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Sister BBy David Charles Hart
Produced by FriesenPress (2019) The 1930’s is a gang-ridden, racially-charged, violent era in the United States, especially for African American families who live in the South. Lynching, shootings, and horrific savagery perpetrated against blacks, male and female, by mobs of white men rule the day. A young African American wife, mother and resident of Vicksburg, Mississippi, Willie Mae Davis, nicknamed Sister B by her family, has had enough of Mississippi and the South in general. Consequently, in 1938, she temporarily leaves her four-year old son and husband with relatives and heads to Los Angeles, California to seek a better life. A childhood friend that lives and works in the coastal community of Coos Bay, Oregon, beckons Sister B to come and visit. In 1939, while on a northbound train up the west coast, Sister B’s life and the life of a Japanese photographer converge. Together, they learn the juxtaposition of triumph and tragedy, of war and racism, of passions and prejudices, are ubiquitous in America and Japan. The rise of the centenarian, Sister B, from relative obscurity in Mississippi to a position of venerable prominence in Oregon is a fascinating odyssey replete with rich American and Asian history. Her memories as a youngster in the Deep South were first shared with only her family. Now they are shared with everyone. |
Excerpt
Prelude: Homicide — December 1936
Shortly after midnight, the police arrive. Lying in the pitch-black alleyway, near the back door of the Cabaret Club, they find a body. A male. He has been shot. The club owner, a Negro named Leroy, known by the police, closes earlier than usual. The police chief questions him.
“All right, Lee-roy, what the hell happened?”
“Suh, I’s in muh office takin care uv sum bidness. Ere’body wuz havin’ uh good time. Den suddenly I hears shoutin’, den, bang-bang! Two gunshots. I wastes no time and calls you. I comes out duh office, ere’body gone. Sumbody brought duh body out hea. I didn’t.”
“You know him?” the chief asks.
“Naw, suh.”
“Any idea who shot this young man? Out hea’n the dark, he looks to be ‘bout twenty.”
“Naw, suh, I has no idear who shot ‘im.”
“Judging from the blood on the front of his shirt, Chief, he’s been shot in the chest,” one of the other officers says. “But, there’s only one gunshot wound, not two.”
The stern chief looks directly into Leroy’s eyes. “You nevuh saw this man in yo’ club befo’, Lee-roy?”
“Naw, suh, I hasn’t.”
“All right. Open yo’ back door there. We’ll bring the body in and take a look at him.”
“Yass, suh.”
“C’mon, fellas,” the chief says. “Let’s git him inside, see if we can find some identification.”
As the chief helps the other officers lift the body, he happens to look up toward the club’s back window. He pauses for a moment when he sees a small figure nearby.
“Hold up, boys. Look yonder. See that alley cat on the club’s back winda-sill? See him, eyes glowin’ in the dark?”
“Yeah, we see him,” an officer says. “What of it?”
“Don’t mean to sound superstitious, but I bet that cat knows who shot this kid and dumped his body out hea’ on the ground. The cat saw the whole gawd-damn thing lookin’ through that winda’.”
One of the officers smirks. “Well, let’s run him in for questioning.”
They all laugh—except Leroy. Once inside, the police learn a bit more about the victim.
“He’s a white man,” one officer says. “What the hell he doin’ here in this nigger joint?”
“Oh, c'mon man,” another says, “you know he was probably lookin’ for some black women to—”
“Hey, look here,” says the officer who is searching the body. “There’s a little photo in his billfold here.”
“All right, well, let’s see it,” the chief replies, holding out his hand.
“Sure, sure. It’s a picture of a Negro guy in a baseball uniform, and an Asian woman is standin’ next to him. Underneath it says, ‘Parents—Tokyo.’”
“Well, I’ll be gawd-damned,” the chief says. “He ain’t white, he’s half nigger and half Jap. But he’s so fair skinned, he could pass for white. Probably did. Call an ambulance. Let’s git him down to the morgue. Lee-roy, you come with us.”
“Yass, suh.”
“There’s a helluva lot more questions I want answers to,” the chief says. “I can see the big, bold front-page headlines now from some local Mississippi rag. ‘MURDERED: White Nigger-Nip Shot, Killed at Vicksburg Negro club near Waltersville. No witnesses. Police baffled. Club owner held for questioning.’ That last point will be right; that’s for damn sure.”
Shortly after midnight, the police arrive. Lying in the pitch-black alleyway, near the back door of the Cabaret Club, they find a body. A male. He has been shot. The club owner, a Negro named Leroy, known by the police, closes earlier than usual. The police chief questions him.
“All right, Lee-roy, what the hell happened?”
“Suh, I’s in muh office takin care uv sum bidness. Ere’body wuz havin’ uh good time. Den suddenly I hears shoutin’, den, bang-bang! Two gunshots. I wastes no time and calls you. I comes out duh office, ere’body gone. Sumbody brought duh body out hea. I didn’t.”
“You know him?” the chief asks.
“Naw, suh.”
“Any idea who shot this young man? Out hea’n the dark, he looks to be ‘bout twenty.”
“Naw, suh, I has no idear who shot ‘im.”
“Judging from the blood on the front of his shirt, Chief, he’s been shot in the chest,” one of the other officers says. “But, there’s only one gunshot wound, not two.”
The stern chief looks directly into Leroy’s eyes. “You nevuh saw this man in yo’ club befo’, Lee-roy?”
“Naw, suh, I hasn’t.”
“All right. Open yo’ back door there. We’ll bring the body in and take a look at him.”
“Yass, suh.”
“C’mon, fellas,” the chief says. “Let’s git him inside, see if we can find some identification.”
As the chief helps the other officers lift the body, he happens to look up toward the club’s back window. He pauses for a moment when he sees a small figure nearby.
“Hold up, boys. Look yonder. See that alley cat on the club’s back winda-sill? See him, eyes glowin’ in the dark?”
“Yeah, we see him,” an officer says. “What of it?”
“Don’t mean to sound superstitious, but I bet that cat knows who shot this kid and dumped his body out hea’ on the ground. The cat saw the whole gawd-damn thing lookin’ through that winda’.”
One of the officers smirks. “Well, let’s run him in for questioning.”
They all laugh—except Leroy. Once inside, the police learn a bit more about the victim.
“He’s a white man,” one officer says. “What the hell he doin’ here in this nigger joint?”
“Oh, c'mon man,” another says, “you know he was probably lookin’ for some black women to—”
“Hey, look here,” says the officer who is searching the body. “There’s a little photo in his billfold here.”
“All right, well, let’s see it,” the chief replies, holding out his hand.
“Sure, sure. It’s a picture of a Negro guy in a baseball uniform, and an Asian woman is standin’ next to him. Underneath it says, ‘Parents—Tokyo.’”
“Well, I’ll be gawd-damned,” the chief says. “He ain’t white, he’s half nigger and half Jap. But he’s so fair skinned, he could pass for white. Probably did. Call an ambulance. Let’s git him down to the morgue. Lee-roy, you come with us.”
“Yass, suh.”
“There’s a helluva lot more questions I want answers to,” the chief says. “I can see the big, bold front-page headlines now from some local Mississippi rag. ‘MURDERED: White Nigger-Nip Shot, Killed at Vicksburg Negro club near Waltersville. No witnesses. Police baffled. Club owner held for questioning.’ That last point will be right; that’s for damn sure.”
book details
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Book Specifications
300 pages Black & White 6x9 inches ISBNs: 978-1-5255-4239-8 (eBook) 978-1-5255-4238-1 (Paperback) 978-1-5255-4237-4 (Hardcover) Categories: FIC049020-Fiction, African American, Contemporary Women FIC041000-Fiction, Biographical FIC014000-Fiction, Historical Keywords: History—African American and Japanese; women, racism, war. |