One of the lucky ones

How one woman dealt with a family history of hate

By W. H. Hinkley

ATHENS, Ga. (Aug. 4, 2005) — Mary Talbot knows a little something about bigotry.

Her twin brothers, James and Luke, joined the Ku Klux Klan when she was only eight, about a year after their father died. Her mother, a prominent figure in Athens during the 20s and 30s, spoke often in public about the blacks in her community — “those animals among us,” she often called them.

“My mother was a very frightening person,” Talbot recalls with a glazed expression. “She was a thin woman with small hands, but she carried herself like a giant. She was always stern about everything, especially after my father died. I can remember one of her speeches like it was yesterday. It was one of a number of speeches she gave during the summer of 1925 about the need to relocate blacks from Athens. I’ll never forget this one line: ‘Each day they dirty our streets and our air, and no amount of water can wash us clean.’”

Talbot, now 89, is the only one of her family left. Her brother Luke died last year, “a raving bigot till the end.”

Talbot says she hadn’t spoken to any of her family members in nearly 15 years. She tried, about 10 years ago, to get a hold of Luke, who had been aging poorly, but he wouldn’t return her calls. Then one day he sent a brief letter written in an unsteady script:

“Dear Traitor,” Talbot reads matter-of-factly, “I heard you’re giving away money to niggers. Well, I hope you’re happy with yourself. Great grandfather’s probably rolling over in his grave. The message you left me made me sick to my stomach. You were always a coward, feeling sorry for the niggers. DON’T EVER CALL MY HOME AGAIN.”

I told her about their laughter. I wasn’t trying to upset her with the details. I just told her what I remembered. So I told her that they were happy about what had happened, that they were smiling the next morning, like boys who’ve just had their first kill.

— Mary Talbot, on her brothers’ knowledge of the 1925 lynching of Bo Washington

Talbot tears the letter up and places it in a wastebasket by her chair. Her expression is almost emotionless. She suddenly smiles. “He hadn’t changed a bit,” she says. “Imagine being an 87-year-old man who thinks like a boy. Imagine being so full of hate, so full of confusion, that the only way to express yourself is through blind hatred. That was Luke — full of hate . . . a boy with nothing to say.”

She pauses, seemingly startled by what she’s just said, then: “I guess some people stay children forever.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Talbot’s great grandfather, James, was known in whispers as “Talbot the Terrible.” Few historians discuss his reign of terror in Athens, but stories still circulate among descendents of his slaves. One, Regina Baker, drove all the way from Toledo, Ohio, about four years ago to speak with Talbot.

“This woman had been researching her family history, and she came across my family’s name,” Talbot says, pouring a cup of tea with her terribly arthritic hands. “She called me one day to ask if she could speak with me in person. I guess she was curious to know if I had any information for her. I said I didn’t really know too much, but that I’d be more than glad to speak with her. She sounded so relieved.” Talbot laughs heartily. “I think she fully expected me to slam the phone on her.”

The two women talked about many things. Talbot gave any insight where she could. She talked about her mother’s lustful speeches. She talked about her brothers, who both joined the Klan when they were 16, how they often woke her with their boastful whispers at all hours of the night. She told of one time when she heard them talking about Bo Washington, a black teenager who was lynched just outside of Athens in the spring of 1925.

“I told her about their laughter,” Talbot says, tearing up. “I wasn’t trying to upset her with the details. I just told her what I remembered. So I told her that they were happy about what had happened, that they were smiling the next morning, like boys who’ve just had their first kill.”

Talbot told the woman what she knew about her grandfather, filling in gaps where she could. A few times the woman mentioned things Talbot either didn’t know or wasn’t sure about. The woman mentioned that her great grandfather, one of Talbot’s great grandfather’s slaves, had recorded in a diary a few years after being emancipated some of his slave owner’s cruelties, one of which included burning his slaves’ genitals for trying to run away.

“I told her I didn’t know anything about that,” Talbot recalls. “I told her, though, that it wouldn’t surprise me. I mean, just look at his granddaughter, my mother, and my brothers. They were absolutely terrible. Who’s to say my great grandfather wasn’t considerably worse?”

The two women exchanged goodbyes, but the woman from Toledo seemed to be holding something back. Talbot prodded her. The woman squeaked out an answer. “She asked me why I wasn’t like the rest of my family,” Talbot says, her eyes red and glassy. “I thought for a moment. I wasn’t sure what to say. Then I just said the first thing that came to me: ‘I guess I was just one of the lucky ones.’”

▪ ▪ ▪

Despite Talbot’s fussing, James Fielder, the 15-year-old boy who mows her lawn, insists on $10. “It’s not nearly enough,” Talbot says to him from the front porch. And it’s over 90 degrees out here. An acre for $10? You’ll get twice that, and like it!”

Talbot has only known James about a month, but she’s already babying him. They first met when he and two of his buddies decided to knock over her and her neighbor’s trashcans while coasting on their bikes.

“I saw them joyriding down my street, kicking trashcans as they went,” Talbot says, half-smiling. “Then James came to my trashcan. Let’s just say my trashcan won.”

James was tossed from his bike and fell awkwardly on his shoulder, separating it. The other boys kept going, quickly looking back only once. James writhed in pain while his buddies disappeared down the street. Talbot stood over him. She says she remembers the look of humiliation on his face.

“He had this look like, despite all his pain, he knew better,” she says. “And what’s more, I could tell he wasn’t like his friends. He seemed out of place. He seemed ashamed, as if he were somewhere he didn’t expect to be.”

Talbot, a nurse during WWII, took care of James herself. He pleaded with her not to tell his mother, and she agreed, on one condition: He had to do chores around her house free of charge. He happily agreed. After two weeks, Talbot broke down and started paying James, in part because she knew James could use the money to explain where he’d been going after school.

James smiles from the yard as he empties the contents of the mower into a clear lawn bag. Talbot smiles back. In some unspoken way, the two seem to understand each other. That Talbot’s white, or that James is black, seems irrelevant.

“He’s such a good kid,” Talbot says, smiling. “And so smart. We read together all the time.” A tear rolls down Talbot’s powdery-white cheek. “I don’t know why, but I already love him like a son. Imagine that — I’ve only known him a month, and already I’m crying over the boy.”

James hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy struggling to tie the bag he’s overfilled. He shakes his head, upset with himself. A few minutes later he finally gets a knot on the bag. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“He’s always so determined to do everything right,” Talbot says, drying her right eye. “Sometimes he gets frustrated about the small things. He tells me he feels like the world expects so little of him. I just tell him to keep his head pointed where he wants to go.”

▪ ▪ ▪

Talbot isn’t sure why things turned out the way they did. She likes to think she was just lucky. But she does remember the first time she saw the world from the other side.

“I must have been about six at the time,” she says. Her eyes close for a moment. “I was with my mother at one of the local playgrounds. There was this black girl about my age. For some reason she was by herself. She was at the top of one of the slides, getting ready to slide down. She seemed scared. All of a sudden these three white girls came out of nowhere, and one of them climbed up the ladder of the slide and shoved the girl down. The girl tumbled, end over end, down the slide. It was horrific. She was crying so hard. She was bleeding from her head. My mother looked at the crying girl for a moment, then looked away. It didn’t seem to bother her at all. But I was so horrified. The girl just screamed and screamed. I’ll never forget how I felt: It was the first time I felt how universal pain really is. And I’ve seen so many examples of it since — that pain that isn’t specific to any one person or group. It’s just pain — good old-fashioned human pain.”

I don’t know. I guess the name is a reminder. After my father died, my mother started using the name again. She did it to bring attention to her grandfather and his persona. . . . But for me, it represents everything I’m not. In a way, I guess I wear it as a badge — as a symbol of what I’ve become, despite where I came from.

— Mary Talbot, on why after her husband’s death she started using her maiden name again

Talbot rubs her hands, trying to keep herself from getting too emotional. “It’s hard to explain what it feels like to be the only one in your family who gets it,” she says, now looking at her feet. “I guess for a time I felt superior in some way, as if I knew something they didn’t and could hold it over them. But I came to realize that I was so out of place, and so alone. It was painful. There were times when I wished I didn’t get it. Even in college I envied those who went home for the holidays to see their families. I wanted what they had. I almost wished I could give it all up to be with my family.”

Talbot left home when she was 16, the year she finished high school. Her family cut her off financially soon after, so she paid for college by working in a dress shop. After college she married Harold Hill, an exceedingly wealthy businessman from Atlanta. He died of a heart attack only 10 years later. That’s when she decided to start using her maiden name again.

“I don’t know. I guess the name is a reminder,” she says. “After my father died, my mother started using the name again. She did it to bring attention to her grandfather and his persona. . . . But for me, it represents everything I’m not. In a way, I guess I wear it as a badge — as a symbol of what I’ve become, despite where I came from.”

▪ ▪ ▪

James has finished mowing the lawn and now sits on the porch, dabbing his face with a towel. He then smiles broadly at Talbot, satisfied with his work. James has a smile that could melt glass.

“Look at that smile,” Talbot says. “Have you ever seen such a big smile?” Their interactions are mostly playful these days. They sometimes even rib each other. James enjoys doing things for her before she gets a chance to do them herself. It’s his way of babying her for babying him.

The two of them sit silently for a while, occasionally exchanging smiles. Talbot then tells James to go make some lemonade — with extra ice.

“I’m leaving it all to him,” she says. She seems relieved to be telling her secret. “I’ve already worked out the details. He’ll get an allowance.” Her revelation suddenly seems overwhelming to her. She takes a tissue from her pocket and dabs her eyes. “He said he wants to go to college. I’ll get him the help he needs to do that.” She seems unable to say anything more. After a few moments, she continues, smiling: “He told me the other day he was lucky to have met me. . . . Well, he just got a whole lot luckier.”