A Delta Discussion

I've been working hard to bring Greenwood to life on the page, and it's working.  I have an amazing research assistant who tirelessly scours digital archives and reaches out to professors in an effort to get the most accurate data we can.  The more that I learn about Greenwood in the 1960s, the more amazed I am.  There's so much about what happened in that small town that sheds light on how regular, everyday people could seemingly ignore systematic, sustained societal racism.

When the documentary about my grandfather premiered in New York City in April, 2012, someone from the audience asked how I would respond to black Christians who hate homosexuals.  He seemed to feel that it was hypocritical for blacks to talk about the oppression of yesterday if they were actively engaged in oppressing homosexuals today.  I agreed with him, but then I explained that every group has their jihad.  Every group has that subset of extremists.  Just because a person is a member of a group, doesn't mean that they represent all of the other members of that group, or that they agree with every idea that comes from that group.

In towns like Greenwood, there were men and women who made it their mission to maintain a segregated state.  What blows me away is the lengths that they went to in order to achieve their goals.  Very, very, very few books talk about this, but there was a newsletter called "A Delta Discussion" that was distributed door to door.  The newsletter was filled with dire predictions about what would happen if the schools were integrated.  They included stories from far off communities that had tried to integrate and then had incidents of violence.  These newsletters also included the names of white store owners who were enforcing the Civil Rights Act, by allowing blacks to patronize their establishments.  Whites were encouraged to stop going to these stores all together.

It's important to remember that Greenwood was a small town, surrounded by plantations.  Most whites in Greenwood had known the other whites in Greenwood for all of their lives.  These relationships had been establishments generations before the civil rights movement came along.  Most whites had grown up with a distorted view of blacks.  They were too close to it to question it.  Then people from the outside (from the Northern states) began to question how Southern blacks were being treated.  Those questions were challenged, not by strangers, but by the neighbors.  Whites who were racist in Greenwood had an enormous amount of influence over other whites because of the familiarity between the two groups.  

Imagine having someone come into your town for a visit and tell you that your wife is unhappy in your marriage.  Your friends tell you not to listen to this stranger.  They can all but prove to you that your wife is happy  Your wife is silent.  Most blacks over the age of 25 were relatively silent on civil rights until the tide started to turn.  Pretending that things weren't as bad for blacks as Northern whites were describing was pretty simple to do.

The efforts to maintain segregation became a complex, intricate, and expertly executed campaign.  The campaign struck people where they would feel it the most.  The average Greenwood citizen was made to believe that if they let integration occur that they would lose their children.  Their children would marry blacks who, according to the campaign were beast-like illiterates.  Many believed that blacks were more sexual than whites.  Why did they believe these things?  Do you believe the earth is round?  How do you know?  Have you personally conducted science experiments to prove it or do you just know because that's what someone in authority told you?

Obviously, I don't support or condone racism or people who ignore racism.  But if I seek only to distance myself from the "white Southerner" and lump then all in with Byron De La Beckwith, then I'm missing an opportunity to learn an important lesson about human nature.  I've forced myself to really ponder whether or not I would have the eyes to see past the rhetoric and see the oppression of the people around me if I was a white middle class person living in Greenwood in the 1960s.

What I know is that Booker Wright provided that opportunity for many Greenwood whites.  He did something that removed their blinders.  And for that, I am thankful.

Family Silence

A few weeks ago I was in Alaska and someone in the audience asked a question that comes up a lot.  "How has this experience impacted your family...are they proud..has it brought them joy....?"  I tried to briefly explain how every step we take to honor Booker Wright comes with the a deepening knowledge of what was lost. So, it's been painful.  The audience was satisfied.

If they only knew.

Sometimes the tiniest details can bring out the strongest reactions in my family. Person A will say that Person B did XYZ.  Person B's cousin will wonder why Person B never mentioned doing XYZ to them.  The cousin feels hurt, left out, and they question why Person B kept this from them.  Even if XYZ is a small detail, it makes the cousin question other things about Person B.  The cousin doesn't know how to feel about the relationship they once had.  Was it all a lie?  They can't get to the bottom of it because Person B is dead.  An unanswerable question has been planted in the cousin's mind and the only way to get rid of it is to forget.

The cousin becomes a lot less talkative.  They stop returning my calls and may even discourage others in the family from talking to me.  Person A will start to feel guilty about stirring up pain and will also pull away from me or, at a minimum, show extreme caution the next time .

Every time I get on the phone with someone in my family they act like anything they say might appear in my book.  The fact is, they're right.  I'm collecting all of these stories for a reason.  So, part of me understands their discomfort.  Part of me has a hard time with it, though.  I'm trying to get as close to the truth as possible.  There are so many things about Booker that I will never know.  But I want to get the details that I can correct.  I don't want to be wrong.

Multiple this by 20 details, one hundred conversations, countless moments and lots of dead ancestors with skeletons in their closets.

One of the topics that comes up again and again when I talk to audiences about my grandfather's story is the idea of family silence within communities of color.  So many adults simply don't know their family stories, oftentimes because those stories are ones of humiliation and pain.  Aside from details here and there, a knowledge of a place of birth, a marriage, a death, so many of us don't know the ins and out, the stuff that glistens from the nooks and crannies.  We don't know and we don't think to ask.  We live with each other day in and day out unconcerned about what came before us.  Until someone comes knocking and unearths it all.

People change their stories.  Loved ones hide from me.  I don't always know why.

I do know that losing someone you love is indescribably painful.  Finding out later that they weren't who you thought they were is something else altogether.

Murder Theories Abound

As if I wasn't already chasing a multitude of leads, last night someone gave me something else to think about. First let me say that a lot of people believe that Lloyd Cork was hired to do what he did.  Primarily because Booker was notorious for kicking people out of his club if they were acting up or simply didn't have the money to buy anything.  This simple fact was common knowledge.  The idea that he would go in there, act up, and get kicked out smells fishy to a lot of Greenwood locals.

I've been told a few ideas about who may have hired Cork to do it and why.  I've also been given another idea about why would Cork himself would be motivated to commit murder and maybe he thought that getting thrown out (Booker hit him with the butt of his gun) would provide him with some sort of defense.

Last night I was presented with another idea.  A few days (either two or three) before Booker was shot, something terrible happened in a small town not too far from Greenwood.  Booker's half brother committed  a triple homicide.  He killed a prominent business owner, his daughter and his his sister.  Booker's half brother was on the run when Booker was shot.  Last night, someone who lived in Greenwood then and continues to live there now, someone who was very, very close to Booker - told me that they always thought that Cork was hired to murder Booker as revenge for the triple homicide committed by Booker's half-brother.

I guess I have one more question to ask Cork when I sit across from him in a week and a half.

Photographs

In the last year or so I’ve collected all the photos of Booker Wright that I could get my hands on.  I made numerous calls, visited people, and had relatives send pictures from their homes around the country.  All of that work produced a total of six photos of my late grandfather. 

Today I saw eight more.  They were all taken at the same time.  In them, my grandfather is lying on a table without a shirt on.  His stomach has eight lines in it that look like wounds that have been stapled shut.  Each one is about three inches wide and there is about an inch separating them.  They are all in a row from his chest down past his navel.  It’s hard to describe these stapled wounds because there is something in front of them, blocking my view.  It looks like an organ or maybe two. 

Someone who saw these photos briefly a few months ago said that it was intestines.  Seeing them for myself today, I know it’s not his intestines.  Someone else thought it may be his liver.  I can’t look at the photos long enough to make a guess.  I’ll show them to a doctor when I get back home. 

His side is riddled with pellets from the shotgun blast.  His eyes are closed.  I can’t tell whether or not he is dead or alive.

There is a tube and bottles of things around him.  It looks like he is in a closet or a makeshift morgue, but the Chief of Police insists that’s what hospital rooms looked like in the sixties here in Greenwood.  I need to take these photos to an expert.  

I broke down when I saw these photos.  Part of my mind is screaming.  Part of my mind is numb.  I needed to see these to get to the bottom of things, I think.  I don’t know.  Does uncovering every stone get me further to the truth or just more exposed to the horrific reality of loss?  I have tears and I don’t know why.  I can’t pinpoint the feeling.  It has no name. 

My mother can never see these photos. 

Meeting a Murderer

I wrote this a few weeks ago:

Sometimes writing it like being lost.  Not turned around or momentarily confused.  It is like being seriously, frighteningly lost, uncertain of which is way is up, how to get out, how far or how deep or wide the thing is that I’m inside of.  Sentences don’t do this to me, although, a paragraph has been known to leave me stumped.  A chapter can definitely make me feel lost.  Sometimes, however, I am lost in an entire book.  What once seemed like the perfect layout now feels sophomoric.  The story itself can start to feel thin and pointless.

When I’m lost I’m usually also exhausted, physically and mentally.  I can’t remember why I started and I just want to stop.  For lots of reasons, I can’t.  

At some point, I’ll usually remember the last time that I was lost, and the time before that, and the time before that.  With relief, I’ll recall that each time I was lost before I didn’t find my way out, the way out found me.  Sometimes a person will make a comment in passing about the weather or life in general and I’ll realize that their statement is the answer to my writing challenge.  Sometimes someone will read my work and make a simple statement that changes everything.  Other times, I just wake up one morning and know what needs to be done.

Today, I am lost and tired.  1% of my brain knows that it won’t last.  Change is on the horizon and I will find a way out.  99% of my brain is convinced that there is no way out.  Like being locked in a coffin I am anxious, sweating, desperate, and unable to remain calm.  I want to move, act, talk, eat, change my clothes, anything, I just have to keep going because the weight of being lost is heaviest when I am still and silent. 

I am fried and late and lost. 

I wrote the above piece because the ending of my book was lame.  In the first half of my book I learn about my grandfather and all about Greenwood, and then the second half  of the book is about me trying to uncover the story of his murder.  Then the book switches gears and sort of ends.  In the final chapter I write my theory about the murder and talk about how I’ll continue to research it.  Blah, blah, blah.  

Last year I was supposed to go visit Cork, the man who murdered my grandfather (I think).  I chickened out.  Read this and this.  Recently though, out of the fog of confusion I've felt about the ending to my book I realized something.

My book is unfinished because the story is unfinished.

In an excel file I have a list of chapters and the other day I added a new one called “Meeting a Murderer,” then I put a certified letter in the mail to Cork, asking him if I can meet with him.

Part of me doesn’t want to meet him because Cork may say or do something that marks the end of the road.  It's like I've been racing down a freeway that doesn't have a speed limit and meeting Cork is a brick wall falling into my path.  My work to understand my grandfather’s life and the murky circumstances surrounding his death may stop on a dime with the words of a man who could be insane.  Was he hired?  Did he do it for no reason or the oldest reason?  All of my questions might get answered when I sit across from a murderer.

But pushing that meeting off into infinity is not fair to the readers who will follow my quest.  It’s also not fair to Booker Wright.

In October I'm traveling to Mississippi and, if Cork agrees to it, I am meeting with a murderer.  Typing that feels profound.  I’m setting my plans in stone and this time, I will not turn back.  

Stained.

I'm sitting at my laptop studying photos of Booker's Place.  They were taken by the Greenwood Police Department the morning after my grandfather was shot.  My eye kept going back to something on the floor.  It looks as though he had concrete flooring, but part of it looked strange.

I realized that it was wet.  There's a long, wide path of moisture as if someone had tossed buckets of water on the floor.  In the middle of the water stain is a thin, red circle. It looks like an outline from a blood puddle that someone tried to wash clean.

I feel like I might throw up.

Wanting to Know More

When this journey started I wanted to find my grandfather so that I could have some sort of moment or relationship with him.  I know this sounds odd and had I articulated this idea to myself, really written it out, I would've realized that it was a goal that was completely unattainable.  One night in Greenwood I was talking about this with Raymond and he looked up at me and said, "But of course, you know that you can't have a relationship with a dead person." I remember feeling as though someone had just made the lights flicker.  Of course, how silly of me.

Now, I'm here waiting for what's next.  The filmmakers are finishing the movie and I'm working on a book of sorts - I'm writing out what happened.  Sometimes this writing is fun and it reminds me of the laughs and the drama of making the film.  I'm reminded of people I initially didn't trust and then came to adore and people I initially adored only to realize that I needed to be a little less trusting.

I'm writing through the mystery.  I had no idea when this journey started that there were any questions about my grandfather's death.  When I boarded the plan that took me to the making of this film, I had no idea that my grandfather had been beaten so badly by a white cop that he had to be hospitalized.  There was so much that I didn't know before the first Greenwood trip.

Tonight I was thinking about my grandfather and I still feel as though there is so much that I don't know. 

I'm writing the story of my search to find him.  I'm writing about what I learned and when and how I felt when I learned those things.  But the thing that I set out to do years ago, the thing that I always wanted to do, is the thing that I still cannot do.  I cannot write about Booker Wright.  Everyone knew of him but it seems that nobody really knew him.  A white judge, a man who I'm sure my grandfather never hung out with, is the one who told us about the beating.  A man removed from my grandfather's way of life gave us one of the most shocking and critical pieces of data we found on our search.  This information did not come from my family because my family did not know.

As I sit here on the foot of my bed, I feel kind of deflated.  I've dealt with the crazy hope of "meeting" my grandfather's spirit on this journey, but I never dealt with the other hope that went unmet.  I had a hope to learn more about him.  I hoped that people would share conversations they had with him, conversations that would reveal his sense of humor, his quirks, and his worries.

Initially, I searched for him so that I could piece him together and know him like a granddaughter would know a grandfather.  Now I simply wonder about his thoughts.  Did he fear for his life?  It seems the answer would be yes because he had those end of life talks with my mother and my aunt.  But, what specifically did he fear?  Who did he fear?  Did he expect the beating he got after the NBC documentary aired?  Or was he surprised and left shaken?

There are a few more sources who may know the answers.  My family members have asked me not to pursue these leads.  They fear that if these voices make it into the film that they might sully Booker Wright's memory.  Well, the film is almost done.  The Greenwood researchers are off the case.  The resources have all but dried up.  But there are four people who might know more.  They might have pieces that could complete the puzzle.  They might be the ones he confided in.  

I love and respect my family.  During the making of this film I respected their wishes even when they did not respect mine.  But I feel as though Booker Wright has been silent for all these years.  The work we've done with the filmmakers has brought one piece of his story to the masses.  He said in the NBC film that he didn't want his children to go through what he went through.  Was he talking only about being called the "n" word?

I still have so many questions.  Is it wrong for me to want the answers?  I just don't think I'm finished with this.  As much as my family wants him to be the hero and wants his life to be tied up neatly with a little bow, I can't help but wonder if someone out there can tell me what he really thought and felt.  

Did he confide in anyone?

The Word on the Street

...is don't be interviewed for this movie...

The weirdest thing is happening.  The fillmmakers and I are going back to Greenwood to shoot some more scenes.  We have a list of over 40 people who we'd like to interview about Booker Wright and his restaurant/club called Booker's Place.  Almost every one on that list has at one time or another already agreed to be interviewed.  We (me, David, and a production coordinator) have spent the last couple of weeks contacting these people to pre-interview them and to arrange an exact time to sit down with them.

They're dropping like flies.  Don't get me wrong, many of the people who said they'd sit down with us are still planning to do just that.  For instance, GL agreed to meet with us, although after our call in July I'm not quite sure if he's going to give us much on Booker, but hopefully he can give a colorful account of McLaurin Street - the famous street where Booker's Place was located.  But Irene B., one of the eyewitnesses to the murder is back and forth about her willingness to participate.  Booker's lifelong companion is still unwilling to even let us scan photographs of him in her own home and so on and so on.

When we were there the last time there were a few sources we were having trouble reaching over the phone. So, the producer, his amazingly efficient production manager, one of the cameramen, and I spent half a day driving around in an SUV trying to find some of these people.  We did several "on the spot" interviews and the filmmakers got some great footage of me running around asking complete strangers how to find people, etc.

It looks like at least a few days this next trip may very well be in the same style.  I may need to pack fewer high heels and more flats.

I Just Want To See Him

I wanted to get a different perspective on Lloyd Cork's letter so I read it to a good friend who's taught English for 11 years at the college level.  Over the last couple of years she's developed a writing program for prisoners so I definitely wanted to get her reaction.

Immediately she began talking about literacy levels.  She said that the letter really indicated to her that he had low levels of literacy and that he was unfamiliar with how to organize his thoughts in writing.  There were sections of his letter that seemed scattered and almost insane to my ear.  She simply heard a man who was struggling to get his thoughts into words.

It dawned on me how difficult it is to truly communicate with anyone in writing or even over the phone.  I'd originally thought that maybe I'd interview Lloyd Cork in letters, but I don't want to limit his ability to communicate with me because I'm expecting him to exercise a muscle that he's never had the chance to develop. I don't know what kind of education he had.  I do know that when I met his mother the filmmakers asked her to sign a release for the interview and she had to make a mark because she didn't know how to write her own name.

There's a good chance that the best I can hope for with Lloyd Cork is a phone interview.  The telephone, however, has its own problem.  Silence.  If I ask a question and he goes quiet over the phone I won't know if he's shifting out of discomfort or if he's looking into the distance in an effort to remember.

I just want to see him.

I tell myself that I'm hoping a meeting with Lloyd Cork will bring me peace, but I know now that nothing about this process (making the film, doing the research, writing about it) will ever bring me peace.  Then I tell myself that if I can hear economic and social desperation in Cork's life story that maybe I'll see that he and Booker were both affected by the same lack of opportunities for blacks and that they just took different paths.  But I already know the answer to this, I got it from Erlene.

I'm just not that naive anymore.  The journey is not the thing.  Maybe I'm just inquisitive and I want to look a known murderer in the eye because I can.

Or maybe there is more.  Yes, Lloyd Cork probably murdered Booker Wright.  I strongly suspect that the murder was unplanned.  If I was 100% certain I would probably save myself the hassle of filling out forms and figuring out travel.  As tired as I am of chasing ghosts, I just feel that something awaits me in a face-to-face meeting with him.  A nugget not made of peace or of understanding, but maybe another link to the puzzle.  Maybe a final dead end that closes the door on the questions.

As tired as this whole thing makes me, as soon as this post is finished I will write another letter to Lloyd Cork to start the arduous process of getting approval so that I can meet with him.  The honest to goodness truth is that I don't even know why.

He Wrote Back

Today I received a letter in the mail from the man who murdered my grandfather.  Actually, I should say that today I received a letter from the man who is serving a life sentence for murdering my grandfather.  I don't know if Lloyd Cork killed Booker Wright.  I know that when my grandfather was dying in his hospital bed that he told people that Lloyd Cork shot him.

If you're not familiar with what's odd about the murder then here's some background.  First, 38 years after it happened, eyewitnesses to the murder seem reluctant to talk about it.  See this post and this one.  Second, the trial itself seemed to raise more questions than it answered.  Third, Booker's lifelong companion is being less than helpful with this research.

At some point in my life I watched a TV show in which a person was asked to place their hand in a box that either had a snake in it, jello, or a boatload of cash.  That's kind of how I felt when I reached out to Lloyd Cork.  That's actually how I still feel.  In the letter Cork claims that he didn't kill Booker.  But this line is the anthem of most prisoners, so does it really mean anything in this case?

In the letter he sent me, Cork explains that he let Booker borrow a car of his even though it had $100k in the trunk.  If he'd have said that the car had $1k in the trunk it would've sounded suspicious from what I know about this man's economic background.  Saying that he had $100k sounds almost insane.  The most important thing in the letter is that Cork said he'd be willing to talk on the phone with me and/or meet me face-to-face.

I definitely want to meet him in person.  The filmmakers are trying to figure out a way for me to call him and record the call so that they can include it in the movie.  I'm wrestling with the best course of action.  I really want to see the look on his face.

The Case of the Missing Eyewitness

One of the witnesses in Lloyd "Blackie" Cork's murder trial shared more details than any of the others about what happened the night that my grandfather was murdered.  She testified regarding the people Cork was talking to, she saw Booker kick Blackie out, she saw Booker's gun, she was also standing so close to Booker that she was injured as well.  Most of the other witnesses seemed to corroborate pieces of this witness's testimony.  She was the one who had the closest thing to the "whole" story.

A few months ago we got a lead on how to find her.  A family with her last name owns a Greenwood radio station.  For the last several days I've been trying to get a hold of one of the family members.  Yesterday I did and they confirmed that they do not have anyone in their family by that name living in Greenwood.  They also explained that, while their family's been in Greenwood for more than two decades, they weren't living there when my grandfather was murdered.

We have two other on the ground, local sources who are excellent at uncovering people for this research.  A guy who owns a local store and a woman who just seems to know everyone.  Neither of them knows my witness.

I noticed this morning that in the transcripts the lawyer frequently asks the jury if they can understand her.  Apparently, there was something about her speech that made it difficult for them to always get what she was saying.  Maybe I need to find some people from the outlying, more rural communities to help locate her.

I really need another break in this puzzle.  I'm  starting to feel burnt out on closed doors.

Back to Square One

David, the producer, called M.W. today.  He thinks that she answered the phone, tried to disguise her voice and said that she wasn't home.  The woman he spoke to said that M.W. would be traveling for a week.  Obviously, this is unlikely.  Over the weekend she told my mom that she'd be happy to speak with David.  She made no mention of upcoming travel plans.

I'm pretty sure that her daughter has gotten to her again.  For whatever reason, M.W.'s daughter does not want either of them to be a part of this.

The Daily Download

My mom spoke with M.W. today.  Not only did they speak, but it sounds like they had a really lovely conversation.  M.W. seemed nervous about speaking with David and asked my mom to tell him in advance that her memory is not very good.

My mom seemed worried about this until I reminded her that she said the same thing.  Everyone says that at first.

One of the production coordinators (PC) on this project is a photography nut.  She did some additional research on the connection between Tom Boring, the dentist and Bill Eggleston, the famous photographer.  Apparently, there are a few photos that are somewhat famous that include Tom Boring, the dentist who was friends with my grandfather, Booker Wright.  In at least two of the photographs Tom Boring is naked.  In one of them, he appears to be in a room filled with graffiti.  It turns out that he'd spray painted the walls himself.

The PC went on to explain how important Eggleston's work is and that he was a part of the Warhol scene.

So, my grandfather, whose life ended when he was 46, worked for over 20 years at a historic restaurant that is still in business today, ran a successful nightclub that was visited by musical greats like BB King, was interviewed on a news program that was shown around the country, became close friends with a man who was somehow part a group that would revolutionize art around the world, and then he was murdered either by an angry man who acted alone, an angry man who was hired by a white cop, a woman from the club, or a woman from Chicago.

How in the world did his story sleep for all these years?

Questions

It's 1:20 in the morning and I can't sleep. My stomach is in knots and I can't seem to get a deep breath. My head is foggy, things seem unclear. Hopefully, I can write my way out of this. I'm trying to wrap my mind around a question. It's a big one, a game changer.

Did someone encourage Lloyd Cork to murder my grandfather?

Wow. Was Booker's death more than random? Was it more than just one angry guy making the worst decision of his life in a moment of alcohol induced stupidity?

I feel sick. Physically ill. I want to get in my car, drive to the airport, get on a plane and go to that prison RIGHT NOW.  Maybe if I could stand there, on the grass outside the prison walls, I'd find the truth wafting in the air like a scent left just for me.  With one deep breath I'd know the entire story of my grandfather's murder.  

Part of me desperately wants to sit down with Lloyd Cork. Part of me doesn't even have the courage to imagine meeting him.

Okay, I'm going to try to pull it together so that I can get some cohesive thoughts down. Several weeks ago I received a copy of Lloyd Cork's file from the Leflore County Courthouse, a 210 page set of documents.  It was strange at first, to read the eyewitness accounts of Booker's death. I originally asked for it because one of the producers of the documentary made a comment that brought into question whether or not Booker threw Blackie out for the reasons I'd always been told.

As we all know, memory can be funny. Often times oral history can be a more dramatic, more colorful version of actual events.  I needed to know for sure.

In that first reading, I scanned every piece of paper in the file. There were handwritten notes from Cork and other pieces that gave me pause. Then I got to the trial. It was surreal to read the eyewitness testimony of people who, not only were there when my grandfather was shot, but who were standing so close to him that they themselves were injured. I was relieved to read testimony that described Blackie as coming in and going straight to a table where two whites were eating. What the argument was about isn't mentioned, as a matter of fact, I can't recall if it was even asked.

Through this whole documentary film process I've told myself that I'm committed to the truth. Whatever comes up, whatever we find, we won't be dishonest about it.

But, I think out of loneliness I allowed Booker to become almost mythical in my mind. I was in a really sad place when I first learned about him. I felt lost and insignificant within my family of origin, like no one could really see me.  I believed that my life was not really important to people who I desperately wanted it to be important to.

Thinking that someone like Booker Wright was part of me brought me so much peace and hope. When I first started talking to people about him I remember I always felt really nervous that I would hear something that would diminish the greatness I perceived in him. The opposite happened. Person after person, interview after interview reconfirmed with beautifully described details a warm, generous, smart, and very brave man.

Someone working on the documentary started saying that all of the stories need to be vetted. Which of course they do, but I started to fear that maybe my hero was made of sand and that, when this whole process was over, I'd be left staring at a few dusty little grains in my hand, the rest of him blown away by the "search for the truth".

Anyway, I'm off point. I initially thought that I'd gotten what I needed from the docs about Cork and I tried to just go into work mode. It was a piece of valuable research for this documentary and I tried to think of it as nothing more. But I felt protective of it. I took it with me when we traveled. I kept rereading it. There were some things about it that just didn't sit well with me.

Then, the other day, the producer mentioned that maybe there was more to Booker's death than what we know, maybe Cork didn't act alone.

Honestly, I keep thinking that I need to finish this post, but just writing it out is making me feel more at peace. I don't have any control over what happened all those years ago. He can't disappoint me because he never met me. I have the film and I have the memories he left of himself. If someone else intentionally had him murdered, I hope they pay for that. Probably not in this life, but definitely in the afterlife. I can't get too jumbled up in this. I can't let myself get wrapped up in looking for vengeance...I can't lose my breath.

Email I Just Sent to David

I just got off the phone with Margurite Butler.  For the first time she and I talked about Erby Butler.  Without any prompting from me, these were some of the things she mentioned.  

She said that she never understood where the gun came from that Lloyd Cork used to kill Booker.  She said that Cork was with a friend that night who had a pick-up truck and that the gun was in the truck.  I don't know where this information came from and it's too late for me to call my Greenwood contacts right now.  And I probably won't have time to do that until late tomorrow afternoon.  Anyway, she makes a good point.  Nowhere in the 210 pages of transcripts is a gun mentioned.  They also don't mention the types of crimes Cork had committed before.  Was he even in a position to secure a weapon like that?

I asked her if she knew anything about Erby attacking Blackie in prison.  She said that she'd always believed that the whole thing was set up.  She just blurted that out the minute I mentioned it!  She said the people in the prison knew that Blackie had murdered Erby's brother and that it made no sense to have them in the same population.  And you know what, I agree with her.  

Okay, so I am just sort of beside myself..I guess I'm freaking out a little bit.  What if someone arranged for this to happen?  I feel like I am going to come out of my skin if someone else is walking around, living their life, thinking that they got away with murdering my grandfather.  I know the odds of us ever getting to the "truth" are unlikely.  Sorry to be so emotional, this is just really, really fresh.  

I just keep putting little pieces together:

1. Not a single witness was called in his case.

2. No defense was presented.  And I'm not saying "no defense" for dramatic effect.  His attorneys literally did not put forth any sort of an argument at all.

3. Cork was not mirandized, his attorneys failed to mention this as well until the appeal.

4. Then they put him in prison within reach of his victim's brother, a known murderer.  

Maybe there's a simple explanation for all of this...I almost hope that there is.  The alternative turns my stomach.  I'm going to bed, I'm too upset.  I'll sleep on this.  Maybe it's nothing, maybe I'm just too close to it to see that none of these individual pieces make a whole.  

What do you think?

The McGhees

I just read a wild story about the McGhee family in "I've Got the Light of Freedom" by Charles Payne.  Mrs. McGhee, a black woman living in Greenwood, MS during the civil rights movement, was actually physically aggressive towards white police officers - but only when they really deserved it.  Once at a rally a cop tried to hit her with his nightstick, she grabbed the nightstick and the officer!

She had three sons, Silas, Clarence, and Jake.  All three of them shared her enthusiasm for their basic rights and her fearlessness in their pursuit of them.  They were financially harassed and their house was routinely attacked by firebombs.  When the Civil Rights Act was signed into law, Silas and his brother Jake decided that they wanted to start exercising their new right by integrating the movie theaters.  Their efforts to enjoy a movie in theaters that had once been "white's only" caused riots and arrests for both Silas and his brother.

One afternoon Silas got into an argument with a white police officer.  Later that evening he was shot in the head at close range.  The book says that immediately after he was shot "he could hear a woman's voice over his car's shirt-wave radio: 'They got the n-----! They got him!'"

They took him to a hospital in Greenwood and, according to Bob Zellner (a legendary white civil rights worker) Silas was not offered medical treatment.  Once inside the hospital "no one made any effort to help him.  'It was like that wasn't a question,' says Zellner.'"

The story of the McGhee family is comical and frustrating at the same time.  I think theirs should be a household name.  Not only did they show bravery and courage, but they showed a gut level understanding of their rights as Americans.

Are We Murderers? My Meeting with Frank De Felitta

I am forewarning you that this post is full of ideas that are so overused that I fear they've lost their meaning.  I use phrases here that are at best clichés and at worst a joke.  Why?  Because today I met a truly great man and I want to tell a small part of his story as honestly as I can.  

The truth is that I will probably never see him again, so I have absolutely no motivation to puff him up.  I am not writing this piece under duress, but I am writing it from a state of great admiration and respect. 

Before this afternoon I knew that a national news crew went to Greenwood in the hopes of finding the “true” story of race relations in 1965.  I didn’t know that the vision for this film was really born of one man’s eagerness to literally change the world. 

The phrase “change the world” is itself a cliché.  It sounds both too big and yet, too simple.  It is bright-eyed and overly idealistic.  But this simple idea is the heartbeat of this story.  Regular people can make a difference. 

Booker Wright boldly told the world what was really in his heart.  Frank De Felitta made it possible for him to do it.

Today, when I sat down with Frank I asked him why he wanted to make “Mississippi: A Self Portrait” in the first place.  I wanted to understand what it was that made him interested in the plight of blacks in the Deep South during the civil rights movement.  If you haven’t seen the whole film, you can find links for each part here, here, here, here, and here.

Frank fought in World War II as a flyer.  When the war was officially over, he was asked to tour the concentration camps and assist in collecting data.  What he saw horrified him.  Seeing the bodies and realizing how the Jews were tortured and murdered shocked Frank into a lonely depression that took years for him to climb out of.  He found himself questioning religion and humanity.  Eventually, he rebuilt his life one move at a time.  He had no experience working as a writer and no formal writing training, but he decided to start writing anyway.

He wrote and wrote and wrote, submitting pieces here and there.  Eventually a piece that he penned was picked up by The Whistler.  In the years to come, Frank would go on to write both novels and screenplays.  He would produce, and direct for the stage, for TV, and for film.  We can thank Frank De Felitta for two classic horror flicks The Entity and Audrey Rose.   We can also thank him for numerous other works of thoughtful filmmaking that his son is bringing to the masses on his YouTube channel.   

During his early years as a filmmaker, Frank had a good friend who traveled through the southern states collecting music for Folkways (which is now part of the Smithsonian).  Frank has a gift for knowing a good story when he hears one and he thought that this man’s travels would make an interesting film. 

So, Frank traveled through the south and made a film about jazz.  The film is called “They Hit a Blue Note: Music of the South” and it’s excellent.  This film can be viewed on YouTube.  It appears there in six parts.  It was tricky for me to find all the links so here they are: one, two, three, four, five, and six. 

This film is about the music, yes.  But it dives deep into telling the story of the slave traditions that gave birth to jazz.  The film clearly shows Frank’s interest in exploring the evolution of black life in the south.  He tells this piece of the story with a curiosity that’s underscored with tenderness.  The best description of “They Hit a Blue Note” is on Frank’s son’s blog, here. 

When Frank was in the south making "Blue Note" he said that what he observed made him feel like he was being confronted once again with his experience in the concentration camps.  He was conflicted by the way blacks in the south were living.  He wondered, “Why does it have to be like this?”  One of his companions told him that this is the way of the world and that you can’t change it.  Frank simply said, “Well, maybe if we do something we can change it.” 

Not long after this trip Frank read an article in the New York Times that was written by a man named Hodding Carter.  Not only did the article address the way that blacks in the Deep South were fairing, it also put forth the idea that people who saw the atrocities in black America and then did nothing about it, were themselves like murderers.  The question, “Are we murderers?” simply would not leave Frank. 

This article, coupled with Frank’s own experiences in the Deep South, drove him to make “Mississippi: A Self-Portrait.” 

I know what you’re thinking.  Can it really be that simple?  Yes, it can be.  Frank De Felitta was a filmmaker.  When he was faced with an opportunity to confront injustice he didn’t go out and run for office.  He picked up his camera and told the story. 

Booker was a waiter.  When faced with an opportunity to confront injustice he sang his menu and told the world what it felt like to be a black waiter in the south.  He didn’t become a leader in the NAACP.  He stood in his restaurant and simply told the truth. 

Hodding Carter was a newspaper man from a small town.  When he was faced with an opportunity to confront injustice he wrote story after story that illustrated the horrors that blacks experienced every day in Mississippi. 

Sometimes we can feel that we’re not in a position to do something big enough to change the world.  Maybe that’s the great lie.  The truth is that each of us gets that opportunity once or even many times in a lifetime.  It doesn’t have to mean selling all that we own and moving to a war-torn country to provide aid for the newly impoverished, although it could for some.  Maybe we all are meant to “change the world” around us in one very specific way.  We might have very real and very tangible opportunities float right past us as we move through our daily lives.  We just need the eyes to see them.  

The Lloyd Cork Murder Trial

A few days ago I received the Lloyd Cork court transcripts in the mail.  Lloyd Cork is the man who murdered my grandfather, Booker Wright.  The murder was committed in 1973 and Cork is still in prison today.

I thumbed through the file when I received it Monday night.  There were two documents in there that contained copies of handwritten notes from Cork.

I found myself studying his handwriting.  It didn't look like the handwriting of a murderer.  I guess I thought it would be sloppy with each letter a different size than the one next to it.  Maybe I was expecting his writing to be sinister and scary like random letters pulled together in a ransom note.  Instead it was slanted.  His penmanship seems slow, deliberate, and somehow effeminate.

I woke up early this morning so that I could read through the entire file before my day got going.  There were some things about this file that really bothered me.  Here's the email I sent to David, the producer, after reading it.

"A few things about this case are giving me pause.  

The defense didn't call a single witness.  After the state was finished with all of their witnesses, people who actually saw Blackie shoot Booker, the defense made a motion to have the judge declare Blackie Not Guilty on the grounds that: 

'the State has failed to make out a case against this defendant and there is no evidence in the record from which to sustain a conviction on the charge for which the defendant has been indicted, and that the evidence adduced in this Court does not show that the defendant is guilty of any charge whatsoever.'

Really?  

I wonder if Blackie had Atticus Finch defending him if anything would've been done differently.  Is he also a "victim" (it turns my stomach to use that word) of the times.  My dad said about Blackie that he 'came from a family that had let him down.'  Is it possible that his attorneys just have phoned it in.  I know that's a huge accusation, and I know so little about law.  Should I even care about this?  He did kill my grandfather.

On Sunday when I met with my mom we spoke just briefly about Blackie.  I told her that he was coming up for parole again, immediately she said that he needed to stay in jail for the rest of his life.  

I don't know why, but the more that I read this the sicker I feel. "

Crack in America

My meeting with Raymond and David is fast approaching.  I know I should feel excited about the possibility of making a movie about my grandfather. Everyone in my life who knows about this is excited.  I'm not excited.  I'm worried.

To be fair, neither Raymond or David has said or done anything that would make me think I can't trust them.  The problem is that I know my family.  Disappointment, alcoholism, a lust for money - it's all part of the family brand.

As much as I respect the filmmakers, we're obviously coming at this with different agendas. In one of my very first conversations with David he said that if their research revealed things about my grandfather that were less than stellar, he and Raymond may need to address them in the film.  He was up front with me from the beginning.

I'm just not being upfront with myself.  The truth is that as long as I'm doing this research on my own I can choose not to explore avenues that may tarnish my view of my grandfather.  If I invite Raymond and David on this journey with me, I'm forfeiting that choice.  I know that I need to reconcile this in my mind before I meet with them because they're not going to use my emotions as a compass for this film.

That's why I've had such conflict about this research.  I want someone in my lineage who I can feel proud of, someone who my young sons can look to as an example of character, hard work, and all that stuff.  But, I'm seriously afraid that in the end, I'm going to find out that Booker Wright was a terrible man who had one good moment.

My deepest desire for this work is to find a place where I can stand and look at my grandfather's legacy with untarnished pride.  Even I know that's unrealistic.  The more that we know anyone the more that we see the flaws that make them human. I want to know him more, but I don't want to know him more.

So, what can I really expect?  If I work with Raymond and David I can make sure that my family doesn't experience anything like that funny, yet terribly sad moment from the movie the "The Fighter."

In that movie, Christian Bale's character is a washed up fighter who really had a shot at greatness.  He lost his career because of an addiction to drugs.  During most of the film Bale's character is followed around by a camera crew.  He tells everyone that the crew is making a documentary about him and some of the great moments from his career as a fighter.  The night the documentary aired on HBO his family and friends are all sitting together ready to watch their loved one receive honor and glory.  

The documentary starts and the title is something like "Crack in America".  The documentary wasn't about this guy's life as a fighter, it was about his life as a crack addict.  Of course, his family is devastated and completely humiliated in front of their friends and their entire community.

If I go down this road with Raymond and David, I won't be able to control what happens but I can at least make sure that my family doesn't find out something terrible about Booker Wright at a premiere party surrounded by all their friends.

Call with Dr. Roen and Vera Made Me Cry

Dr. Duane Roen, an expert in family history writing and family writing ethics, took a few minutes today to chat with me about the information I learned from Margurite. He said something that struck me as interesting and insightful.  He said that just because people don't want to talk about the past doesn't mean that they want it to remain hidden.

So often when I've tried to bring things up about Booker with my family I hear silence on the other end of the line.  Yet, they seem to be on board about my research.

Dr. Roen also reminded me that the filmmakers probably have the resources to uncover whatever they want about my grandfather.  I can work with them and, at a minimum, keep my family in the loop on what we're finding.  Or I can work against them and have a "Crack in America" moment.

I just feel uncomfortable being in the position I'm in.  Who am I to call my mom and my aunt and reveal information to them about their father?  Who am I to alter the way that they remember him?  They can't call their dead father on the phone and ask him why he may have kept secrets from them.

I just don't want to be the one to do the "grand reveal".  But if I don't do it, then who will?

So, I called my aunt Vera today.  We chatted for a few minutes and then I told her to sit down.  I told her what I learned about Booker from Margurite.  Not only did Vera already know, but she made a really sweet joke about it as well.  Phew.  Then I called my mom and learned that I actually only had half of the story!

When I spoke with Vera we had a very candid talk about how the filmmakers may find things that we don't want exposed.  As a family we're going on a journey to uncover as much as we can about Booker Wright, and the odds are that some painful things will come out as well.  We just have to be prepared for that.

Then, Vera made me cry.  She told me that what I was doing was good and that she was proud of me.  She said that if Booker had met me he'd be proud of me, too.  She said that every time I walked into his cafe he'd stop what he was doing and tell everyone in the room that I was his granddaughter.  She said he'd brag on me and tell everyone he knew how beautiful, wonderful, and special I am.  She said that we should have no regrets about embarking on this journey to honor him.  I hope she's right.