Very strangely, it was only after I got back in touch with an old boyfriend and friend from my pre-Jurassic college days that I learned, from one of his chance comments, that the “possibly correct” account my brother once told me of my cousin’s ex-husband’s death was true.
I was very moved by this, both because I do care for all these persons, and because in a strange way the tale parallels part of the plot of my recent The Rescuer’s Path novel–the part about the murder of a radical activist.
You may have guessed by now–the real event, the killing, to which I refer tonight is what is now known as the Greensboro Massacre, and my cousin had been, at the time, for some years divorced from the by-then remarried doctor who was one of two doctor-organizers shot to death, that November 3, 1971, while organizing textile workers, in Greensboro, North Carolina, by the Ku Klux Klan.
Why do I recount this now? Because this is our heritage. Yours too, if you will take it.
We have loved, lived, struggled, felt empathy for one another; many have died. La lutte continue, as we say, just as does much else in life. Remember.