Tag: Black Bottom

Black Bottom 3

Once upon a time. I took a friend to the swamp bank. It was green with algae. Ugly. Not like it use to be. 

I invited a cousin. Beloved. 

We shared what we could. We answered questions. We wanted him (my new friend)  to get familiar with the past. The old days of Whitehouse/Westide. It’s fringe. It’s fun and it’s dark. It’s Southern Gothic. 

A lot was told. The Goat ( I call him that because of the stable life he has created for himself, his wife and his four daughters. He has grandchildren. He is a well known figure in the Westside community. Respected. ) made a statement about John Hysler giving the word to kill black men that were kidnapped and forced to work whiskey stills. 

The writer ran with it. He mistakenly touted stills on Old Gainseville Rd. He made up a neighborhood where the men were kidnapped from. It seems to me like these are important facts. In a story where much is left to the imagination, I cling to the known. In my opinion he made many errors. It was disappointing to me. He had no interest in us. As a matter of fact he was demeaning. As he is with most all Whitehouse/Westside people. And yet, I still call him friend.

Continue reading Black Bottom 3

Black Bottom 2

All things concerning Black Bottom. This is actually the third introduction to this topic. The first is set private. I have to make adjustments. This is an important subject to me. This has been an overwhelming, emotional subject to pursue. It’s kind of underground. (no pun but so ironic) I am committed to writing. We will see. I have witnessed numerous other writers on blogs do good work. That’s all I hope for.

Black Bottom

Out in the swamp, in Baldwin, Florida, under the earth, by a body of water, lay the bones of black men. Stolen from the streets of Jacksonville. Killed by vicious, backwoods moonshiners. Men who believed black people were like animals. Convinced they were animals. Put on this earth to be supportive of them. To provide a service; be it barking to protect, pulling a plow, or a source of transportation.

If they were of no use any longer. You kill ’em.

Now some people think killin means shootin. Not thinking, that if you want to kill a man, at an illegal whiskey operation, you don’t want to create an explosive sound. One that would draw attention to your egregious deed. You can slit their throat. Shove their face in the convenient mud. Suffocating their life’s energy. Laugh at their struggle. Why deprive yourself of the entertainment?

You could drown them in the creek and feed them to the gators. Save the time of diggin a grave. And you know those white, backwoods moonshiners didn’t do any digging. It would be a good guess those demoralized, threatened, tortured, helpless men, dug their own graves. Their flesh and bones long ago decayed. Now consumed by the swamp ooze that abounds in Florida.

Stagnant – missing – lost.

But all of this is an educated guess. We don’t know exactly who or how all of this happened. Pure evil murder.

But be sure it happened.

I am a Cracker by Birth – A Redneck by Default and a Peace Activist through reading, writing and education.