I want to thank you for all you have done for
me. I have never been able to tell anyone about the things that happened which led to me being where I am today. I don’ t hold any
grudges anymore. Those that have done evil to me are gone and I think
it’s time that someone knew the truth, ugly as it is. I know it doesn’t
excuse my actions and I’m not asking for any forgiveness. I just want
someone else to know. I was fourteen when I
realized that I might not see my fifteenth birthday. That the color of
my skin could determine whether or not I was worthy to live another day to do those things that White people take for granted like
breathing, eating, and enjoying life. Because on that day, June 28,
1955, some sick, miserable, red-necked bastards whose two-faced asses I
saw almost every day and who acted like they actually like Colored
people, hung my baby brother, Mays. Twenty years
have come and gone and I can still remember that day like it was
yesterday. It was hot, just like now, and Mama had told me and Mays to
pick some blackberries for a pie. We walked along those roads to Old man Tillston’s creek without a thought to anything beyond
eating some good pie later on that night. Never once did it occur to us
that right now was all we would ever have of good living. We’d just
reached the creek when we heard the voices. I shushed Mays and we crept
closer to see who was there, crawling the last few feet and hunkering
down behind some shrubs to peek. Our mouths dropped open at the sight in front of us. There were four men—Grocer Briscoe, Deputy
Sheriff Sims Maley, Banker Rawly Moss, and Principal Brent Bent, along
with two girls from town, Mandy Smith and Tookie Lays—and all of them
were as buck-naked as jaybirds. We should
have just high-tailed it back down the road, but seeing something that
folks only whispered about but we had never actually seen held us
there. Watching. Peeping. We saw them rubbing all over those girls and
they just laughed and moaned like they were hurting when they
put their pecker in them then after a few minutes, they were laughing
again and having somebody else put another pecker in them. I felt
things I hadn’t felt before or since that day in my privates. Confusing
things. We probably would have stayed there watching them
until the sun went down ‘til that snake showed up. Mays saw
the Cottonmouth sitting there coiled not ten feet from us and he jumped
up and yelped. This made those White folks see us then and I could tell from their faces they weren’t too happy. Something told me to run
and I yelled at Mays “Run!” I could hear the cussing behind us as we
shot through the woods. We ran about a mile before we rested, hoping
that we were too far away for them to find us, hoping that nobody had
recognized us. They set the dogs after us. We
climbed into a tree but they found us anyway--treed like the ‘coons
they later called us. We refused to come down. Then, Sims Maley sighted me with his shotgun and shot buckshot just about my head.
That what those old pockmarks on my face are. Buckshot
wounds. I jumped from the tree and I remember hands holding
me down, fists punching my body, my screams muffled by a
pecker roughly shoved into my mouth. A gruff, ‘Bite it and I’ll blow ya
goddamn brains out!’ forced me to allow the indecent pumping as one by
one they shot their wad into my innocent mouth. I heard Mays yelling
and them struggling with him. I fought as best I could, but no matter
what, I couldn’t get away. I blacked out as others tore apart
my womanhood and rectum in wild lust for as long as their stinking
asses wanted! My next recollection is of seeing this black
hunk of something swaying slowly in the air, the buzzing of flies all around me. Thinking back, I probably was dazed. I know the
only reason I’d moved at all was because a stick was poking me in my
back. But just as soon as I moved an inch, the pain shot up from
between my legs and I slapped my hands over my privates which caused
me to scream loud and long. Then…I
remembered. I stumbled as I ran to that black hunk, praying
that it wasn’t what I already knew in my heart it was…Mays. But not the Mays I knew and loved. There was no way in hell that the
charred, bloated face, skin shreds hanging halfway to the ground
alongside his guts, resembled my eleven year old brother. But it was.
My baby brother was dead, hung and gutted like a deer, not because he’d
done something to deserve it, but because they could. And they
knew they could. I don’t exactly recall what happened next.
I do remember trying to hold up the dead body, hoping that there was some life left in him. At some point, I must have
stumbled to the road and found help because my next memory is of my
father and mother screaming and howling in pain. My father ranted
something terrible, a loaded gun in his hands. He yelled at me to ‘Tell
me who did it! I’ll kill them with my bare hands!’ For the life of me,
I couldn’t. The thought of him leaving us just like Mays made
my throat close up. A doctor was called in. There was only
one that would treat Coloreds and he was habitually drunk and had poor
hygiene. I squeezed my eyes shut as I felt his nasty fingers
touching my most private parts. Those same nasty fingers gave me an
infection which left me scarred for life. The
Sheriff was summoned along with that killer deputy, Sims Maley. I
always thought the Sheriff was pretty decent but his nonchalant
attitude at our pain made me wonder. Sims stood right behind him as he
questioned me in a bored tone, showing no fear as he pantomimed slitting his throat followed by shooting me with his
fingers. The Sheriff either didn’t see him or he just didn’t care. I
shut up for good after that. I wish I could say that life
got back on track at some point for our family, but I can’t. We had a
good life by White or Colored standards. My folks were high school educated and they always stressed education for me and Mays. Our
future was already decided—college, then good jobs up North. Our fruit
stand kept us working for ourselves. I never thought about whether this
would rankle the folks around us, but I guess it must have. A lot of people came by the house with food and condolences but all of
them were in a hurry to leave when my father began talking about
hunting down the dirty dogs that killed his
son. His pain never lessened either. He began drinking to
‘get away from himself’ he said. Along with the drinking, he
lost interest in the fruit stand and eventually, it was no more. My
mother turned into a ghost overnight. The once robust woman’s spirit
was broken and nothing my mute self did could revive it. I stood by
helpless as my father turned into a drunk and my mother withered away
until she died. Me, well, there were too many
changes to count— nightmares, my hair turned white within a week and never a day goes by that I don’t see the burned up Mays in my
mind. All my hopes and dreams of college and teaching seemed to have
ended with this tragedy. I already knew no one would do a damn thing.
Not the Sheriff, not the preachers, nobody. See, memories are short whenever a Colored person is lynched. The White folks just
want to forget about it and the Coloreds are too scared to think on it
too long. Somebody might rat them out and then they’d find themselves
on the short end of a long rope. Whatever justice Mays got, I’d have to
be the one to get it for him. That’s when I began plotting revenge. I’d been cleaning houses and taking in wash
just to put some food on the table. My father lived in a drunker stupor and wasn’t any help to me or himself. I scrubbed floors
until my hands bled while remaining “invisible” to the White folks I
served. They never even bothered to call me by my given name, Martha.
Instead, I became Old Aunt Mae. Twenty years old and I looked
sixty. Grocer Briscoe’s son, Junior, hired me when I was
twenty one because his wife had just had a baby and their old
maid had retired. I didn’t know how I would use that job to get back at
Mr. Briscoe but believe you me, I was willing to kill everybody with
his last name to do it. Fortunately, Grocer Briscoe loved
food and I’d become a pretty good cook. In fact, he called me Plum Lady
since I could make anything out of plums—jams, jellies, cakes, pies, pancakes, muffins. After dinner one night, he asked me to
whip him up a “special” batch of my plum muffins. I knew this was my
chance. I sprinkled rat poison all through that muffin batter and
cooked them just like I always did and sent them over to the house.
They say he ate them in one sitting. He bled to death not two days later. One down…three still
standing. Principal Bent was the next to go simply because
I got tired of waiting for an opportunity to kill the others. He would always work late. I’d see his car, a new Buick, sitting
there outside the school on my way home. The few times we did pass each
other, he never spoke or even looked my way. Like I said before, I was
invisible to White folks. While I was sitting up
late trying to think of a way to kill him, I thought about that old
Cottonmouth that got us in trouble in the first place. The more I
thought, the madder I got. I finally got one of my cousins—I won’t say
which one ‘cause he’s got nothing to do with this—to bag me a snake and hide it near the school. I tell you, I was scared to
death when I saw that bag lying there just where I’d told him to put
it. But he had to die. I was real careful when I flipped
that snake out of the bag through the window. Then I waited. It took
only a day before that Moccasin struck, biting Brent Bent six times on his legs. They say he cried like a baby from the pain before he
swelled up something awful and died. Two down…two living
and breathing. Somehow, I got lucky enough to get a job as
Banker Moss’ maid. You know, when you work for folks, you find out all kinds of things about them. One thing I learned was: Rawly
Moss was deathly allergic to nuts. He was constantly asking me if I’d
put some nuts in the cakes, pies and muffins. He’d refuse to eat
anything he thought was suspicious. But Rawly Moss had one major weakness—he loved liquor, especially Jack Daniel’s one hundred
fifty proof. One
day I was down low, just thinking and thinking and thinking about Mays,
about how Rawly saw me but didn’t see me, about how he’d gotten away
with murder and never seemed to give a thought about killing a child.
The devil got in me and I grabbed a handful of peanuts and crushed them to powder before I poured it into his bottle of Jack.
Sure enough, he came home and went for the liquor. He must of had a bad
day because he downed it straight from the bottle, chugging all of it
in a few gulps. I smiled before I left for home just like I always
did. When I walked up the next morning, the cars were all
over the street and I could hear Mrs. Moss crying when I went
in the house. Rawly Moss was dead. They even had to have a closed
casket because he’d turned black in the face and his tongue was swollen
and sticking out of his mouth. Three down…one
still walking around. Now Sims Maley had become the Sheriff
by this time. He never forgot what he did and he never let me forget it
either. Whenever I’d run into him, he’d find a way to run his
finger across his throat and play shoot at me. I wanted to kill him
each time he did it. You don’t know how many nights I sat up imagining
killing that no good bastard. I wanted to shoot him or stab him to
death or drag him behind my Daddy’s old truck until he was in pieces.
His time had to come! I almost tore my hair out waiting and waiting and waiting. But, God don’t like ugly and I knew that if I
waited long enough, I’d get my chance. I guess Sims must of
gotten suspicious and begin putting two and two together. Anyway, he
came out to question me. I let him in, his nasty shoes tracking mud across my clean floor before he sat down on my couch. Then, this
low down cracker let me know how low down and hateful he really was—he
belched, farted then asked me if I wanted some more of his good loving
while he grabbed at his pecker. I
snapped! I hit him in the head with a lamp, knocking him
out cold. Something told me to get my butcher knife and I slit that dog’s throat just like he’d showed me so many times. I watched the
life draining from him, but he didn’t look like he was suffering like
Mays must have. That’s when I cut him up and fed him to the hogs. Yes,
because he was a snake, a murder and just like them when they lynched
Mays, because at that moment, I could. The rest
you already know. I probably should have told you earlier but what
difference would it make? Nobody cares when Colored children are born
or die. Nothing Colored folks do is worthy of reporting in the
newspapers or on television unless they commit a crime. Not then, not now. Twenty years have passed and folks are still the same as
they were when Mays was lynched. I know my time is getting
short, so let me end it here. What I did might not be right in the eyes
of God, but I believe I was justified. I hope that you will respect my
final wishes and let this story stay between you and me. Harry, again, thank you for everything. You are the best lawyer
I’ve ever
known.
Sweetback
Chronicle Volume 54, Issue 27 July 6, 1975
Negro Murderess
Executed
Convicted Negro murderer, Martha Green, was executed today in the gas chamber at Parchman State Penitentiary. She was
convicted of the brutal murder of beloved Sweetback, MS sheriff, Sims
Maley. There was no known motive.
