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Money, Mississippi, in August of 1955 was the last place a smart alec youngster from Chicago needed to be.

Emmett Till, at fourteen, was a typical teenager. While visiting relatives in Mississippi he was bragging about the white girls he dated back home. Well to his country cousins dating a white girl was unthinkable, and they challenged the validity of his claim. Encouraged by his peers he approached the comely wife of the owner of the general store and, allegedly, whistled at her.

What happened to Emmett goes beyond description. Not only was he murdered by the woman's husband, and another man, but his body was mutilated to the point where his own mother could not recognize him.

  WARNING        WARNING           WARNING

The image of Emmett Till is gruesome, and those taken back by brutality should not look at it.

WARNING ..........  Emmett Till; after death.

The men that murdered Emmett stood trial, but were found not guilty and set free, but there message rang out loud and clear. After their trial both of the murders bragged publicly about committing the murder and vowed they would do it again should any black dare insult a white woman. 

 
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It was the summer I turned nine, and my mother had sent me to Cuba, Alabama (my step-father's hometown) for vacation. It was exciting being on a farm with live cows, horses, pigs, and chickens. My cousins teased me for wearing shoes, but my one attempt to go barefooted sent me looking for my shoes in a hurry. 

Like Emmett Till, I was from Chicago, and a black neighborhood where you rarely saw white people; except on television. As a result racism was not within my understanding. 

One day my cousins and I went to the grocery store to buy some candy. My Mama, as she always did, had given me some pocket money. The store was located about a mile down the road from the farm. Just before we got there my cousins gave me the 411. "When we leave the store we got to run this way real fast," one of them told me. I suppose I looked confused because he added, "Them cracker boys going to be chunking rocks at us when we comes out. They live in that house up on the hill across the road from the store. They always chunk rocks at us when we go to the store."

Well my cousin knew what he was talking about because that is exactly what happened. We came out and about four boys our age were standing on the hill. I could see the rocks in their hands and, like my cousins, we took off running. Sure enough the white boys started throwing the rocks and one hit one of my cousins in the back. I stooped over and scooped up a handful of rocks and did my shortstop turn and fired back. I hit two boys; one right on the head. 

That night my cousins convinced me that the KKK was coming to hang me for sure. The boys father had indeed talked to my adult cousins about the incident. And according to my peers he was Klan. My mother came and got me and that was my one and only visit to Alabama. 

Obviously, I was not lynched. Nothing even close to that. But, the lesson stuck. Those white boys thought it was fun to chunk rocks at us, but they could not handle it when I threw rocks back. Then, they went running to their daddy. That was my first encounter with racial prejudice and racism, but it was certainly not my last. And, just for the record, I always fire back. 

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