At 4:30 a.m., on a clear morning in March of 1943, Aunt Mac
left Lexington, Mississippi for a place she told everyone would
grant her all of the things she wanted out of life. She said, “When
I got behind the wheel of the car, all I wanted was Las Vegas in
my lap and Mississippi kissing my ass.” With a map and a Bible
on the front seat, a sterling silver flask filled with whiskey peeking
out the side of her half-zipped purse, Aunt Mac felt at the age of
twenty six that her life had just begun.
To make sure the trip would be a safe one, she brought along
a pearl handled handgun her second husband Bishop had given her,
and placed it under the Bible. At the time it was an understood
“law” that a black woman could get away with killing a black man.
“They called it self-defense, but I call it ‘shoot or get shot’,” Aunt
Mac said. As Aunt Mac drove past the cotton pickers walking on
the side of the road she honked and waved goodbye with both
hands.
When driving through the last little town she would see before
reaching the state line, she began to reminisce about her decision
to leave Mississippi and about the folks back home. The first
person she recalled was her mama, Leona.