My Parents Were KKK Members...and Pedophiles by Mary Knight
EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING
EXTREME TRIGGER WARNING
CAUTION TO READERS: THIS ESSAY IS EXTREMELY BRUTAL
When I watch footage of an arrogant police officer with skin the color of mine kneeling on the neck of a Black man pleading for his life, I see the squinting eyes and the “I have the right to take your life” contorted face of my father.
I struggle with how to process my personal experience in the context of the racial justice conversations in which Black voices should, of course, be predominant. Do I have the right to speak out? Do I have the responsibility to do so?
My parents were in the Ku Klux Klan. To hide their KKK membership, my family led a double life. My paternal grandparents proudly displayed the plaque that they received for their work while on the board of directors of a Black Christian College in Terrell, Texas. My father, a spirited singer, was often asked to be the guest song leader for the gospel meetings held by an African American Church of Christ in Seattle, Washington. Occasionally, he was asked to lead singing at other area churches, always ones whose members were primarily, or exclusively, African American. My parents taught me to say “Black” when it replaced “Negro” as the preferred term. Eenie Meenie Minie Moe involved catching a monkey by the toe. I never heard either of my parents use a racial slur. I now believe that my relatives had a sinister reason for working so hard at appearing non-racist; it made it easier for them to get away with victimizing Blacks.
Even as a child, I had no conscious memory of the abuse except for being aware while it was actually happening.
As a teenager, I was obsessed with reading books like Manchild in a Promised Land and Black like Me. My cousins, all of whom are as pale as me, passionately discussed these books with me.
My first memories of childhood abuse surfaced in 1993, when I was thirty-seven years old. By then, three of my cousins had remembered ritualistic abuse. Since accusations of fabricating memories were common in the 90’s, we decided to be careful. My cousins shared the details of their memories only when I sought confirmation for similar ones.
I became exhausted as a result of regaining so many memories in such a short time. One particular memory came with a tenderness that still touches me as I recall it. I had just gotten home from driving my sons to school. I parked in the garage and turned off the engine. Sitting in silence in my SUV, I heard a love song. I wondered if this song was in some way associated with my childhood abuse. When I asked God about it, there was no message other than His/Her love for me. I rested one arm on the steering wheel and did not move at all for what seemed like an hour, though, in reality, it was only 15 minutes. I felt comforted, relaxed, rested. Then I saw flashes of a white cross.
At first, it seemed like a Sunday drive. I was eight years old. I had on a pretty dress, white lacy socks, and the shiny shoes that were only for wearing to church. My father drove our Ford station wagon. My mother sat up front with him.
We stopped and picked up the medical doctor we called Dr. D. For most medical problems, I was taken to Group Health, where my father’s insurance from his job at Boeing paid for treatment. I was treated by Dr. D when I “fell” too often or had yet another bladder infection.
Dr. D sat in the back seat with me. I stayed on my side. I don’t know how far we drove. It seemed like a long way to an eight-year-old. I leaned against the car door and fell asleep.
Somewhere out in the country, we stopped at a shack. A Black man invited us in. He may have been one of Dr. D’s patients. Or he might have been someone my parents knew from their church connections
Once inside, my father and Dr. D pulled out their guns. I saw two women, both of whom looked older than the man. It’s hard for a child to guess the age of an adult, especially one of a different race. The man was skinnier than the women. My father tied the women to chairs in the kitchen. Boards already painted white were taken out of the station wagon, and a cross was erected inside the shack. The man’s arms and legs were strapped to it. There was a little girl who was exactly the same size as me. She was cute, with tiny braids all over her head. Her dress was clean and ironed. I remember thinking that someone must really love her.
One gun was pointed at the little girl’s head, and the other gun was pointed at my head. The man was told that if he would pretend to die willingly, as Jesus did, his little girl would be spared.
My mother held our eight-millimeter camera. I knew that there were people who liked to see movies of murders, because I had already been made to lay motionless after beatings and pretend to die on camera. Apparently, people who like to see Black men killed also like to see little white girls with their clothes off. I had to do things to the man while he was on the cross.
I stared at the man’s face. He was dead. I do not know whether he died from hanging on the cross or from what they made him eat. I was not left to wonder how the little girl died. As soon as the man took his last breath, my father shot the little girl in the head. The women screamed. I screamed too. Dr. D and my father then moved quickly. They set the shack on fire. My mother tried to grab my hand, but I did not want to leave with the bad people. I wanted to stay with the good people, and die. I broke free and ran back into the burning shack. One of the women screamed at me to leave saying, “Little girl, go so you can grow up and tell what happened.”
At my next counseling session, I carefully read aloud what I had written in my journal about this event. I was relieved when my counselor thought it might simply be symbolic. I called a cousin later that evening. He said, “I haven’t had a memory like that one.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Then he said, “The Black men I saw crucified had no family. They were homeless.”
For years after the memories surfaced, I was obsessed with trying to spur a murder investigation. My childhood home was near Seattle, Washington, but I did not know where the crime had been committed. I could have been driven to a neighboring state or even to Canada. Still, I contacted police departments in Seattle and surrounding cities. Sometimes I was put on hold, but in the end, I was told that there simply was not enough information for any type of investigation. There is no statute of limitations on murder, but you must at least know the jurisdiction. I considered hiring a private investigator to see if there were records of the death of a family unit that included a father, a little girl, and two women, when I realized they may have been unrelated homeless individuals who my parents lured to a shack with a promise of food or medical care.
I recalled the eyes of the man whose body I was forced to touch. Was he someone who would pretend to die on a cross willingly even if the child whose life would be spared as a result was not even his own daughter? Was the woman with the kind voice not asking for a favor from me when she said, “Little girl, go so you can grow up and tell what happened?” It occurred to me all these years later that she was not asking me to tell her story. She did not want anything from me. She was using her dying breath to plead with me not to give up on my life. With parents so evil as mine, in order to want to go on living, I would need a purpose, a reason to go on. Telling a story is a purpose that even a traumatized little girl can quickly comprehend.
As I keep figuring out, my life purpose is to do what I can to make the world a safer place. This desire propelled me to be a social worker for 23 years, and it motivates me now to make films that make a difference, to be a foster parent, and to write this and other stories: to share truths, to heal.
My goal is not to spur an investigation of a crime that occurred almost 60 years ago. My parents are dead. Dr. D is dead. There can be no real justice after the perpetrators die.
My goal in sharing this truth, these atrocities, is to build a slightly less hazardous space so those who suspect their loved ones were killed in a similar manner may speak out, should they choose to do so. But I must admit that even this comes from a mostly selfish desire, of my own burdened heart.
It must be noted, though, that there is some logic behind my telling about something that happened so long ago, for these are not isolated historical events. The KKK is active today, and it is far more dangerous than many people realize. Days after Mr. George Floyd was murdered and I was flooded with memories once again of my father’s brutal acts, I posted something about my parents on Facebook. Not even four hours later, I was contacted by two individuals, both with skin the color of mine. One said, “I witnessed the murder and dismemberment of a Black girl when I was eight. The little girl was eight, too.” The other, a young woman who was sex trafficked as a child by relatives, told me that her mother is currently a KKK member and a sex trafficker of minors.
Brave readers, I write about brutal acts because I know that there is no defense against atrocities known only by perpetrators and their victims. I write about this so that those of you with skin the color of mine will get close enough to the burning shack to allow it to illuminate any parts of your heart that you have kept hidden from yourself. Because there is no such thing as being just a little bit racist.
People ask me why my parents and other relatives did such horrible things, as though I am some sort of authority on evil. I concentrate on the things that make a difference to me, like how I can quit feeling guilty about the crimes committed by my parents.
And I remind myself that it is mothers who give you life, and that when my young body wanted to die, it was given new life by the words of a Black woman.
Sometimes I allow myself to forget that I am white. Otherwise, I see my face when I watch footage of Amy Cooper telling a Harvard educated bird-watcher armed only with dog treats that she will, “Call the cops…and tell them there is an African American man…” When the National Football League commissioner finally acknowledges what have obviously always been the rights of Black NFL players, his voice sounds much too similar to that of my father. And when I see video of Mr. Armaud Arbery being gunned down while running, I remember the steadiness with which my mother held the eight-millimeter camera.
With my eyes closed, I am learning how to paint happiness into every corner of my life. Happiness scares me since it was the exotic animal that was brought into my childhood only when it led a parade of torture; my own and that of people who, in my heart, became more related to me than those who share my blood, my features, my complexion.
And I pray that, before I die, I can live in a society that is reflective of a truth I have known since I was a little girl.
A truth that is both indisputable and, somehow, possible to ignore.
The truth that Black Lives Matter.
When I watch footage of an arrogant police officer with skin the color of mine kneeling on the neck of a Black man pleading for his life, I see the squinting eyes and the “I have the right to take your life” contorted face of my father.
I struggle with how to process my personal experience in the context of the racial justice conversations in which Black voices should, of course, be predominant. Do I have the right to speak out? Do I have the responsibility to do so?
My parents were in the Ku Klux Klan. To hide their KKK membership, my family led a double life. My paternal grandparents proudly displayed the plaque that they received for their work while on the board of directors of a Black Christian College in Terrell, Texas. My father, a spirited singer, was often asked to be the guest song leader for the gospel meetings held by an African American Church of Christ in Seattle, Washington. Occasionally, he was asked to lead singing at other area churches, always ones whose members were primarily, or exclusively, African American. My parents taught me to say “Black” when it replaced “Negro” as the preferred term. Eenie Meenie Minie Moe involved catching a monkey by the toe. I never heard either of my parents use a racial slur. I now believe that my relatives had a sinister reason for working so hard at appearing non-racist; it made it easier for them to get away with victimizing Blacks.
Even as a child, I had no conscious memory of the abuse except for being aware while it was actually happening.
As a teenager, I was obsessed with reading books like Manchild in a Promised Land and Black like Me. My cousins, all of whom are as pale as me, passionately discussed these books with me.
My first memories of childhood abuse surfaced in 1993, when I was thirty-seven years old. By then, three of my cousins had remembered ritualistic abuse. Since accusations of fabricating memories were common in the 90’s, we decided to be careful. My cousins shared the details of their memories only when I sought confirmation for similar ones.
I became exhausted as a result of regaining so many memories in such a short time. One particular memory came with a tenderness that still touches me as I recall it. I had just gotten home from driving my sons to school. I parked in the garage and turned off the engine. Sitting in silence in my SUV, I heard a love song. I wondered if this song was in some way associated with my childhood abuse. When I asked God about it, there was no message other than His/Her love for me. I rested one arm on the steering wheel and did not move at all for what seemed like an hour, though, in reality, it was only 15 minutes. I felt comforted, relaxed, rested. Then I saw flashes of a white cross.
At first, it seemed like a Sunday drive. I was eight years old. I had on a pretty dress, white lacy socks, and the shiny shoes that were only for wearing to church. My father drove our Ford station wagon. My mother sat up front with him.
We stopped and picked up the medical doctor we called Dr. D. For most medical problems, I was taken to Group Health, where my father’s insurance from his job at Boeing paid for treatment. I was treated by Dr. D when I “fell” too often or had yet another bladder infection.
Dr. D sat in the back seat with me. I stayed on my side. I don’t know how far we drove. It seemed like a long way to an eight-year-old. I leaned against the car door and fell asleep.
Somewhere out in the country, we stopped at a shack. A Black man invited us in. He may have been one of Dr. D’s patients. Or he might have been someone my parents knew from their church connections
Once inside, my father and Dr. D pulled out their guns. I saw two women, both of whom looked older than the man. It’s hard for a child to guess the age of an adult, especially one of a different race. The man was skinnier than the women. My father tied the women to chairs in the kitchen. Boards already painted white were taken out of the station wagon, and a cross was erected inside the shack. The man’s arms and legs were strapped to it. There was a little girl who was exactly the same size as me. She was cute, with tiny braids all over her head. Her dress was clean and ironed. I remember thinking that someone must really love her.
One gun was pointed at the little girl’s head, and the other gun was pointed at my head. The man was told that if he would pretend to die willingly, as Jesus did, his little girl would be spared.
My mother held our eight-millimeter camera. I knew that there were people who liked to see movies of murders, because I had already been made to lay motionless after beatings and pretend to die on camera. Apparently, people who like to see Black men killed also like to see little white girls with their clothes off. I had to do things to the man while he was on the cross.
I stared at the man’s face. He was dead. I do not know whether he died from hanging on the cross or from what they made him eat. I was not left to wonder how the little girl died. As soon as the man took his last breath, my father shot the little girl in the head. The women screamed. I screamed too. Dr. D and my father then moved quickly. They set the shack on fire. My mother tried to grab my hand, but I did not want to leave with the bad people. I wanted to stay with the good people, and die. I broke free and ran back into the burning shack. One of the women screamed at me to leave saying, “Little girl, go so you can grow up and tell what happened.”
At my next counseling session, I carefully read aloud what I had written in my journal about this event. I was relieved when my counselor thought it might simply be symbolic. I called a cousin later that evening. He said, “I haven’t had a memory like that one.” I breathed a sigh of relief. Then he said, “The Black men I saw crucified had no family. They were homeless.”
For years after the memories surfaced, I was obsessed with trying to spur a murder investigation. My childhood home was near Seattle, Washington, but I did not know where the crime had been committed. I could have been driven to a neighboring state or even to Canada. Still, I contacted police departments in Seattle and surrounding cities. Sometimes I was put on hold, but in the end, I was told that there simply was not enough information for any type of investigation. There is no statute of limitations on murder, but you must at least know the jurisdiction. I considered hiring a private investigator to see if there were records of the death of a family unit that included a father, a little girl, and two women, when I realized they may have been unrelated homeless individuals who my parents lured to a shack with a promise of food or medical care.
I recalled the eyes of the man whose body I was forced to touch. Was he someone who would pretend to die on a cross willingly even if the child whose life would be spared as a result was not even his own daughter? Was the woman with the kind voice not asking for a favor from me when she said, “Little girl, go so you can grow up and tell what happened?” It occurred to me all these years later that she was not asking me to tell her story. She did not want anything from me. She was using her dying breath to plead with me not to give up on my life. With parents so evil as mine, in order to want to go on living, I would need a purpose, a reason to go on. Telling a story is a purpose that even a traumatized little girl can quickly comprehend.
As I keep figuring out, my life purpose is to do what I can to make the world a safer place. This desire propelled me to be a social worker for 23 years, and it motivates me now to make films that make a difference, to be a foster parent, and to write this and other stories: to share truths, to heal.
My goal is not to spur an investigation of a crime that occurred almost 60 years ago. My parents are dead. Dr. D is dead. There can be no real justice after the perpetrators die.
My goal in sharing this truth, these atrocities, is to build a slightly less hazardous space so those who suspect their loved ones were killed in a similar manner may speak out, should they choose to do so. But I must admit that even this comes from a mostly selfish desire, of my own burdened heart.
It must be noted, though, that there is some logic behind my telling about something that happened so long ago, for these are not isolated historical events. The KKK is active today, and it is far more dangerous than many people realize. Days after Mr. George Floyd was murdered and I was flooded with memories once again of my father’s brutal acts, I posted something about my parents on Facebook. Not even four hours later, I was contacted by two individuals, both with skin the color of mine. One said, “I witnessed the murder and dismemberment of a Black girl when I was eight. The little girl was eight, too.” The other, a young woman who was sex trafficked as a child by relatives, told me that her mother is currently a KKK member and a sex trafficker of minors.
Brave readers, I write about brutal acts because I know that there is no defense against atrocities known only by perpetrators and their victims. I write about this so that those of you with skin the color of mine will get close enough to the burning shack to allow it to illuminate any parts of your heart that you have kept hidden from yourself. Because there is no such thing as being just a little bit racist.
People ask me why my parents and other relatives did such horrible things, as though I am some sort of authority on evil. I concentrate on the things that make a difference to me, like how I can quit feeling guilty about the crimes committed by my parents.
And I remind myself that it is mothers who give you life, and that when my young body wanted to die, it was given new life by the words of a Black woman.
Sometimes I allow myself to forget that I am white. Otherwise, I see my face when I watch footage of Amy Cooper telling a Harvard educated bird-watcher armed only with dog treats that she will, “Call the cops…and tell them there is an African American man…” When the National Football League commissioner finally acknowledges what have obviously always been the rights of Black NFL players, his voice sounds much too similar to that of my father. And when I see video of Mr. Armaud Arbery being gunned down while running, I remember the steadiness with which my mother held the eight-millimeter camera.
With my eyes closed, I am learning how to paint happiness into every corner of my life. Happiness scares me since it was the exotic animal that was brought into my childhood only when it led a parade of torture; my own and that of people who, in my heart, became more related to me than those who share my blood, my features, my complexion.
And I pray that, before I die, I can live in a society that is reflective of a truth I have known since I was a little girl.
A truth that is both indisputable and, somehow, possible to ignore.
The truth that Black Lives Matter.
