I glance to Sadie crouched beside me, hair pulled into a long brown braid dangling off a shoulder. “Two little Kluxes deaaaad, Three little Kluxes, Four little Kluxes, Five little Kluxes deaaaad.” “One little Ku Klux deaaaad,” a voice hums near my ear. With all the flag-waving and cavorting, you might forget they was monsters.īut I hunt monsters. A brass band competing with that racket, though everybody down there I swear clapping on the one and the three. Got all kinds of fireworks-sparklers, Chinese crackers, sky rockets, and things that sound like cannons. But this Klan we got in 1922 not concerned with hiding.Īll of them-men, women, even little baby Klans-down there grinning like picnic on a Sunday. I hear them first Klans after the Civil War hid behind pillowcases and flour sacks to do their mischief, even blackened up to play like they colored. There’s a bunch parading down Third Street, wearing white robes and pointed hoods. This one on a Tuesday, the Fourth of July, which is today.
But there’s Klans enough in this city of fifty-odd thousand to put on a fool march when they get to feeling to. We don’t have them as grand in Macon, like you might see in Atlanta.
0 kommentar(er)
