I got into journalism because of my grandmother, sis Rube.

We were leaving her home church in, Pickins, Arkansas, one day when her tears changed my life.

Me: “Grannan, what’s wrong?”
Her: pointing to this tree in front of the church...

“That’s where the hung my Uncle.”

How sadistic does one have to be to hang a human being outside the front door of their family church? Sis Rube was in her 60s by then, but that image was in her mind’s eye.

I was about 4 or 5, and it was then imprinted in mine as well.

That’s what American racism does. It permeates. It’s never too far—always there to remind you of what happens when you don’t, ‘stay in your place.’

Since that convo, I’ve dedicated countless hours of my life looking for that story in the records. As a middle schooler, I’d get dropped off at the Pine Bluff Public Library to sift through microfilm for records of my great Uncle Jeff’s lynching. I was that kid.

I was in high school when it dawned on me that his story probably didn’t make the paper because to the press, to the decision-makers, his life did not matter.

I love journalism because it’s history. What we write, film, share will be critiqued centuries from now. Words matter.

To this day, when I’m in my hometown, I spend hours at the public library, reading microfilm, still searching for my Uncle Jeff’s story. #RipSisRube

My girl!