Hear My Story: A Tale of Prejudice

This a histoical-fiction story that I had to write for school.

My name is Medgar Evers and this is my story.  I had a fairly good life, a life full of purpose.  I worked for the NAACP in Jackson, Mississippi in the late 50’s and the early 60’s.  I had a beautiful wife and three wonderful kids.  That life, the one I had worked so hard to make for myself, was stolen from me on the night of June 12^th, 1963.  And it took over 30 years for the law to convict the one who took it.

            My story started very late one June night.  The year was 1963 and the civil rights movement was already in full swing.  I was a black man volunteering for the NAACP, working to end segregation in places like schools and libraries.  Some of my protest methods were things like sit-ins and boycotts, all very common during the civil rights movement.  And I was pretty well known for my efforts in the area, which probably help lead to my downfall.

            I was coming home from an NAACP meeting.  It was late, probably around 12 o’clock, and it was really dark.  I slowly pulled my car up the driveway, going over the meeting’s proceedings in my head.  I opened my car door and got out.

            And then someone shot me!  It was so sudden that I didn’t even see it coming.  So sudden, I didn’t see who did it.  I didn’t find out until it was too late.  Until I was already dead.  And then I realized that I would never experience a desegregated America, never see my wife again, never see my children again and that they would never again see me.  I felt that I had to see the person who had taken all of this from me and my family.  When I finally got up the courage to look in the face of the person who had murdered me in cold blood, I found that it was a man that I had never before seen in my life.  I was shocked.  I couldn’t believe it.  I could not believe that a stranger could have taken so much from me.

            I later discovered the reason and the reason sickened me.  This man simply hated me because I was black, and because my goal in life had been to make sure that people like him and people like me where seen as equals under the law.  I learned a lot about him by watching during the months after my death.  I learned that his name was Byron De La Beckwith, that he was about 40 years old when he had decided to kill me, and that he worked as a fertilizer salesman.  I also learned that he was a white supremacist and a KKK wanna-be.  I learned a lot of things about him, but I did not learn how he, how anyone for that matter, could possibly shoot a man, a father, to death for no other reason than for having a different color skin and wanting equality for all.

            I waited and waited for him to be caught.  I waited for over six months for him to be brought to trial, only to see him get away scot-free.  Twice.  Twice in one year!  I couldn’t believe it; actually I could though I didn’t want to.  The odds had been in his favor from the very beginning.  Segregation was still very much in effect, the jury was all white, and the way they saw it there was just one less n****r causing trouble.  Despite all the evidence, despite the fact that they had several witnesses claiming that they had heard him bragging about murdering me!  They still let him off both times.  After the second trial, my police file laid gathering dust on a shelf for over 25 long years.

            I watched Beckwith for those 25 years, going about his business, aging into an old man when I couldn’t.  It was pure torture.  Torture, that he could lead a regular life while I was dead by his hand.  Around 1993 they decided to reopen my case.  After a 14 month investigation, there was a trial.  This third trial was very different from the previous two in several ways.  This trial occurred in a segregation free America, the jury was both black and white and they actually cared whether or not Beckwith was actually guilty.  Once again several people testified that they had heard him bragging about killing me, but this time they found him guilty.  After over 30 years I finally had my justice.  At 70 years old, Beckwith was sentenced to life in prison.  But really, nothing had changed.  He still felt the same way about me, and about everyone else of my race, as he had on the night he went to my house and shot me.  He felt no remorse and that pained me, but at least the country had evolved enough in a few measly decades for a bi-racial jury to be able put away a man who had committed such a horrendous crime.  And for that I am glad.   

Author's Note

I'm just wondering how good of a story this is if you ignore the fact that it was written as a school asignment.