Page 121 of Meet Me on Greenwood

Gray came from around the group. "Someone ought to teach you your place—"

By this time, several Black men had stepped forward, shoulders squared, their hands in their jackets. "Or what?"

Did they all have guns? Had they somehow known that it would come to this?

"You miserable…" Gray started.

"Don't." A Black man who I recognized from the church staff came forward. "Don't finish that sentence."

I couldn’t have accounted for what happened next because it all unfolded so quickly. The first gunshot came from the balcony. Then a glass broke. The jazz band abruptly stopped playing, and screams rose as the careful mixed company of the Stradford Cosmopolitan Ball came apart at its seams in the space of about ten seconds as several Black patrons pulled out their weapons.

Houston's hand found my waist. "Let’s go, now."

I reached for Rita, who was already holding onto Bernie and we all pushed through the crowd like a tethered rope.

Others around us seemed to be deciding whether to scatter or participate, but Houston held me firm, moving toward the main entrance. Behind us, someone fell over.

"Rita!"

"I’ve got her!" Bernie called, lifting Rita onto her shoulders.

We hit the entrance together, all four of us, tumbling out of the Stradford. Stopping, we looked around at the city now painted in orange flames. The Stradford Hotel’s lower floor windows were blown out. Smoke swirled and people filed out with cloths held over their mouths. The roof of Doc Eastman Café’s had toppled on the eastside, and the rest looked like it was soon to follow as fire licked the shingles. Ida’s Bakery was a wall of flame, mixed with sugar and the char of freshly baked bread. Glass littered the roads, reflecting the destruction as police walked down the street with their rifles drawn. Greenwood was on fire.

44

Houston

Democracy Not a Party for Whites Only: Tulsa County Democrats Welcome Negroes

My heart accelerated as I realized what was going to happen. I looked around.

"They planned this," I said quickly, realizing this ball had been engineered by the Sherriff and his Night Riders to get everyone they could in one place so they could do the most damage. "We have to get people out of here."

Crowds swarmed around us, exiting the hotel, seeing the policeman mixed in with the group of men who hid under white hoods. It was such a strange composition, seeing them integrated together, almost like the police were the Klan.

"Hooded cowards!" someone shouted.

The men lifted their guns. They were going to shoot us, right here in the street. I held onto a trembling Gema. I looked down into her eyes, removing my jacket and placing it around her shoulders.

"If they shoot, you run," I whispered. "Don’t wait for me."

"What?"

"Promise me?"

"Houston, what are you—"

I left her side before I lost my nerve. The mob tilted their heads in confusion, but held their guns steady.

"Move out of the way, Dr. Whitaker," a voice said. "We mean you no harm." I knew that voice. It belonged to Dr. Harper, the pharmacist. I spoke to him regularly about my patient’s prescriptions.

"These people mean you no harm," I said. "Why not let them go home in peace?"

"First, they kill our people in the middle of the woods, and now they’re setting fires? These people do nothing but cause mayhem."

I recognized the second voice as the Sheriff.

"Why would they set fires to their own community? Come on now?" I said.