The tensions were a boa constrictor around my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. Venomous glares spit fire hot enough to burn a hole in someone’s head. Derogatory slurs passed under whispers on the streets. Segregation, so much segregation, invaded the brains of the people like a parasite, warping and devouring reason. And I, stuck in race given to me at birth, was forbidden to help.

            The Omaha Tribe used to be one of the Great Nations, but when the pioneers stole their land and pushed them out of sight, they dragged that name through the blood in the streets. The Red Summer of 1919: bodies littered the streets throughout America, names forgotten among the masses of the dead and the injured. And with the influx of African American workers migrating to Omaha to find jobs in the meatpacking industry, I knew it was only time before we were pulled into the frenzy.

            His name was Will Brown, he worked with my father, or my father’s father, I can’t remember. The reports came out on September 25th and my mother and father tried to hide the paper for my sake. They forgot I loved a mystery. One look at the front page was all it took; his name dominated the headlines with a descriptor of his race I choose not to reiterate. Black rapist of white women, they called him, a malicious contributor to society, someone who needed to be stopped. My heart froze in my chest, and for a minute I thought those things, too, and I hated him. I will regret that moment of burning, icy animosity for the rest of my days.

            Brown was arrested the following day. His arrest did more than incarcerate him; it set flame to the burning tensions simmering under the skin of the citizens of Omaha. The only thought the people could focus on, blacks and whites alike, was the thought of retribution. Whites dreamt of ways to get revenge on Will Brown for his alleged crime, blacks lost sleep trying to find some way to protect the innocent. My own tutor oriented her lessons on the various race wars that had been occurring all season. As important as those lessons were, I couldn’t find it in myself to care. All I wanted to do was to apologize to Will for my hateful feelings.

            On September 28th, two days after Will Brown’s arrest, I went down to the Douglas County Courthouse to visit with him. I didn’t even tell my parents. They would object with an iron fist. As I turned the corner onto the street of the courthouse, I heard them. The rioters. Young white men marched up to the courthouse with their signs and their justifications, demanding Will Brown’s head. I froze, unable to leave, unable to move forward. My legs melted into the cement below, my eyes pried open against their own will. Fire hoses sprayed at the mob as police officers tried to dispel and discourage their attack. Broken windows rained down on the people, dragging blood with them on their journey to the cement. Black men, strolling home from work, were beaten and bloodied with the butts of revolvers. The white men who tried to help them faced the same fate. And I, in my pearled necklace and silk gown, did nothing.

            Flames shot up in the sky as the crowd stormed the courthouse. The air, normally so pure and full of hope, was choked with smoke and the distinct smell of burning flesh. Humans became animals. Everyone, women, children, blacks, whites, they were all mutilated. Anyone who breathed felt their skins ripped open, exposing the same crimson blood to the world. Bullets rang through the atmosphere. People were shot, two of which were fatal, but I don’t remember their names; they were a part of the mob. The courthouse, in an attempt to save the white prisoners on the roof of the building, handed over Will. I saw him as he was yanked from the building, heard him moan that he was innocent by the word of God, watched as he was strung up on the telephone post of 18th and Harney, listened as the shotguns and revolvers riddled his lifeless body with bullets. Bile rose in my throat. I choked it down. It would be un-ladylike to lose my composure.

            But then they tied Will Brown’s body to an automobile. They dragged him, beaten and defiled, behind the car for four blocks before setting fire to his corpse. That should’ve been satisfaction enough for their wretched hearts. They shouldn’t have continued to pull his charred bones throughout the city. Peace should’ve been enforced before 3am on September 29th. The riot shouldn’t have lasted 13 hours. I should’ve gone home. I should’ve stopped them. I should’ve stopped them.

​

 

I look up from the red, leather-bound book. The fragile pages flutter as my hands shake, words blurring as if marked with the tears of the innocent. This diary holds the truth of my city, an unfamiliar dark stain packed away deep in the recesses of the library. Similar to the way the African Americans were tucked away to the north of the city, where they remain today. Out of sight, out of mind. That was the solution so many years ago.

 

What a shitty solution.