June Riot

Greenwood, Oklahoma
June 1, 1921

The belly weight won't let me sleep. That, and the heat and the smoke. Ned was up before dawn and I was still awake, wanting this baby out. My husband slipped out like he always does, not putting on his boots until he's outside. Considerate. Some women here complain about their men, say they give coloreds a bad name with their whoring and gambling. But Ned was never like that, never even a stray glance, not once the whole time I been with child. I attribute it to the Lord.

The smoke wafts in. I ease from the bed. Last night some of the uppity niggers marched out of Greenwood into Tulsa. Carrying guns. Went to prevent a lynching, is what Missus Charles next door said. Ned shook his head, kept saying, "They's fools," but I don't know. A black boy bumped a white girl in an elevator. She says he raped her. Next thing you know, the whites are at the courthouse ready to kill the boy. If I had a dollar for every time some white woman said she was raped by our men, I'd be living in a fine house up north.

Living in town and still on straw ticking. Don't seem right. But the coloreds get straw and the whites get mattresses. That's the difference between Greenwood and Tulsa right there—straw and mattresses. Oh, there's no profit in such thoughts. I push up from the nightstand and make my way into the kitchen. My back aches and my ankles feel like they'll explode.

Ned's left half the coffee and a surprise: a slice of white bread slathered in molasses. I heat up the coffee and nibble at the bread. I'm not hungry—no space down there. The baby barely shifts now, an enormous, washpan-sized lump. I slide back, trying to get comfortable on the hard, flat-bottomed chair.

That smoke smell again. I expect they set another house on fire, the white boys with their torches and guns, those white hoods. Ned says the good Negroes—like us—have nothing to fear.

No use trying to sit. I stand. Upright the baby settles down. It's a kicker, has been for months. Ned so wants it to be a boy. Lord knows he deserves it after two stillborn babies. And I want this child, please dear God, I do. Just one healthy baby for me and Ned.

There's shouting outside. I lean out the window. The air is hot and still, dank from the night. The noise seems to come from the northwest—up on Greenwood Street maybe? That's where all the businesses are. A fire, most likely. Explains the smoke. I hesitate, listening. Doesn't sound like a fire, exactly.

I turn and go to the counter. Best clean up the dishes now, when I've got my strength. Seems like afternoons I just want to rest and sleep.

I feel a shift inside, a settling. Is it today? I don't trust my body, not after the last baby. So certain it would come out screaming, and then Betty Lou shaking her head, saying, "He's strangled is all." God's will. A child not meant to be. His judgment is heavy but always just.

I glance at the wind-up clock on the windowsill. Ned's been working a good hour at the stable. Mister Shockley is one of the good whites, Ned says, willing to treat you right if you give him respect. Ned says these young niggers have gotten used to making folding money and wearing fancy clothes, as if they were better than us. Ned says these niggers don't respect their elders, and I expect that's right. But it's not my place to say, anyhow.

I move into the sitting room. The house has three rooms and no hallway—each space just runs into the other. Cozy is what Ned says. Elbows touching when both of us is here. With the baby, I don't know.

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