Strange Fruit

In hindsight, Mrs. Martin’s expression was a warning.

Stone-faced, she stepped solemnly toward her computer desk, clicked her speakers on, and pressed a button on her laptop. She told us that we could leave the room if we wanted. No repercussions. The room of barely-teens sat still in plastic seats. White light splashed across our faces. A husky voice began to pour from cheap desktop speakers. She pressed another button. One word scrolled across the screen.

LYNCHING.

The beginning of the PowerPoint was simple. Information most Americans are almost innately aware of. Slavery happened, and that was bad. The colored folks were free, but Jim Crow stepped in and tightened the restraints. Martin Luther King came along and sorted all that nonsense out. Now diversity is the norm and everyone is equal-- isn’t that great, kids? Now here’s a Xeroxed copy of the lyrics to Kumbaya.

Mrs. Martin’s presentation was less optimistic.

The slides--bold black letters against a stark white background-- began to show images. Crude sketches. Detailed artistic renderings. Black and white photos. An endless stream of crooked necks and heavy bodies hanging from ancient and unwilling trees. Billie’s vibrato narrated our slide show, slowly spinning horror stories that trailed through the years. Our barely pubescent faces were fixed to the projector screen, forced to acknowledge the lengthy history laid before us.

Strange fruit, indeed.

The last slide was in color. The man depicted was wearing what appeared to be a denim jacket and a pair of modern looking sneakers. This confused me. These accounts were truly horrible, I thought, but were from the far gone past. A description popped up on the screen. His name was Michael Donald. The picture was taken in 1981. A mob of angry racists went out looking for retribution. They crossed paths with Michael. He was 19.

Billie’s voice faded out.

Mrs. Martin shut off the projector and turned on the lights. Twenty-four eighth graders sat in silence. I don’t remember what happened during the rest of the class period. The next day, we returned to the state-approved lesson plan. Pull out your South Carolina History books. Turn to page 83, Chapter 6: The Civil Rights Movement.

Business as usual.

Mrs. Martin never spoke of the subject again. I don’t remember her getting any backlash for it. She was never pulled from the classroom, and her daughter, who was in the class with me, wasn’t removed either. Surprising, considering she probably showed the PowerPoint to every class she had that day. I often wonder if any of the other students told their parents what happened.

I never mentioned it to mine.

Mrs. Martin, a white woman, was brazen in her approach. I don't know that I will ever fully understand her motivations. My guess, based on what I remember of her, is that it was frustration at a watered-down retelling of history to a demographic that may not fully understand its implications.

History books love to talk about Dr. King. Most sugar-coat the part where he gets shot in the head.

I was born to a white mother and a black father, but was raised by my mother and her family. Her parents preached kindness and acceptance, and any misgivings with my father were never tied to the color of his skin. I knew my skin was a different color than theirs, but to me, it was no more than a difference in hair or eye color. School taught me about slavery, about civil rights, and about black history month. I knew racism existed, but it was an abstract concept-- a thing of the distant past that society collectively agreed to move on from decades before. The PowerPoint popped that bubble.

Ignorance is blissful, but defenseless. Discomfort is betrothed to truth.

I don't look for racism everywhere. I don't think that it's everywhere. There are kind people, and there are horrible people. There are honest mistakes, though malicious intent is alive and well. This is something I've come to reckon with as I move through history with a convoluted identity.

I am breathing in dualities, a sovereign child to the blended world.

I go back and forth in regards to how appropriate Mrs. Martin's decision was. We were children, most of us no older than thirteen, and this woman, based on her own beliefs, decided to show us a highly graphic and potentially (most likely) traumatic slideshow. I write this fifteen years later with the image of Michael Donald's sneakers burned into my memory.

I was just a kid. He was too.

Even now, I remember the chill that crept up the back of my neck as I heard a raspy, haunting voice moaning of bulging eyes and blood-soaked leaves. How it wailed of the crows coming to feed upon the strange and bitter crop hanging from the poplar trees. I was sickened but couldn't force myself away from her mournful poetry. Billie became one of my idols. Fifty years after her death, she still had a story to tell.

I couldn’t help but listen.