It had been twenty years since Myop had been back to her childhood plantation. She had left as soon as she was old enough at the age of nineteen. Her mother and father were unbearable to live with, with all their lies and deceit. The dusty road leading to her parent’s old southern home was a very bumpy, long road. The southern home was white and quite large, with four pillars holding up the porch. The house was set off the dusty road on a hill overlooking the plantation. There was a massive oak tree with limp limbs that hung almost to the ground. Myop looked out the window of her carriage as they approached, looking for any signs of her parents, but as they got closer her assumption looked to be true. The house was deserted and her parents had long since left.
The carriage stopped in front of the house, dust spewing into the windows of the carriage. Myop sat for a moment wondering if she really wanted to get out and face her demons. Do I really want to re-live this? She thought to herself. The memories were stirring deep in the darkest part of her mind. She fought to suppress them but strained to keep them down. Being in this place was too much to handle. She closed her eyes taking a deep breath. The cab driver, who had been holding the door open for Ms. Myop, finally asked, “Miss Myop, are you okay?” The cab driver startled her, bringing her back to the present.
“Yes, Jerome, I think that the ride was a bit rough for me.” She said as she began to stand up and exit the cab, Looking Jerome in the eyes. Jerome was a large black man, but was very kind and soft hearted. He had been Myop’s cab driver for the past ten years, and they had become great friends.
The feeling that she got on this plantation was the same feeling she had had as a child: light and good. However, now that she was older and knew the ways of the world, Myop knew what actually went on here at this plantation. As she looked around the field, her eyes fell upon the memory that defined her life. She was looking at her father’s fire pit. Her anger at her father showed all over her face.
Jerome, who had been watching to see if Ms. Myop was truly okay, gently said, “Ma’am, I know when there be somethin wrong with a lady, an I be seein that there be somethin wrong here with you. Now I know you don’t wanna talk bout it, but that be the very best thin to do, naw.”
She continued to stare at the fire pit with a scowl. Her memories were as clear as day now. She could remember everything that her father and mother had done and said, and she hated them for it. “Jerome, my parents were Klu Klux Klan members,” She said with a stern voice, never turning to look at Jerome. “My father was a high ranking member, and that fire pit over there is where they would perform their burning cross rituals. They would erect a large wooden cross and then light it on fire symbolizing the ‘cleansing fire of Christ’. They would do the ritual every time they were going to hang a black man.” The words hung in the air for a few minutes. Neither person said anything. They both just stared at the fire pit.
“I found the place that they would hang the men,” Myop’s memory was now streaming all her childhood memories. She had never said any of this to anyone and to finally be able to tell someone was a relief. “I would watch from my window,” Myop turned to face the house pointing to the top right window, “while they would burn the cross and then they would march down into the trees there and hang the men. I was too young to do anything about it. So, I would pretend that I didn’t know what was going on and days after the hangings I would go and cut the men out of the trees and try my best to bury them.” Myop stared into the trees. She couldn’t help but think of the hot summer days spent digging shallow graves for young sharecroppers. “One summer, I must have dug fourteen graves.” Myop said. Her hair began to stand up on end just thinking of all the men that were buried out there. They were put to death because they had a different skin color. How could they…
“How ol’ were ya Miss Myop, when you buried all dem people,” Jerome asked quietly.
“I was thirteen years old,” said Myop.
Myop fought back tears. How could someone have so much hate inside of them? She didn’t understand as a child, but she understands now. Hate comes from fear, and fear comes from things that you do not understand. “From the moment that I had found the first body lying in the leaves, I have hated my parents,” She said quietly. The anger that had been built up in her reached a boiling point. She had buried all these feelings like she had buried all the men, but today she would dig up these memories and end this.
Myop ran to the carriage ripping the door open. Inside was a single can with the words “KEROSENE” written in bold words on the side. Grabbing the can, she turned towards the large house and began the march up the hill to it.
“What you doin wit dat can, miss Myop?” Jerome yelled up to her.
Myop stopped and turned to face him and yelled back, “Something I should have done a long time ago.”
