“I was nine years old when they ran us out of Forsyth County in 1912. My father let me take one thing, a baseball he’d bought for me in the spring. I gripped it tight as we pulled away from our house. My mother was expecting my sister then, so she laid down in the back of the wagon. White men on horseback watched us with their rifles pointed in the air. Pop stared forward with the reins in his hands. ‘This is what they do, son,’ he told me. I heard glass break and turned to see a torch fly in our front window. Pop grabbed my head and twisted it so hard my neck hurt. ‘Boy, don’t look back,’ he said. ‘Don’t give them the pleasure of seeing your pain.’ Most of the day passed before he talked again. He never got over it. That was his land, handed down by his father. The whites stole it, just like they stole it from the Indians. Took our crops, too. And they’ve had their way up there ever since. Today’s not one bit different in Forsyth than the day I left.”
A Novel by Jonathan Grant
ISBN 978-0-9834921-3-9 (ebook)
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