|The picture I took before the book.|
Death in the Delta is the book's name. Molly Walling wrote it and I have the hardback version on my left at the dining room table. It is holding candle to a night dotted with white lights and ribbon and stripes and candy canes and polka dots.
A hardback book feels, I don't know, special. Plus, it was given to me which means somebody somewhere said hey, I think you could be a writer. You write about this book, about this story.
Under the words death in the delta are five other words
Maybe that's four plus a letter, the letter a.
The cover is looming with a burnt yellow sky, the silhouette of a burial, a barren tree.
Molly's name is buried beneath.
The inside flap tells me Molly grew up in a family secret about her father and the murder of two people, being white and being black in a fifties' Mississippi. How long that secret was kept, what it did to a family and Molly's quest to discover it. She already has my respect.
My friend, Adam, would laugh right now and mention something about my white guilt. How as a woman born of the seventies in a small southern town I feel more compelled to be kind to people who are not my color. It is a racism in itself, the differentiation. It is hard to write about race when you don't want to see it.
I plan to read this book on Sunday, write my review thereafter and send it to the toughest editor who has ever been nice to me. She says it will be out in the January issue and you can read it online for free.
Before that though. Prior to me opening this book to the first page I would like to say Molly already has a challenge. The best book I ever read about race and the south and a white girl and her father uncovering secrets was written by Harper Lee.
I named my car Scout. Atticus Finch is one of the sexier men in history.
(sorry Peck, I couldn't watch the movie)
Today I am grateful for how a book, words on pages, facts of cases can change us.