo, Mississippi. You guys got balls, I’ve got to give you that.”

“It’s a start,” I admitted.

We found Bill and Shelly standing by their truck.

“Thanks for coming,” I said. “I didn’t know you were, though.”

“Mama told me I should come,” Bill said, shrugging. “You did good on that guitar.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re going to be on the evening news,” Shelly pointed out. Whether the thought scared her or impressed her, I couldn’t tell.

“Why don’t you come meet some crack whores and my other friends?” I suggested.

Bill laughed.

“All right,” he said.

“Sing another song, Uncle Wiley,” Eli urged.

“Maybe later,” I said.

We spent another hour in the parking lot talking and introducing Bill and Shelly around.

Suddenly the reporter from WTVA was standing there with his video camera, asking me if I wanted to do an interview. Jasmine always handled interviews because she was good at it, knew what to say, had confidence and charm and a lot of energy.

“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to remember the man’s name. I’d seen him often on the news.

“Oh, go on,” Jackson said.

“I’m not good at stuff like this,” I said.

“I just want to ask a couple of questions,” the reporter said, smiling hopefully.

What is it?
Noah asked, not understanding the conversation.

I explained they wanted to do an interview.

“Is he your nephew?” the reporter asked.

“He’s my son,” I said.

“And he’s deaf?”

“Yes.”

His eyes lit up like a shark smelling blood in the water.

“Do you mind if I ask you about him?”

“Do it,” Jackson urged.

I looked at Bill for help, support, something.

“You ought to do it,” Bill said.

Turning to the reporter, he said, “Wiley’s my brother—and he’s a great father. His son Noah turned ten years old this past July. He’s a good kid.”