The largest photo, an October 1967 blow-up from the Chicago Defender, was one of those group shots like in high school. The caption read: Local Illinois man joins voter registration drive in Mississippi. Someone had circled Doug's head. Since he was the only white person in the picture, I didn’t need the visual aide. The woman standing next to him cheesed for the camera like Miss Black America.
I looked at the picture again. In his younger days Doug looked like Winston’s twin: tall, blond, movie-star handsome. Unlike Winston, I’d always given Doug credit for brains as well as beauty. Given what he’d just done, I’d have to rethink my position.
“Those were heady days.”
Doug stood in the doorway, a bottle of guava juice in his hand. “We didn’t just sing “We Shall Overcome,” we overcame. You’re here because of the sacrifices we made. You know my father—”
“Helped desegregate Thornwood schools. Your grandfather organized protests against lynching. The Holmes’ mansion was a stop on the Underground Railroad, and you helped register voters in Mississippi. I grew up hearing the stories. They’re a big part of why I wanted to work for you.”
“There’s one more chapter left in the Holmes. Winston’s story is yet to be written.”
“I didn’t come for a history lesson.” Or a fairy tale if he actually thought Winston would add anything of value to the Holmes’ legacy.
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