Page 122 of Lease to Love

The question caught me off guard, but I knew the answer.

"Black men came home from a war they'd fought for a country that didn't want them back," I said. "White mobs attacked Black neighborhoods in more than thirty cities while the government watched."

Ms. Langston watched me. I continued.

"Black people fought back that time. The bloodshed on both sides is why they called it Red Summer." I leaned back slightly. "I assume your family was already here when it happened."

She nodded. "My grandfather was."

Her fingers moved over the edge of one gold bangle.

"He was home one night in July when he heard the gunshots. A fellow soldier—one of his friends—had been falsely accused of assaulting a white woman. A mob followed that man and his wife home."

Her voice remained steady.

"Hundreds of white sailors, soldiers, and Marines flooded the street, surrounded the house. They were beating on the door, trying to get inside to exact ‘their justice’."

"Lynching," I said quietly. "Or worse."

She nodded.

"But it didn't happen."

Her eyes hardened.

"The Black residents came out. Neighbors. Friends. Men who'd served beside my grandfather. They rallied to defend that family and their home."

She paused as a breeze moved through the garden.

"They returned fire. Scattered the mob. Even wounded one of the sailors."

She looked out across the flowers.

"The other Black residents locked their doors and prepared to defend their homes with their last breaths. We survived that night."

Her voice softened.

"We survived the so-called police intervention that came afterward, too. Which mostly meant Black men and women being beaten in the streets for the crime of being on the streets they lived on."

My jaw tightened.

"Until enough people made enough noise that the president finally stepped in and stopped the violence in his own backyard."

"And history called it a riot," I said. "Reduced it to a footnote. Made it sound like two sides got angry and things got out of hand."

I shook my head. "Like the people who lived through it weren't fighting to stay alive."

She nodded. "My grandfather told that story more times than I can remember. My father did the same."

Her fingers tightened around her bangle.

"They wanted me to understand something."

Her eyes met mine.

"The importance of fighting back when people with power decide what's yours is suddenly theirs. Regardless of how long you've had it."

I sat back.