I moved into a new apartment last weekend. It has these beautiful windows that overlook the Oakland skyline. In the distance I can see the Bay, in another direction I can see mountains. It is by far my favorite place to sit after a long day of work, or in the early mornings, or in the evenings. Its a space where I can truly relax.
I’m trying to be intentional about releasing some of the weight I carry… whether it be from work or just everyday life. Not all of this is worth it. Especially when I know that in the long term, I want something totally different.
Today’s Story—
Sometimes I think about what has been lost, due to greed, due to entitlement. The things we’ve earned that have been ripped from our hands because someone else wanted it, or they didn’t like that we had it. I’m thinking of the Greenwood District of Tulsa, of Rosewood, of all the other times. When I dig deep into my family tree, I found two times that my family survived race riots— one that happened when my grandmother was a teen. It’s not so far removed from us. I wrote this story a few years ago, hoping to reclaim a bit of what was lost.
Untitled
by Katrina Mitchell
It was August 1951 and Albertina was returning to Opelika for the first time since leaving for Spelman College almost ten years before. And it had been that long, if not longer, that Albertina nursed the anger she felt for this town and the people in it.
She looked at the dusty Alabama red clay that had settled on her black patent leather shoes, making them look rusted over. She walked alongside the narrow road to her Aunt Edna’s house. The town hadn’t changed much since she’d left. She recognized the Carter Plantation, looking stately as always, to her left as she passed by. Soon, she’d be passing by the General Store that she grew up in.
The sign on the roof now said “James & Son General Store.” She stood outside but didn’t dare to go inside. She remembered seeing her father and mother being dragged out of the store that night. She remembered hiding in the cellar as it happened.
James Bentley, the new owner of the store, stepped out onto the porch. His hair was white and thin, and his lean body seemed to stoop more than she remembered.
“You buyin’ something?” He shouted at her.
“No sir, “ Albertina responded.
“Then you need to git.”
Albertina walked away slowly. His voice sounded the same.
“Charlie!” He’d called out that night, his head and face covered in a white cap. He was surrounded by about 20 other men, all wearing white, their cars and trucks parked by the Carter Plantation.
“Charlie!” He’d called, as if he was summoning her father. Charlie looked out the window, then quickly grabbed a shotgun. He handed it to Albertina.
“Grab your sister and y’all get in that cellar, y’hear? Anyone comes near you, you shoot ‘em wit this.”
Albertina nodded quickly, then ran off to grab her sister, who was sleeping peacefully, oblivious to what was happening.
“Charlie, you got ten seconds to get out on this porch, or we’re coming in after you! One, two...”
“Just take anything you want, “ Charlie yelled from the front door.
“I want your store,” James laughed.
Albertina wished she could fire a shot from the cellar, but no one ever came close enough. They never discovered her or her sister. After they dragged out her parents, Albertina and her sister escaped through the back cellar door and ran to their Aunt Edna’s.
Albertina turned back and looked for the tree that held her parents’ burning bodies. It had been chopped down. She walked around to the cellar, then slowly climbed inside. It was dark, but still organized the same way her mother organized it when they first got the store. A small streak of light fell on the corner where Albertina and her sister stood that night, and on the steel barrel that still stood there. She picked up the old shotgun, which looked well taken care of.
Moments later, Albertina found herself standing in front of James Bentley again, her father’s shotgun pressed into his chest.
“Anything you want, just take it,” James begged.
“I want my store back,” Albertina growled.
Albertina ran out the back cellar door and into the woods towards Aunt Edna’s house.
Her shoes caked with another layer of Alabama red clay, and blood.
