Saving Myself One Step at a Time by T J Bryan

Author:T J Bryan [BRYAN, T. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Locust Tree Publishing via Indie Author Project
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Horror: Confederate Flags near the Trail

When I was a college student, I learned that the Confederate States of America (CSA) existed as an unrecognized country in North America from 1861 to 1865. Formed initially by seven slave-holding states (Alabama, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, South Carolina, and Texas), the CSA was joined later by four other slave states (Arkansas, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia). Subsequently, Missouri and Kentucky joined the Confederacy but never formally seceded from the United States.

The CSA adopted many flags, including three national ones—the Stars and Bars, the Stainless Banner, and the Blood-Stained Banner. The flag that I associated with the Confederacy was not one of these three, though. Instead, it was the Southern Cross, the battle flag of General Robert E. Lee's Army of Northern Virginia. It featured a blue diagonal cross, trimmed with white. White stars symbolizing the Confederate states were stitched inside the cross, which appeared against a red background. Involuntarily, I shuddered every single time I saw one of these symbols of hatred blowing in the wind or saw vehicle license plates or vehicle decals proclaiming allegiance to the CSA.

I could not elude such a flag when I ran south on the Trail. A quarter of a mile after I passed the Mason-Dixon Line, I looked through trees to my right and glimpsed a Southern Cross battle flag that interrupted the azure sky over a dingy white house speckled with green moss. A weedy lawn with three rusted-out cars on tire rims, a pickup truck on cinder blocks, a battered mahogany-colored pool table with ball-and-claw feet, and a dented gray-metal above-ground pool with slimy water spoke volumes.

The first time that I saw the flag, I was jarred and incensed. I never grew accustomed to it, but over time, it lost its impact. Or at least I thought that it did. I told myself that it was simply a part of the setting, a part that I loathed but could not change because the flag was located on private property.

I ran in this area approximately 100 times a year. I wondered whether the flag was a reason for the lack of racial diversity among visitors who walked, ran, and biked in this area. Only once had I seen a person of Asian descent, a woman who sat at one of the wooden picnic tables near the Mason-Dixon Line where bikers often congregated when they needed a break. Her royal-blue hybrid bike leaned against a tree. She waved and smiled broadly at me as she chewed slowly on something that she had taken from a bright-green insulated lunch bag. I remembered then that I had not eaten since early morning. I checked my watch. The time was 12:30 p.m. My stomach rumbled. Had she noticed the flag before she sat at the table? If she had, she might have thought that it did not pertain to her.

A few minutes later, when I ran farther south of the flag, I encountered a baby-faced African-American male who appeared to be in his early twenties.

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