It was the weekend before the start of my seventh grade year at Greer Middle School that my dad took me downtown to another Ku Klux Klan meeting. By my twelfth birthday I’d been to quite a few Klan rallies, which were always held in a field just across the interstate. Those rallies were used to drum up support for the continuation of racial segregation since a lot of white folks were still endorsing antiquated Jim Crow statutes.
“Jim Crow” was not only a derogatory term for an African American, it became the official name given to the racial caste system which functioned primarily in the southern United States and its surrounding borders from the late 19th century into the mid 20th century. During this time in the south, state and local laws were enacted by white southern Democrat-led state legislatures to disenfranchise people of color during the Reconstruction era. That period of U.S. history began with the proclamation of the 13th Constitutional amendment that officially abolished slavery on December 18 of 1865 and it culminated in the Voting Rights Act of 1965. That piece of federal legislation guaranteed the right for minorities to vote without fear of repercussion. Prior to that, those same white southern Democrats enacted Jim Crow-related constitutional provisions that mandated the segregation of all public places, including transportation and schools. This extended to restaurants, restrooms and water fountains. Even though the 13th amendment officially abolished slavery, ninety years later Rosa Parks would famously refuse to give up her bus seat in Montgomery, Alabama. Since it was a white person for whom she refused to concede her spot, it resulted in her arrest in 1955 for civil disobedience by violating the state’s Jim Crow segregation laws.
Down the road in Laurens SC, a once tiny hamlet that sits just south of the Spartanburg county line, they still struggle with their racist past. Like many cities during the middle of the 20th century, Laurens had their very own segregated movie house, the Echo Theatre. By the end of the century that same building housed the Redneck Shop in the heart of the town’s historic district. The proprietors, who were known Klansmen, sold KKK, neo-Nazi and white supremacist paraphernalia like lynching photos and shirts that said ‘Original Boys In The Hood.’ They also held Klan meetings there, to no one's surprise.
I realize this may all sound incredibly foreign and antiquated these days, but this is what life was like not that long ago. While today's cancel culture prevents citizens from talking about it openly, I’m quite certain there are plenty of people, many of whom still frequent the pews of our local churches, who still harbor resentment about this subject. I'm sure I could probably find you a dozen friends of mine right now, a half-dozen easy, who would tell you that their daddies probably went to a Klan function back when we were kids.
The Klan meetings, however, were something entirely different. This is where the local Klan members and their affiliates planned outdoor rallies and related events. If you're thinking this time was spent with a bunch of ignorant white men hootin’ & hollerin’ about how many blacks they were going to lynch, you’d be wrong. These get-togethers, which were held on Cannon Street in Greer at a building right across the road from an old grocery store-turned skating rink turned live music venue, were very civil and orderly. The building is still there to this day. I think it’s now a salon or a day spa, but back then it was operated by a local entrepreneur. I’m also inclined to believe this is where our jukebox came from, but I honestly don’t know for sure. From time to time it was necessary to conduct larger meetings at other venues in town that were hosted by like-minded individuals. I recall my dad going to some of those but I never tagged along.
It was also acceptable during this time for the son of a Klansman to become a Junior Klansman, to follow in their father’s footsteps. The only stipulation was these new recruits had to be at least twelve years old. Since Tommie Dean was an officer in the local KKK, it was imperative that I also become a member. It was another test to see if I was ready to walk in my dad’s shoes. I’m sure this is why he took me with him to Davenport the morning it mysteriously burned to the ground. It's why I had my first beer with him and his buddies about a month earlier, and I’m sure it’s why he trusted me to have his back that day in Little Chicago when he confronted his drug dealer about getting ripped off. I still think about my dad expecting me to point that pistol at someone and pulling the trigger. I honestly think I would’ve done it. As I’ve said before, when I was a kid I was hell bent on doing whatever it took to make my dad like me. I wanted this because I’d been born with the dreaded disorder bestowed upon many eldest sons - I longed for the absolute adoration of my father.
My Klan initiation wasn’t much to talk about. It was me and one other boy, whom I didn't recognize. We were both joining on the same day because we’d recently celebrated our twelfth birthdays. The informal ceremony was conducted by the Grand Magi while my old man and the other kid’s dad stood behind us and observed. As you might imagine, we swore an oath which required us to repeat some phrases with our hand on a King James bible. We were taught two terms: Ayak and Akia. Ayak is an acronym for “Are you a Klansman?” and the second term is the appropriate code word with which to respond. It stood for “A Klansman, I am.” Then we were taught the not-so-secret handshake we were to use to let others know, by way of introduction, that we were Klansmen. Over the years, I’ve shook hands with white men who performed their version of this handshake. I’ve learned to hold their hand a little longer than normal and look them square in the eye, but I’ve always refused to reciprocate their handshake.
After the swearing-in ceremony we hung around a bit while my dad chatted with the others. Outwardly, I didn’t feel any different and nothing seemed to change. Inwardly, this all felt like more of the same kind of stuff that was happening when I was around my dad that summer, all done under the watchful eye of my mom.
My dad and I left and drove home. Once again, not a word was spoken between the two of us.
With the start of school a few days away, my mom took me to a local department store to buy some school clothes. I probably bought a pair or two of Wrangler’s but I distinctly remember getting a lightweight nylon jacket with snap buttons. These were popular then and I happened to get a new one which was about to be festooned with some patches.
I need to interject something about what was going on in my head during this specific time of my life. Because I’d become an officially sworn-in Junior Klansman I’d gotten this vibe from my parents that it was time to step up my game. Up until that point I felt as if I were watching parts of my life from a distance - as if it were some type of out-of-body experience. The Klan parts, the crazy parties down in the Lover’s Hideaway parts, the Little Chicago parts. It became increasingly evident that I was allowing myself to be a pawn in an ominous game. I knew enough to realize that my friends didn’t need to know some of these new details about my life and if any of my buddies had their suspicions they knew better than to ask.
What I’d figured out was that my parents wanted me to assimilate more into their adult world. It was actually my mom telling me this stuff, pulling me aside and giving me suggestions, coaching me, grooming me. She also let me know my dad expected these things, which were dots my twelve-year-old brain struggled to connect. There were countless times when I wanted to just run away, but I had no place to go. So I did the best I could to keep everything a secret.
This is where my nylon jacket becomes an integral piece of this story. Those patches it got weren’t the inescapable peace signs that adorned a lot of blue jeans back in the early seventies. These patches were the KKK logo, which is round with a red droplet of blood in the middle of a white iron cross. My dad had a stash of these since they were sold at Klan rallies. My mom sewed three of them on my jacket, one on each sleeve and another on the front. When Tommie Dean saw it he said to wear it to school and he didn’t ask me, he told me to.
I suddenly felt like I was figuratively standing on the edge of a real-life precipice. I’ve experienced two legitimate phobias since my childhood. One of those was an intense fear of heights. I used to have a recurring dream about standing at the rim of a tall cliff, terrified, as I watched my little brother approach me and then stumble over the edge. In those dreams, nightmares really, I was always too frozen with fear to even attempt to save him as I watched his tiny face disappear from my site. Inevitably, I’d wake up from those dreams the moment I realized my youngest sibling was falling to a certain death, with the awareness I did nothing to save him. It was always gut-wrenching and I would sit there stricken with grief, crying inconsolably. At that moment, knowing I was expected to wear my new jacket to school, around my classmates, made me feel like I was back up on that cliff again.
© 2023 Joseph Phillip Lister Sr.
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