I woke up late on December 3rd, toppling out of bed still swaddled in flannel sheets. I went a few rounds with the top sheet before finally wrestling free. I stumbled to the closet, rifled through the hamper, and fished out a pair of crumpled jeans. Hurriedly, I put them on and did up the fly, snagging my index finger in the zipper.
I ran to the bathroom, grabbed two fistfuls of Band-Aids, and shoved them into my pockets. I didn’t even really need a Band-Aid. My finger was barely bleeding. But in my haste, I wasn’t thinking. It was an hour’s drive from Durham to Pelham. I should have been up and out by 8:00 am, but it was already after 9:00. I snatched up my coat and ran out the door, leaving a trail of Band-Aids strewn in my wake.
I was late for the Klan parade.
In an effort to take my own advice, I spent the days following the election searching for ways to act. Like any good millennial, I hit up social media and scoped out the scene. Social media didn’t fail me. Several local groups and events sprung up in the face of oppression, chief among them an anti-Klan rally organized by the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) in the Triangle Area of North Carolina.
For those unfamiliar with the sturm und drang of life in North Carolina these days, we’ve had a devil of a year: transgender discrimination disguised as bathroom policy; a contentious gubernatorial race; unprecedented (unpresidented?) political power grabs; and the cherry on top of the shit sundae — the Pelham chapter of the KKK throwing a victory parade to celebrate President-Elect Donald Trump.
The victory parade (or “klavalkade,” as the Klan called it) provoked progressive North Carolinians, who have existed in a constant state of outrage since HB2 passed last March. Thankfully, anger over the klavalkade manifested in action. Two main counter-rallies emerged: the Justice and Unity Rally, to be held in Raleigh, and the IWW’s Call to Action Against the Klan, to be held wherever the Klan decided to march.
I felt ambivalent about my options. The Justice and Unity group espoused love as a means of protest. Traditionally, that would have been my weapon of choice. However, I felt uncharacteristically drawn to the IWW protest. The IWW would face-off with the Klan wherever it marched. Wasn’t it time for me to see the reality of racism for myself? Wasn’t it time for me, a White person, to assume some of the risk?
Once I thought about it like that, I realized I’d already made my choice.
I got into Pelham just after 10:00 am. I pulled off onto a gravel shoulder and fiddled with my GPS, which kept desperately trying to navigate to Danville instead of to the Pelham Community Center, where the protesters had agreed to meet.
“Bad signal,” I mumbled as I restarted the GPS.
Secretly, I worried it was a portent.
I took a moment to look around. As I contemplated the homes of Pelham along US 29, I began to understand the phrase “Forgotten America.” From my vantage point on the shoulder, I saw a hodge-podge of manufactured and modular homes, seemingly lined up in order of dilapidation. The front yards evidenced blue-collar tenants: farm equipment, work boots, scrap lumber, and pick-ups in mid-repair. One yard had an old Playskool swing set, and the swings knocked about in the wind.
As I watched the empty swings, it occurred to me that I had yet to see anyone around. In fact, the whole area seemed deserted. The Walking Dead came to mind. I checked my rearview mirror (half expecting to see a horde of undead cresting the hill behind me) and pulled back onto the highway.
I was relieved to see signs of life as I walked up to the community center. Roughly a hundred protesters huddled outside, encircling the protest leaders whom I could hear but not see. I was pleasantly surprised by how many of us were White. But then I wondered where we White folks had been during previous protests, and I felt ashamed again.
I sensed the group’s flagging morale. An older woman standing near me explained that, despite reports saying the klavalkade would begin at 9:00 am, the Klan had yet to show. Most of the protesters had been waiting for several hours and were feeling restless; they worried the Klan had duped us and that they were already parading in “victory” elsewhere.
To keep energy up, the group decided to do a trial run of sorts. We’d follow the train tracks and march a mile loop around the community center. By the time we got back again, maybe we’d have some news.
We were the very picture of a motley crew marching down that street in Pelham: parents with their kids; older folks with their signs; students with their knapsacks; professionals with their button-ups; hipsters with their banners; musicians with their instruments; and me with my red coat and tam.
A young Black woman in the group carried an old paint bucket like a drum; she tapped out a beat on the base of the bucket with her drumsticks, and we all marched in time.
“No hate! No fear!” she called out.
“The KKK’s not welcome here!” we answered back.
At the head of our group were the IWW leaders. Dressed in black and wearing kerchiefs like bandits, they intimidated me, but I still walked close behind them. I looked over at the train tracks and saw a photographer running alongside us snapping pictures. I wondered what people would think of the protest leaders in those pictures. I wondered if their dress would hurt public opinion. I wondered if that mattered.
I turned my eyes back to the road. I glanced ahead at the IWW protesters and noticed something I hadn’t before. Several of them gripped steel bats in their hands.
My stomach went sour, and I felt my saliva thicken as my mouth went dry. I reached into the pockets of my jeans. Two pockets full of Band-Aids: the whole of my half-baked preparations for this protest. I pulled out a Band-Aid and squeezed it anxiously in my right hand.
“What am I doing here?” I thought to myself. “Shit just got real, and I’m armed to take on a damn paper cut.”
Just then we heard sirens wailing behind us. Instinctively, I stepped aside to let the vehicles pass. And then I remembered why I was there.
When I first heard the sirens, I felt no fear. In fact, I didn’t even think they had anything to do with me — because they never do. And even if they did, I live in a world where I just step aside and the conflict stops. But not everyone lives in that world. Some people live in a world where they show up unarmed only to be shot in the back. Some people live in a world where the KKK holds parades celebrating their oppression. And that’s not how it should be.
I looked at the police cars idling in the road behind us. I stepped back into the street with the others, and we continued to march.
If you follow the news, then you know the Klan never showed up in Pelham. We chased them to Danville after getting word they’d be there instead. They never showed up to Danville either.
When they finally did turn up, their “victory parade” was nothing more than a lame-ass, twenty-car motorcade through Roxboro. They waved a few confederate flags. One idiot yelled, “White power!” out of his window. And that was it.
Was it a victory for us? Did we scare the KKK into backing down? I don’t know. Maybe. It might have just been that they were too busy stabbing themselves to hold a parade.
Were the protest leaders wrong to come armed for a fight? I don’t know. But I do know that my Band-Aids wouldn’t have been enough.
I don’t have all the answers, but I do have some action. As is usually the case with me, I’ve found that my preferred approach is somewhere in between. It’s somewhere beyond love, but it’s short of violence.
Whichever approach you’d choose, I suggest you put it into play — especially if you’re White. When I heard those sirens, I was reminded of our extensive privilege. It’s nice to hear sirens and assume it means help is on the way. It’s nice to know the KKK isn’t gunning for you. Shouldn’t we all be able to live in a world like that?
