They Became Silent: Book 1

By LaShawn Evans

The year is 1963, but it's a little different from what you may remember... There is complete segregation, constant civil unrest, and a nationwide "sundown" curfew. Joseph Freeman, a seventeen-year-old black football star, has his whole life flipped upside down when his family moves from Chicago to Cullingland, Georgia-the first racially-integra

• Language: English
• Publisher: Palmetto Publishing
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685152345

LaShawn Evans

LaShawn Evans was born and raised on the south side of Chicago. He is currently pursuing his PhD. He is an avid reader, a lover of science fiction, horror, comic books, and Afrofuturism. His aspiration is to build a brand and independent publishing house dedicated to letting Black authors tell their stories their own way.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Uncle Sam's Junkyard

"W

ell, go ahead then, man, I say. Break it down."

Fat Meat wrestles with his stomach as he gets his balance and stands up in front of us. Aight, He huffs, fighting to catch his breath. Dig this here, daddy-o.

I look at Rich and then Will, both sitting next to me, and we all laugh. Ah shit, here we go. Will laughs, slapping his palm on the side of his forehead. I’ve only known these guys for a few weeks now, but I’ve learned quickly that anytime Bobby, or Fat Meat, gets ready to tell a story, it's going to be dramatic.

Fat Meat bends over, grips both his knees, and makes an animal-like noise before he says anything else. His gasps for air are choked up, like he has a shoe caught in his throat. We try not to laugh, but it's too funny. Pitiful. The word stretches across my mind like a rubber band as I watch him struggle to breathe.

For God's sake, chrome dome, Rich says, irritated with the delay, just spit it out!

Shut yo ass up, Richard. Fat Meat stands upright and massages the top of his bald head. Nah looks here, Joseph. She's gorgeous, man. I’m talkin’…dynamite! Nah usually I’m not one to chase after no white woman, no suh not me, but that there Mrs. Green… His eyebrows shoot up and almost touch his invisible hairline. Fine, man! Dig it? ‘Bout your height too, and her body…man oh man, that body. Fat Meat uses his massive hands to sculpt the air as he describes her lower half. I can’t tell if he's exaggerating or not, but he's sparked my imagination anyway; Mrs. Green's legs strut through my mind as I listen. He paces back and forth in front of us, hands on his hips, demonstrating how she walks provocatively in the hallways.

I holla, ‘You know what you doin’ there, baby,’ when she's too far to hear me, then I cut out for class. Fat Meat explodes with laughter.

The rumors must be true, I decide because no Negro back home will ever pull something like that with a white woman. It's unthinkable, even if the V soldiers were still around to protect us. Maybe the white folks down here are as nice as they say. Either way, I know better than to try it.

A boy from my neighborhood was nearly killed in the South for being accused of wolf whistling at a white woman in her grocery store a few years ago. The woman's husband and his half brother tried to kidnap and kill the boy, Emmett, a few days later, but luckily, his great-uncle had some close friends in the Vanguard who were there to intervene.

RAGE Radio—the Vanguard's underground radio broadcast—reported that two masked white men tried to drag the boy out of bed in the middle of the night, but V soldiers who were standing watch close by heard the commotion and arrived just in time to catch the men. They offered the would-be kidnappers an opportunity to leave, but the situation escalated into a shoot-out when the two brothers-in-law, J. W. Milam and Roy Bryant, refused to go. Gunfire went back and forth for a while until the V soldiers were forced to chase and gun Milam and Bryant down at the Tallahatchie River.

"Only the Lord knows what they would’ve done to that poor baby if they got their hands on him." I recall my mother's terror-drenched words the day she read us the article from North Star newspaper. I also remember how the photograph of Milam's and Bryant's -bodies laid out in the dirt, riddled with bullets, made me flinch. Had things gone any differently, it would’ve been Emmett on the cover of that paper and not them.

My family made sure my brother and I always knew to stay as far away from white women as we could after that—forever. But I know that if I were to ever be harmed or threatened like that, my mother would start a war faster than a Jesse Owens one-hundred-meter dash. She's a very sweet woman, but she's one person you don’t want to quarrel with, family or not. So for my well-being and everyone else's, I’ve always heeded every forewarning of hers and stayed on her good side.

Yet I still entertain Fat Meat's nonsense. I lean in some more and listen eagerly to his stories about this pristine white woman named Mrs. Green.

She bad, man, dig? Bad white woman with summa the lightest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. And she has this way ‘bout her, man, like when you rap with her, she's studying you or somethin’. Fat Meat's face looks puzzled for a moment. Gotta watch out for that look, jack. She’ll eyeball you like she's hungry, eyeball you like a ham sammich. He throws his head to the sky. Eat me up, baby! Eat…me…up!

Again, Fat Meat laughs uncontrollably and leans in to slap hands with Will and Rich. Then all three of them join in to tell me more. The excitement in each of their voices spikes as they share stories, as if they’re kids talking about their favorite cartoon characters. They make everything about Mrs. Green sound perfect—tall, athletic, prettier than any other woman in Georgia, with flowing brown hair and a smile that’ll make any man do anything for her.

They talk on and on. Rich, the oldest of the group, has known Mrs. Green the longest. He claims that she's in love with him and that he's got a real chance with her, but Fat Meat doesn’t buy it. "C’mon nah Richard, you know damn well she's only nice to you ‘cause she thinks you’re an idiot. You flunk every class!"

Fuck you, Bacon-Back Bobby. They heckle each other a little longer and get back to their stories.

As I listen to them go back and forth, I grow homesick thinking about the friends I left when I came here. I miss them. Even though I like Georgia and, surprisingly, the town is growing on me, it still doesn’t feel like home just yet. Just gotta give it some time, Joe, that's all, I convince myself.

It's a good thing this part of the South isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I was certain that I’d feel out of place in Jim Crow Georgia, especially in the country's first integrated town, but it's not that bad—so far. Part of the reason is the new friends I have sitting with me in this junkyard. I met Will, Rich, and Fat Meat a few weeks ago when my family first moved to Cullingland, and we all clicked immediately. However, we were skeptical of one another at first. They’re country as hell, and I’m the so-called big city slicker, but eventually, we realized we’re into the same things—nice cars, good music, pretty girls, and most importantly sports.

The other reason I’d say Cullingland isn’t so bad is the Revolution and the work they’ve done to create a paradise for the black people here; they work freely alongside white people in town every day without any tension or animosity. Pay is more than fair and is said to be the highest wages for Negroes anywhere in the country. There's even a parade put on every summer to celebrate all the progress that's been made here so far.

And yes, the white people in Cullingland are the nicest ones I’ve ever met. People say they’re the nicest in America. Never thought I’d hear that one, not in a million years.

To be honest, I didn’t know what to expect before coming here. There's never been any kind of integration in this country, let alone an integrated town. Everything from restaurants to drinking fountains and bathrooms is shared by everyone here, no matter what color you are. If I wanted to, I could go on the other side of town, sit next to a white man at a lunch counter, and order myself a lunch special right now. It's almost unbelievable. Cullingland is truly America's last hope for ending violence between the races.

Besides actual neighborhoods still being segregated—whites on the north side surrounding the old military airport and Negroes on the south side in what is known as black Cullingland—Cullingland is like no other place in the country, and every year the town takes another step toward full integration. It's only been five years since the Make America Great Project started, but everyone here seems to be making it work—again, so far.

The government's plan was to take one step at a time, like teaching a baby how to walk. Phase 1 consisted in shutting down all Cullingland for a few months and rebuilding the infrastructure, ensuring that neither side had something that the other side did not. Next, the downtown district and all its businesses were integrated in phase 2. Bringing blacks and whites together on every other aspect of life—you know, living in the same neighborhoods and on the same streets, our kids and their kids growing up in the same schools, shackin’ up—that's phase 3, the one we’re in right now. It's been the longest process and phase of the three, but there could be real change everywhere if we make it through this.

The most recent integration in town has been the high schools. Black Cullingland's only high school, Hope, burned down last year due to an electrical issue. It granted the MAG Project the perfect opportunity to take another step forward and complete the country's first fully integrated school building of any kind. It's unfortunate because I heard that Hope High School was one of the best schools in the South, and it had one of the top football teams in the state. It would’ve been a perfect ending to my high school football career. That's if this damn leg were any good.

I think we’ll see all the schools integrated next, which is crazy to even imagine. I’m still having a hard time accepting a group of white kids hanging out and watching movies in our theaters, trying to sign up to play in our Negro Basketball League, and white pastors beginning to guest preach in our black churches. But that's the plan. Bring everyone together. Make everything equal. Make America gre—

And the way that cherry red sparkles in the sun, man, make ya wanna throw her on the hood and kiss her. Kiss the car too! Rich interrupts my train of thought with a description of Mrs. Green's Corvette.

Instantly, I’m reminded of all the new Chevrolet Bel Airs and Cadillacs I saw rolling through black Cullingland last week. It felt like strolling through a car show instead of walking to the hardware store. They probably run a business somewhere around here, I told myself as I studied the smiling black faces behind the steering wheels because most of the shops in black Cullingland are owned and operated by Negroes. It had to be that, or they could just be well-off, working somewhere in the integrated downtown area like everyone else.

I was blown away the first day I explored the neighborhood—brand-new buildings, parks, clean streets, and thriving stores, all controlled by black hands. Even the sheriff of the Cullingland Police Department is a black man. Would you believe that shit? Wait until Granddad hears that one.

My mother told us all this on our drive down here, but I didn’t believe it. It was nonsense at the time. But we’re here now, and it's really real. Everything I’ve seen so far makes the town curse seem unbelievable.

Okay, man, okay, I say, choking through a hoarse laugh. I get it—she bad. I can dig it. I’ll see for myself next week.

You takin’ her history class? Will asks. Anybody who's put in that class is a ol’ lucky bastard. She taught it every year at Hope, and everybody always passes, jack. Easy A.

Nope, I don’t think I have her. I got put in somethin’ else. I pause and look at Will sideways. How they let a white woman teach at Hope anyway?

"Damn, too bad, you woulda got over easy. And shit, Mrs. Green been there since Hope opened. Nah that it's gone, we gon’ be with her folks. Probably ain’t gon’ be nothin’ but white teachers."

Rich stands and lights a cigarette. Aye, speaking of that, y’all suckas got y’alls class schedules yet? He inhales the tobacco and digs a wrinkled piece of paper out his pocket. Let's see what classes we gots together.

We take our schedules out and compare. The only class I have with Rich is gym, so I won’t be seeing him too much. Will is in my twelfth-grade math and English classes, which is surprising since he's only in the -eleventh grade. Fat Meat only has lunch with me and Will, and then he's on his own for the rest of the day.

A feeling of relief washes over me as we examine one another's papers. I’m glad I have a few classes with people I know. It’ll make adjusting easier, and it's even better that we all play football—well, everyone besides Rich, the street-hustling basketball star, that is. There's no amount of money in the world that’ll get him on the field. "Football's for turkeys, man. Rich showed his arrogance the very first day we met. When you wimps wanna learn some finesse, come rap with me on court."

He and my younger brother walk almost two miles to the courts closest to the housing border so they can play basketball every day. Getting there is a bitch because it's so far from home, but they don’t seem to mind the trip one bit. If you ask me, I think it's because they just can’t get enough of the white girls who come to watch them play.

Fools got jungle fever. They’ll both be like kids in a candy store this school year. But I won’t.

This is my first time having to go to school with white people, and probably like all the other black students who’ll be there with me, I’m not sure how I’ll handle it. The only interaction I’ve ever had with any white students is fighting. My senior year and graduation will be a lost cause if I catch myself scrappin’ every day. But if they keep their distance and I keep mine, everything should be all right. Hopefully.

I don’t have class wit’ nobody ‘cept for ol’ Joey here. Rich stuffs his schedule back into his trouser pocket and blows smoke at Will and Fat Meat.

That's ‘cause you failed everything last year, ya dummy! Fat Meat throws his head back and laughs. How many times you want me to say it, man? Only reason you got through school this long is ‘cause you can bounce that stupid ball.

Fuck you, fat ass, Rich snaps. I’ll stomp ya ears together. Keep it up.

Sure ya will. Fat Meat, in all his enormous girth, puffs his chest out. I’m so very sure of it.

Fat Meat, a very big kid, says he got his nickname from a football coach when he was eight years old. Being the shortest and the fattest didn’t stop him from being the very best player on the team. The coaches loved him, and he never forgot how they always told him his strength was hiding under his fat meat.

"Cute, but guess what class I do have, big boy; I's got gym with that fine-ass sista of yours. Rich's tongue slithers across his teeth. Damn, I can’t wait to see her in them li’l bittie shorts."

As quick as flipping a light switch, Fat Meat's yellow face burns red. He balls his fists and walks toward Rich, ready to fight. I’ve never seen his sister, but I understand his anger; I have a sister too, and I wouldn’t let anyone get away with talking about her like that either. He ‘bout to bust his head. I know I would.

Fat Meat is the youngest out of the four of us, but he's fearless. As he gets ready to swing, I think back to the first time I saw him. It was my third day in Georgia. My parents packed up the car and drove us to Atlanta to visit some of their friends at the annual BFM meeting, better known as the Black Freedom Movement Conference. Fat Meat was outside the doors of the meeting place, Rich's Department Store—no relation to the Rich he's about to slap fire from—helping fight off a protesting white mob.

"Go home, niggers!"

"Terrorists!"

"Fucking monkeys!"

They yelled, screamed, and threatened us relentlessly. Glass bottles crashed against the side of the building and the front door. Boys and girls, some looking as young as ten years old, swung baseball bats at us and the people protecting us. Thinking back on that moment, it's ironic how they called us terrorists.

But in the wake of all that danger, our people didn’t yield. They fought, pushed back, and resisted the mob. Children, young people, blue-collar and white-collar workers, hell, even church Negroes all said no that day, with no help from the white police officers who stood idly by. It was an amazing thing to see us stand up for one another. But honestly, it's nothing new. We’ve always resisted, and we always will.

As we rushed by to get into the meeting, Fat Meat body-slammed two men at once outside the main door. One of the attackers got back up quickly and jumped on his back, but Fat Meat flipped him to the ground and stomped his leg. I cringed as the man's bones popped, and he screamed in pain. Fat Meat didn’t flinch though; he stayed calm and concentrated. The stillness on his face right now reminds me of that day. Here we go.

Not saying a word, Fat Meat closes in and raises his right arm. He cocks back and swings his fist as hard as he can, but he misses Rich's laughing face. Almost, fat back. Ya almost got me.

Fat Meat recovers, straightens up, and swings again, but Will catches his arm and pulls him into a bear hug. No suh, let go, man! Let me get ‘em! Fat Meat does a swim maneuver, a classic on the football field, and gets around Will. He swings again, this time with a combo, following his right hook with a left jab. Still laughing, Rich sidesteps both punches.

Come here! Say it again! Fat Meat yells, swinging one last time and grazing Rich's shoulder.

Will wraps his arms around Fat Meat again, this time squeezing until he calms him down. C’mon, Bobby, cool out nah, champ. You know Richie just tryna get under ya skin. He pats Fat Meat's large back muscles. Don’t forget Loretta left ‘em high and dry when she found out he was Jaw Bone Jerry's errand boy.

Fat Meat's chin wrinkles, and the corners of his lips turn up a smile; a distant, amusing memory starts to tickle him. A few moments later, the gentle giant is enjoying a good laugh.

Fuck y’all,