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I should have stayed in bed , I thought to myself. But bed meant nightmares, from my reoccurring dream about leeches crawling all over me to the even

worse dream I’d started having about my twin brothers, Aaron and Marcus, being chased down by the Viet Cong. Most nights sleep

was not a place of peace. Most nights all I wanted to do was run from the images playing in my mind like something from a

really bad movie. Mama said I’ve had nightmares all my life. I would think, at the age of forty, I would be over such nonsense,

but the dreams just kept coming and evolving.

Rather than allow my overactive brain to torture me any more, I woke up with the intention of getting to work early. But instead of flying down the road toward my office, there I sat, pumping the gas pedal of my eighteen-year-old Chevy pickup in a valiant attempt to get it to crank. It was a cold November day, and my truck was not in the mood to make my morning easy. The truck used to belong to my daddy. He left it to me right before he died, and all these years later, I still held on to that truck like it carried the spirit of Daddy in it.

I whispered a prayer under my breath: “Please let this old clunker start up, and please, let there be no surprises, no grief,

and no turmoil for me or the boys at the group home.” I usually prayed some semblance of this prayer every morning, but this

morning felt different. It felt weightier. I added the words my mother would always pray: “Dear Creator, today I need mercy.”

I was the executive director at the Pike County Group Home for Negro Boys, and the last few years had been difficult, mainly

because of the board of directors. At this point, I had no clue how much longer I would be able to do what had been my absolute

dream job, stress and all.

After yesterday’s board meeting, I wasn’t sure if I’d be in that role much longer—whether that meant a firing or a quitting,

I didn’t know. Either way, things were not looking good. Samuel P. Arrington IV, the new board president of the group home,

had become the proverbial thorn in my side. The group home was situated inside a stately old house that once belonged to Samuel

IV’s great-grandfather, Colonel Samuel P. Arrington, a Confederate soldier. Years ago, shortly before I became director, the

Arrington family turned the house into a group home for Negro boys who weren’t good candidates for adoption or who needed

a place to stay before returning to their family or the foster care system.

Unlike his father, Big Sam, who’d recently stepped down as board president, Sam IV seemed determined to undermine my efforts. I’d been executive director for ten years, making great strides to change the paradigm for these boys, and in the span of a few months, Sam IV had tried to render null and void everything my staff and I had accomplished. I’d tried reaching out to Big Sam for help, but he said his son was in charge and he didn’t want to have to choose sides.

No matter what I tried to do, from the mentoring program to my fundraising efforts to provide college scholarships for as

many boys as possible, Sam IV insisted I was wasting time and resources on boys who didn’t need or deserve that type of attention.

He never worded it quite that way, yet the message was always clear.

“These boys need to learn a trade,” Sam IV said at yesterday’s meeting while a huge puff of cigar smoke encircled his head like a lopsided halo. He’d then looked

around the room with an expectant expression. Clearly he assumed the other board members—six white men, six Negro men, and

one Negro woman—would all chime in their agreement. But no one said anything, so he continued talking. “These boys need to be taught useful skills like carpentry or plumbing or welding. The last thing they need is a whole lot

of unnecessary book learning.”

Even though the six white men in the room didn’t speak up, they all nodded. And even though the six Negro men didn’t say a word, I knew they weren’t far from agreeing too. On more than one occasion, they’d individually and collectively come to me and said that maybe I should lower the bar a bit, insisting that I was setting the boys up for disappointment with my “lofty goals.” The idea that these Negro men who had overcome the odds to be successful businessmen, clergy, doctors, and lawyers would dare cheat my boys out of any opportunities to thrive kept me gritting my teeth anytime I had to deal with them. They all liked having “board member of a group home” on their résumés, but none of them really believed in what we were trying to do at the group home, which was to radically change these boys’ lives.

The sole woman on the board, Mrs. Adelaide Hendricks, was my only staunch ally, and I knew that most of the time, it was her

support alone that kept the Negro men from siding with Sam and his cronies. But she was slated to step down from the board

this year, and I worried that everything would come crashing down after she left.

I took a deep breath and looked down at my watch. So much for leaving early this morning. If I didn’t get on the road soon,

I would miss saying goodbye to the boys before they left for school. I closed my eyes and said, “It’s going to be okay,” and

then I turned the key one more time. Although the truck sputtered and coughed, mercifully it cranked. “Thank you,” I muttered

as I eased the truck out of the yard. I hoped all of the noise didn’t awaken Mama. Like me, she sometimes found sleep elusive,

especially with the boys being in Vietnam, so far away from us.

I turned the radio dial until it picked up a station that wasn’t staticky, and almost as if on cue, I heard Big Mama Thornton

singing “Hound Dog.” Thornton was the original singer of the song, and I always got excited when I heard her infamous growl

on the radio.

As was always the case, I joined in. Daddy, who’d died of cancer shortly after I graduated from college nearly twenty years ago, loved the blues, and Big Mama was from the same little town where Daddy was born—Ariton, Alabama. She and I were only a year apart in age, and I’d only recently started hearing her music on the radio. I didn’t know if Daddy had known her or her people, but every time I heard her on the radio, Daddy felt a bit closer—even when she was singing about a good-for-nothing man, the absolute antithesis of Daddy.

Most days, Daddy’s death didn’t haunt my thoughts, but other days it felt like January 7, 948, all over again—a day that,

similar to what President Franklin D. Roosevelt said about the attack on Pearl Harbor, “will live in infamy” for me and my

family. The twins were only little boys when Daddy died, and now they were twenty-five-year-old men trying to survive in the

Marines. I well remember that cold day when we buried Daddy. Aaron and Marcus had clung so tightly to me and Mama, asking

us why Daddy wouldn’t wake up. Just thinking about it made my eyes water.

I wiped away the tears and allowed Big Mama to sing me through the back streets of Troy, past Troy State University, until

I reached the group home on the corner of South Three Notch and Montgomery Streets.

“Let my boys have peace today,” I said, echoing my prayer from before. I eased the Chevy into the spot marked Executive Director,

then reached for my briefcase and threw my oversize shawl across my shoulders as I exited the truck. Before I closed the truck

door, I heard loud yelling from inside the group home. It was shortly after six in the morning—too early for this much commotion.

I dropped my shawl and briefcase and sprinted—bad hip and all—like I was still on the high school track team. I was used to some noise in the early mornings because the residence housed fifteen rambunctious boys ranging from ages eight to sixteen, but what I’d heard was not normal. When I reached the front door, nine-year-old Pee Wee, one of the boys, met me in tears. Pee Wee talked with a stutter that worsened when he was angry or excited. This morning, he was both.

“Miss Katia, c-c-come quick,” he cried. “Chad g-g-got his caseworker and Mr. J-J-Jason cornered u-u-up in the family room.

Chad s-s-say he gone k-k-kill...”

Kill was all I needed to hear. “Get my shawl and briefcase and bring them inside. Tell the other boys to go to their rooms,” I

instructed as I ran toward the ruckus.

“I ain’t going back to that dopehead,” Chad yelled. “You better step away from me. I’ll kill everybody up in here ’fore I

go back to live with her!”

“Put down the chair, Chad,” Jason, the assistant director, said in a booming voice. Jason was a senior studying counseling

at Troy State, one of very few Negro students admitted. He’d been raised by his grandparents while his mother and father drifted

in and out of jail. Due to his childhood, he had a passion for working with boys like Chad. I’d hired him as a weekend counselor

last year, and he soon became my second-in-command. Last month, I promoted him to assistant in anticipation of his graduation

this December.

“I’m warning you, Chad—if you don’t put down the chair, I am going to come over there and take it from you,” I heard Jason

say as I approached the room.

“You just try, you stupid mother—”

I burst into the room and saw Chad standing in the corner with a chair hoisted over his head.

Jason stood a few feet away, shielding the young white caseworker, Mrs. Gates, from Chad and his wrath.

“What’s going on in here? Chad, put down that chair,” I said as I walked to stand in front of Mrs. Gates and Jason.

“Miss Daniels, step back,” Jason cautioned. “He—”

“Take Mrs. Gates to my office, Jason. Now ,” I interrupted, never taking my eyes off Chad. It wouldn’t take much for him to send that chair flying, injuring one of

us accidentally or, in the case of Mrs. Gates, intentionally.

“Chad, put down the chair and calm yourself,” I said as I inched closer to him. Although I’d be considered a tall and big

woman, at five foot ten and weighing 90 pounds, fourteen-year-old Chad was an astounding six foot one and weighed about 220

the last time I’d checked his chart. I looked at him as a little boy, but I knew the world didn’t or wouldn’t. They’d only

see a dangerous Black man trying to attack a poor, defenseless white woman.

Chad had been in the system off and on since he was a baby. His mother, Lena, was strung out on heroin when she gave birth to him, and a few days later, his now deceased grandmother brought him to the Negro hospital in Tuskegee, Alabama, because he was having seizures from heroin withdrawal. After that, the state took Chad from Lena. Throughout the years, Lena would get clean, and Chad would return to live with her until something catastrophic happened, like the time when Lena’s boyfriend, Cobra, and two other men got high and attacked Chad, leaving him with two cracked ribs, face lacerations, and a broken arm. One of the men also sexually assaulted Chad. He refused to say who. The detail about the sexual assault came out during a group therapy session. It had taken hours to calm Chad down, as well as the other boys. That night, one thing he did say and has continued to say is that he’d never go back to live with his mother.

Mrs. Gates knew his story, and it infuriated me that she’d chosen to overlook my cardinal rule: caseworkers must always speak to me before they speak to my boys, for reasons like the current situation. She should have known Chad wouldn’t react

kindly to the notion that he’d be sent back to his mother. And why in the world was Mrs. Gates visiting the group home this

early in the morning? I felt as if she had been trying to spirit Chad away before I arrived. This felt calculated, but more

than that, it was way out of order.

“That bitch over there talking ’bout me going back to live with Lena. I ain’t going back to live with her no more!” Chad yelled,

shaking the metal chair over his head like it weighed nothing. Normally I’d “check” a resident for using profanity, but my

priority was getting Chad to put down the chair and calm himself.

“It’s okay, Chad. I will handle this situation. Just put down the chair,” I said.

“Miss Daniels, I must insist that—” the caseworker started.

I whipped around and faced her, my face hot with anger. “I said to leave the room, Mrs. Gates. You too, Jason.”

As the words were leaving my mouth, Chad hurled the chair across the room. Jason pushed the caseworker out of the way as the chair crashed against the thin wall next to them, creating a gaping hole.

“Do you need me to call the police?” Jason rushed Mrs. Gates toward the door.

“No. I’ve got this.” The last thing I wanted was a bunch of white police officers reporting to a disturbance between a six-foot-one

Black boy and a tiny, blonde white woman.

I turned toward Chad, watching him as he stood panting, his hands tightly fisted.

“Enough, Chad. Enough.” I walked to him and put my hands on his arms. He was trembling violently. I took deep, cleansing breaths

until he slowed his breathing to match mine, a technique I often used with my boys when they spiraled out of control.

When I thought we were both calm enough to have a conversation, I touched the side of his face, which was wet with tears.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

He nodded. At no time had I feared for myself. My rapport with the boys made me feel safe around them, even when their tempers

got the best of them.

“Are you in a safe enough space that I can remove my hands?” I asked, keeping my gaze locked with his. His eyes weren’t as

erratic as before. I nearly breathed a sigh of relief, but I knew it wasn’t over yet.

He nodded again. I allowed my hands to fall to my sides.

“Good. However, I do not want you to mistake my calmness as acceptance of the display I just witnessed. That behavior is not and will not be tolerated at this group home. Do you understand me, Chad?”

“Yeah, but—”

I held up my hand to stop him. “No, sir. I will not listen to ‘yeah, buts.’ You just messed up royally, and you need to acknowledge

that fact without throwing in some ‘yeah, buts.’ Do you understand what I just said to you?”

Chad swallowed hard, as if agreeing with me was too much, but finally he mumbled the words I was waiting to hear. “Yes, ma’am.”

I motioned for Chad to follow me to the couch on the other side of the room. Once we both sat down, I looked at him with all

of the steely reserve I could muster. I’d learned a long time ago that if the boys thought I was vulnerable to their tears

and tantrums, they’d try to railroad me with their sob stories. God knows that every one of these boys had reasons to be angry.

None of them had “good” stories. Almost every boy came from a home filled with drugs and abuse, and while I always wanted

to honor their truths, I didn’t want those truths to become crutches. I was determined for these boys to leave the group home

stronger and better than they were when they arrived. That didn’t always happen, yet I worked my butt off to make sure it

happened for as many boys as possible. I wished to God that the board of directors could understand that, but I stopped myself

from thinking about them. Chad needed me to focus on him and him alone.

“I want you to tell me what you did wrong, Chad. Starting with your reaction before I even arrived here this morning.”

“Miss Katia, that woman said—”

I held up my hand again. “This conversation is about you. Not her.”

Chad took a deep breath and started over. “I got angry when I heard I was gone have to go back to live with Lena again. Instead

of getting angry, I shoulda been quiet and let Mr. Jason talk with the caseworker. Or I shoulda asked them if we coulda waited

and talked when you got here. I shouldna thrown that chair and broke up the walls ’cause I ain’t got no money to fix them.

I shouldna been cursing and swearing. I shoulda been calm, ’cause when we are calm, we can make change happen,” he said, concluding

with one of the many mantras I constantly quoted to the boys and the staff.

I took Chad’s hands in mine. “Yes, Chad. You are exactly right. Thank you.”

I released his hand before I stood up and looked down at this young man who was still struggling to calm himself. “I want

you to go upstairs and get cleaned up for school. Before you go into the dining room for breakfast, you are to come to my

office and apologize to Mrs. Gates.”

“But—”

I shook my head. “No buts. You were wrong. And when we are wrong, we apologize. It doesn’t matter what the other person said

or did. We acknowledge our own deeds. You also need to apologize to Mr. Jason and Miss Leslie.”

Chad stood up, his face filled with every emotion he’d been feeling—from rage to fear. He nodded and said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Chad,” I said.

He started to leave the room but then stopped and turned around. “Miss Katia, please don’t let them send me back to my mama. Fix it so I ain’t got to go back. I’ll kill myself before I’ll go back to Lena.”

I went to Chad and wrapped my arm around his shoulders. “No one is killing anybody or themselves. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am, but—”

“No buts. I will do my very best to make sure you are never in harm’s way again, Chad, but you must work as hard as you can

to not make my job any more difficult than it has to be.” I couldn’t make too many promises. The courts were unpredictable.

All I could do was fight for Chad like I did for all my boys.

Chad seemed satisfied with my reply and took off for the stairs, running up them two at a time.

On my way to my office, I paused in front of my new secretary’s desk. Leslie had only been working at the group home for a

few weeks, but that didn’t stop me from being angry with both her and Jason. I didn’t tolerate inconsistencies with the protocols

I had set up with my employees. The main one was that no one could have access to my boys without my prior approval. My staff

knew better than to allow anyone to have a conversation with my boys when I wasn’t there. I didn’t care if it was a parent,

a caseworker, or President Lyndon B. Johnson himself. All dialogue concerning my boys started and stopped with me. I was quick

to say that I ran a benevolent dictatorship—heavy on the dictatorship with rules that directly affected the boys.

“Is she still in my office?” I asked Leslie, referring to Chad’s caseworker.

“Yes, Miss Daniels. Miss Daniels, I’m so, so—”

“We will all talk about this incident later,” I said, my voice a little angrier than I intended. But I was angry, and I wanted Leslie to understand that protocol was everything in this line of work. One “small” goof could mess up

a young person’s life forever. I’d seen it happen too many times. Before I began my stint here at the group home, I was a

caseworker myself. Seldom a month went by when I didn’t witness an innocent mistake causing major headaches. I wouldn’t allow

my boys to suffer because of anyone’s negligence, whether mine or any of my staff.

“Make sure Chad comes by my office before he leaves for school,” I said. “He needs to apologize to you, Jason, and his caseworker.

He can apologize to the other boys at breakfast.”

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Daniels.” Leslie looked like she might start crying at any moment.

I lightly placed my hand on her shoulder. The last thing I wanted to do was destroy the young woman’s self-confidence. “I

know that what happened this morning was all a misunderstanding, Leslie. We’ll all discuss this during the morning staff meeting

and put a mechanism into place so that nothing like this ever happens again.”

I patted Leslie’s shoulder before crossing to the other corner of the reception area and stopping in front of my office door. I lifted my hands to my head, gently massaging my temples to ward off the headache I could already feel coming. Then I quickly refluffed my Afro, a style I’d recently started wearing, much to my mother’s chagrin. She said women of my stature did not need to be walking around with a nappy head. I didn’t argue with her, but I didn’t change my hairstyle either.

“So much for peace today, huh, God?” I said under my breath as I grasped the knob, pulling the door open wide and entering

my office.