White Men and Socks

          "My papa used to tell em that you can tell a racist by his socks. I never understood what he meant until the day he was shot. They said he was causin' trouble in Forsyth Park, but I know my papa. I know he done nuthin' wrong. He was walkin' home from workin' down in the south end a' town; same way he'd been takin' since I can remember. He used to stop by the pond and feed the ducks the crumbs of his lunch. Ain't meant nobody no harm. I used to meat him just after the park on West Taylor Street. That day I waited for him till three thirty; that's when I knew something was wrong. I ran to the park as fast as I could. There I saw my papa holdin' his chest leanin' on the edge of the pond wall. His hands were cups of blood. He pulled me closer to him and told me 'I guess them white folk don't like a colored man feedin' them ducks.' Those were the last words he said to me. I looked around and saw a group a' white men starin' at me and my papa. They were wearin' them racist socks. It had a red circle a cross in the middle. I stayed there until the police came and dragged me away from my papa. That's the last time I saw him. They cuffed me and put me in jail for a couple a' nights. Didn't even get to go to his funeral. And that's all there is to it sir."

"Do you see the men who were in the park in this court room today, William?"
           "Yes sir, I do." He pointed to the three men sitting in the front row, "That's them."

           "All right, William. You can take your seat."