Blood Done Sign My Name: A True Story

( 22 )

Overview

"On May 11, 1970, Henry Marrow, a 23-year-old black veteran, walked into a crossroads store owned by Robert Teel, a rough man with a criminal record and ties to the Ku Klux Klan, and came out running. Teel and two of his sons chased Marrow, beat him unmercifully, and killed him in public as he pleaded for his life. In the words of a local prosecutor: "They shot him like you or I would kill a snake."" "Like many small Southern towns, Oxford had barely been touched by the civil rights movement. But in the wake of the killing, young African ...
See more details below
Available through our Marketplace sellers.
Other sellers (Audiobook)
  • All (6) from $95.49   
  • New (2) from $112.92   
  • Used (4) from $95.49   
Close
Sort by
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Note: Marketplace items are not eligible for any BN.com coupons and promotions
$112.92
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(227)

Condition:

New — never opened or used in original packaging.

Like New — packaging may have been opened. A "Like New" item is suitable to give as a gift.

Very Good — may have minor signs of wear on packaging but item works perfectly and has no damage.

Good — item is in good condition but packaging may have signs of shelf wear/aging or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Acceptable — item is in working order but may show signs of wear such as scratches or torn packaging. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Used — An item that has been opened and may show signs of wear. All specific defects should be noted in the Comments section associated with each item.

Refurbished — A used item that has been renewed or updated and verified to be in proper working condition. Not necessarily completed by the original manufacturer.

New
Brand New Item.

Ships from: Chatham, NJ

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Canadian
  • International
  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
  • Express, 48 States
  • Express (AK, HI)
$175.00
Seller since 2014

Feedback rating:

(113)

Condition: New
Brand new.

Ships from: acton, MA

Usually ships in 1-2 business days

  • Standard, 48 States
  • Standard (AK, HI)
Page 1 of 1
Showing All
Close
Sort by
Blood Done Sign My Name: A True Story

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK Study
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$11.99
BN.com price
This digital version does not exactly match the physical book displayed here.

Overview

"On May 11, 1970, Henry Marrow, a 23-year-old black veteran, walked into a crossroads store owned by Robert Teel, a rough man with a criminal record and ties to the Ku Klux Klan, and came out running. Teel and two of his sons chased Marrow, beat him unmercifully, and killed him in public as he pleaded for his life. In the words of a local prosecutor: "They shot him like you or I would kill a snake."" "Like many small Southern towns, Oxford had barely been touched by the civil rights movement. But in the wake of the killing, young African Americans took to the streets, led by 22-year-old Ben Chavis, a future president of the NAACP. As mass protests crowded the town square, a cluster of returning Vietnam veterans organized what one termed a "military operation." While lawyers battled in the courthouse that summer in a drama that one termed "a Perry Mason kind of thing," the Ku Klux Klan raged in the shadows and black veterans torched the town's tobacco warehouses." "With large sections of the town in flames, Tim Tyson's father, the pastor of Oxford's all-white Methodist church, pressed his congregation to widen their vision of humanity and pushed the town to come to terms with its bloody racial history. In the end, however, the Tyson family was forced to move away." "Years later, historian Tim Tyson returned to Oxford to ask Robert Teel why he and his sons had killed Henry Marrow. "That nigger committed suicide, coming in here wanting to four-letter-word my daughter-in-law," Ted explained." The black radicals who burned much of Oxford also told Tim their stories. "It was like we had a cash register up there at the pool hall, just ringing up how much money we done cost these white people," one of them explained. "We knew if we cost 'em enough goddamn money they was gonna start changing some things."
Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Jonathan Yardley
… on balance Tyson has written an honest book, far more so than most explorations of race in America. He understands that the true past -- to the extent we can ever know the "truth" about the past -- was vastly more complicated and bloody than the gussied-up past in which we so desperately want to believe, and that until we understand this, we will be incapable of redeeming ourselves and our country.
The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
In this outstanding personal history, Tyson, a professor of African-American studies who's white, unflinchingly examines the civil rights struggle in the South. The book focuses on the murder of a young black man, Henry Marrow, in 1970, a tragedy that dramatically widened the racial gap in the author's hometown of Oxford, N.C. Tyson portrays the killing and its aftermath from multiple perspectives, including that of his contemporary, 10-year-old self; his progressive Methodist pastor father, who strove to lead his parishioners to overcome their prejudices; members of the disempowered black community; one of the killers; and his older self, who comes to Oxford with a historian's eye. He also artfully interweaves the history of race relations in the South, carefully and convincingly rejecting less complex and self-serving versions ("violence and nonviolence were both more ethically complicated and more tightly intertwined than they appeared in most media accounts and history books"). A gifted writer, he celebrates a number of inspirational unsung heroes, ranging from his father to a respected elderly schoolteacher who spoke out at a crucial point to quash a white congregation's rebellion over an invitation to a black minister. Tyson's avoidance of stereotypes and simple answers brings a shameful recent era in our country's history to vivid life. This book deserves the largest possible audience. Agent, Charlotte Sheedy at Sterling Lord Literistic. 8-city author tour. (May 18) FYI: Tyson's last book, Radio Free Dixie: Robert F. Williams and the Roots of Black Power (1999), won the James Rawley Prize and was co-winner of the Frederick Jackson Turner Prize. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Tyson (Radio Free Dixie: Robert F. Williams and the Roots of Black Power) here offers a memoir of his youth in Oxford, NC, at the time of the Civil Rights Movement. A white Methodist minister and social activist, his father worked for better race relations. Despite his efforts and those of others, three white men murdered a young black man in summer 1970 and were eventually acquitted by an all-white jury. This ignited violence and increased racial tension in Oxford, and Tyson's father came to be regarded as a traitor for his opinions on civil rights. Eventually, he lost his church, which forced the family to leave Oxford. Based on the author's reminiscences as well as interviews with participants in the events of 1970-including the murderers, who remain unremorseful-this fascinating account shows how major social changes powerfully affect people in a small town. A significant work of memoir and social history; for public and academic libraries.-Stephen L. Hupp, West Virginia Univ. Lib., Parkersburg Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Powerful, wrenching story of a racial killing during the author's North Carolina childhood. Tyson (African-American Studies/University of Wisconsin-Madison) was only ten in 1970, when a young black husband and father was savagely beaten and then shot to death in Oxford, North Carolina, by some white men who claimed he had insulted one of their women. The killers were subsequently acquitted by an all-white jury. The author artfully weaves together a number of stories in this account. We hear about his own family, going back several generations but with major attention devoted to Tyson's father, a liberal white preacher in Oxford who had an admirable record of working to improve race relations, though his son fondly chides him for the subconsciously racist notion that the goal of the civil-rights movement was to make black people more like whites. Tyson also sketches the histories of the victim, the killers, and the leaders of Oxford's white and black communities. He scathingly depicts the dilatory police and the risible, ridiculous trial. He writes about the civil-rights movement's high and low points (the 1970 shootings at Jackson State included among the latter). And he chronicles his tumultuous coming of age. Tyson ran away from home at 17, but a lovely passage describes his father finding him walking along a rural road, holding him tight, and praying for him. After several years of indulgence in drugs and general dissipation, the author decided to enroll in college: "And the first thing I did as a twenty-four-year-old freshman was to drive to Oxford, North Carolina, to ask Robert Teel why he'd killed Henry Marrow." Tyson returned again as a graduate student and then as a historian toresearch the story that inhabits the heart of this remarkable work: a reminder that the struggle for racial equality prompted vileness and violence on all sides. One of the most candid and lucent books on race in this or any other year. Author tour. Agent: Charlotte Sheedy
From the Publisher
“Admirable and unexpected...a riveting story that will have his readers weeping with both laughter and sorrow.” —Chicago Tribune

Blood Done Sign My Name is a most important book and one of the most powerful meditations on race in America that I have ever read.” —Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Pulses with vital paradox . . . It’s a detached dissertation, a damning dark-night-of-the-white-soul, and a ripping yarn, all united by Tyson’s powerful voice, a brainy, booming Bubba profundo.” —Entertainment Weekly

“If you want to read only one book to understand the uniquely American struggle for racial equality and the swirls of emotion around it, this is it.” —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

“Engaging and frequently stunning.” —San Diego Union-Tribune

Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780739311776
  • Publisher: Random House Audio Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 5/18/2004
  • Format: CD
  • Edition description: Abridged, 4 CDs, 5 hrs.
  • Product dimensions: 5.41 (w) x 6.17 (h) x 0.91 (d)

Meet the Author

Timothy B. Tyson is a professor of Afro-American Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His last book, Radio Free Dixie: Robert F. Williams and the Roots of Black Power (UNC Press, 1999), won the James Rawley Prize and was co-winner of the Frederick Jackson Turner Prize.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

Blood Done Sign My Name


By Timothy B. Tyson

Random House

Copyright (C) 2004 by Timothy B. Tyson
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0609610589


Chapter One

Baptism

"Daddy and Roger and 'em shot 'em a nigger." That's what Gerald Teel said to me in my family's driveway in Oxford, North Carolina, on May 12, 1970. We were both ten years old. I was bouncing a basketball. The night before, a black man had "said something" at the store to Judy, his nineteen-year-old sister-in-law, Gerald told me, and his father and two of his brothers had run him out of the store and shot him dead. The man's name was Henry Marrow, I found out later, but his family called him Dickie. He was killed in public as he lay on his back, helpless, begging for his life.

I was stunned and bewildered, as if Gerald had informed me that his family had fried up their house cat and eaten it for breakfast. We did not use that word at our house. It was not that I had never heard it or had never used it myself. But somehow the children in my family knew that to utter that word in the presence of my father would be to say good-bye to this earthly life. My daddy was a Methodist minister, an "Eleanor Roosevelt liberal," he called himself in later years, and at our house "nigger" was not just naughty, like "hell" or "damn." It was evil, like taking the Lord's name in vain, maybe even worse. And now my friend Gerald was using it while talking about his daddy and his brothers killing a man.

Before Gerald could say anything more, my mother opened the front door of our house and called me in for supper. "What are we having?" I yelled back at her.

"I am not announcing my menu to the neighborhood," Mama said in a clear but quiet voice. I hurried inside, dumbstruck, wondering what the grown-ups in my world were going to say about Gerald's news. Could this be true? Or was it just a little boy's boasting? Mama and Daddy would know.

Mama wielded an abundantly sharp sense of how things were and were not done. That was why she was "not about to advertise my dinner menu up and down Hancock Street," as she reminded me when I came into the kitchen. Pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, peppery cabbage simmered with fatback, and crisp fried cornbread served with sweet iced tea seemed no cause for shame. Mrs. Roseanna Allen, the black woman who worked for us, had also made us a chocolate pie that afternoon, as she often did when I begged her. But the details of our supper were beside Mama's point. Yelling like that was "tacky," a label that applied to a disquieting number of my habits.

I figured that Mama and Daddy would talk to us about what had happened, but instead an eerie hush hung over the supper table. Somewhat oddly, Daddy refrained from his custom of interviewing us one by one about our day. He and Mama exchanged knowing words and weighted glances whose meanings were indecipherable to me. My twelve-year-old brother, Vern, and I talked halfheartedly about something-how fast Dudley Barnes, who pitched for A&W Root Beer's Little League nine, could throw a baseball, something like that. But a deep silence had fallen among us.

After supper, my little sister Boo and I crept out of the house and down to the corner, where we huddled on the sidewalk behind Mrs. Garland's cement wall, across the street from the Teel house. Boo was seven years old, blond and freckly, by turns deferential and officious in the way of little sisters, and she went wherever I did, provided I let her. In the Bible, Ruth tells Naomi, "Entreat me not to leave thee; or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge," and while this was frequently quoted as a tribute to filial devotion, I always noted that we never heard from Naomi on the point. When I came home from church one Sunday and announced that I was going to become a missionary to Africa, Boo immediately declared her intention to become a nurse and accompany me. I shot back, "What do you think I am going to Africa for?" But truth be told, I was glad to have her with me this particular evening.

We could see the house clearly through the budding crape myrtles that laced the long traffic island in the middle of Main Street. Gerald's family lived in a gracious, older two-story structure with white columns, wide porches, and a carport on one side that must have been built originally for carriages. At least a dozen men with shotguns and rifles stood guard on its porches as Boo and I peered across the corners of Hancock, Front, and Main Streets. A couple of the men were draped in white hoods and robes, but most of them looked for all the world like our own father when he went bird hunting. We did not know exactly how these men pertained to Gerald's announcement, but we knew something perilous was unfolding.

For one thing, neither of us had ever seen anyone who didn't live there go into the Teel house. I played with Gerald Teel practically every day, but the boys in our neighborhood came to my house or we ran the woods and fields that stretched out beyond my backyard. Sometimes we smoked Jeff Daniels's mother's Tareyton cigarettes down by the creek. We played football in the front yard of the old Hancock place, a once palatial but now rotting three-story white structure with huge wooden pillars that stood empty across the street from my house. Gerald, Jeff, and I wore the same brand of brogans as a kind of uniform-our look was straight-leg blue jeans, army surplus jackets, and those brownish-orange work boots-and we fought together in the forbidden BB-gun wars that raged in our neighborhood on Saturday mornings. Gerald was a slight, olive-skinned boy with dark hair and eyes. He rarely talked much. We considered him a respectably tough kid, a member of the gang in good standing, but he also had a kind of whipped-dog manner, a shyness that said something was wrong. You'd say we were friends. But I did not visit in Gerald's house and, as far as I knew, neither did anybody else. All Mama would say, in her offhand, gracious way, was that they weren't really our kind of folks, but it was worse than that. Everybody was afraid of Gerald's daddy, who never spoke in my presence until many years had passed.

That night, after kneeling beside the bed with my father to say my prayers as we usually did, I lay me down to sleep on the cool, clean sheets, wondering about what had happened and fearing, without really knowing what to fear, the things that might happen now. The attic fan in the top of the house pulled the gauzy white curtains inward on a cooling breeze; two weeks into May it was already hot, and not everyone had air-conditioning in those days. From my upstairs window, I could see the blinking red light of Oxford's radio tower. The raspy, playful voice of "Julius's Jukebox." WOXF's "Little Round Brown Mound of Sound," beamed from the transistor radio propped in my windowsill, announcing song dedications-"This one goes out from Shirley to S.O.S."-and spinning Otis Redding, James Brown, or Aretha Franklin. Every night that summer, the ominous pulse of Marvin Gaye's "I Heard It Through the Grapevine" pounded on the airwaves, and what may have seemed a haunting anthem of lost love for some listeners sounded a dire warning to me. Sleep was slow to come.

While I slumbered, six blocks away in downtown Oxford hundreds of young blacks exploded into rage. At least half a dozen people had witnessed the murder in Grab-all, the black ghetto where Mr. Teel's store was located. Word traveled fast. "This won't no goddamn murder mystery," one of the young blacks spat, "and the son of a bitch lived three blocks from the police station." Rumors flew through Oxford that the magistrate, J. C. Wheeler, refused to swear out a warrant against the Teels, and that the police were not planning to arrest anyone. This poured the gasoline of indignation onto the flames of vengefulness. "When Dickie was first killed," one black witness to the murder told me years later, "people in Grab-all was talking about 'everything white dies.' "

Though neither blood vengeance nor race war ensued, I learned years later that two or three hundred young African Americans ran through the well-ordered streets of downtown Oxford that night, smashing windows and setting fires. The angry throng would assemble in one place, demolish the agreed-upon storefront, and then sprint at breakneck speed through the alleyways to another target. At the American Oil station, some of the insurgents paused to loot beer and cigarettes, also making off with a portable television. The screaming alarm at Edwards Jewelry Store did not deter the mob from emptying the window of wristwatches. Behind the Western Auto hardware store, they stacked up old tires against a heavy door and set them ablaze, trying unsuccessfully to get inside and find guns and ammunition. The rioters retained the presence of mind to distinguish between white-owned property and the handful of establishments owned by blacks; they also pelted passing cars with bricks and bottles, but only those vehicles whose drivers appeared to be white. At one point, a group of the rioters ran to the Confederate monument, threw a length of rope around the old Rebel's neck, and tried to pull him off his granite pedestal, but the bronze infantryman would not budge.

When the first police car arrived, half a dozen bricks smashed the windshield and the mob heaved the car over onto its side. The terrified officer inside clambered out and ran for dear life. Two or three more squad cars screeched up, but there was little they could do against the small, angry army in the streets. Some whites criticized Mayor Currin the next day for not ordering his handful of men to shoot down the rioters. Currin understood his town, knew the limitations of his small and unsophisticated police department, and kept his cool. "With the police department we had," the mayor told me later, "it was no reason to send the officers in there to try and stop it. I didn't do it, and I am glad I didn't do it."

Even those who criticized the mayor's judgment could not fault his courage. During the height of the melee, Currin joined Assistant Chief of Police Doug White in a patrol car downtown. The two men drove to the edge of the riot and watched as dozens of looters sacked the A&P. And then they heard gunfire. "We were sitting in the car at the Esso station about midnight," Currin recalled. "There was a lot of noise, of course, and then we heard this loud report." Someone had fired a large-caliber bullet into one of the rear doors of the car in which Currin and White were sitting. The shot seemed to come from behind a low retaining wall twenty feet away, but the two city officials did not drive away. Mayor Currin later discounted the possibility that anyone had aimed the bullet at either one of them. "I think anyone shooting at that distance that wanted to shoot me, they could have shot me, that close." Currin and White stayed in the car, keeping an eye on things, moving the car only when the epicenter of the violence moved, but not trying to interfere with the riot.

At about two forty-five Wednesday morning, the rioters grew tired and went home. The police had not made a single arrest, and no one had been injured. The mob had destroyed seventeen storefronts, firebombed four buildings, ransacked the grocery store, smashed a police car, and scared the hell out of most of the white people in Oxford, and some of the black ones, too. The next day, every hardware store in town sold out of ammunition. White businessmen who owned stores downtown assessed the damages and started repairs; many of them also moved cots to their stores, and some of them slept there for weeks with shotguns across their laps.

Though things settled down during the day, the rioters awaited news from the courthouse of any possible arrests in the killing. A handful of black Vietnam veterans began to meet down at McCoy's Pool Hall and out at the Soul Kitchen, discussing strategies and plotting tactics. Although their elders generally disapproved, young blacks celebrated the riot gleefully and totted up the financial costs they had inflicted upon whites. At last, they felt, the white people who ran Oxford would have to listen to them, and the sole reason for that was that they had finally resorted to open revolt. For years afterward, the young people of the Black Power generation, the generation for whom the murder of Martin Luther King Jr. spoke more loudly than his message, talked about the riot with pride. "We tried to tear that bitch up," one of them boasted. "The only thing I really hate is that we couldn't pull down that damn Confederate monument."

The morning after the riot, Boo and I walked past the Teel house on our way to school. There was no sign of the armed men we had seen the night before. The place looked empty except for an abandoned bicycle in the driveway. If we had gone inside and upstairs, which we certainly never had done before, we would have seen the bullet hole in one of the bedroom walls; someone in a passing car had fired a .30-30 rifle into the house. We did see a note taped to the front door, which we would not have dared walk up and read, not even for a bottomless charge account at Hall's Drugstore. Boo and I hurried toward downtown. There was no sign of Gerald, whom I would not see again for twelve years, not until the afternoon I went to his father's barbershop to ask his father why he and his sons had killed Henry Marrow.

Three blocks past Gerald's house, as we approached Hall's, the sidewalks and streets were sequined with broken glass, glinting in the morning sunlight. Sheets of fresh plywood, with their sharp sawdust-and-glue smell, shielded all the storefronts. Charred wood framed shattered shop windows in black, where firebombs had broken the plate glass the night before. Strapping state troopers, sent by the governor, stood on street corners with their radios and shotguns. Local cops with traffic whistles and big revolvers guarded our route to school. As we passed the Confederate monument in the middle of town, we saw a bandy-legged policeman climbing up to remove a long yellow nylon rope tied in a noose around the tarnished old soldier's greenish neck.



Excerpted from Blood Done Sign My Name by Timothy B. Tyson Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 22 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(13)

4 Star

(1)

3 Star

(6)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(2)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 22 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 19, 2010

    Painful

    This is a painful story to read. Having grown up years after the events describe in this book in the same town and growing up friends with memebers of both families, it is shocking. As a child I had never heard of this event, just 15 years afterward it was rarely discussed. I had close friends in both the Teel and Marrow families. Reading this was challenging. While the book provides great insight and review of events, it still causes pain. The younger Teel's being critized and threatened for their older generations actions. It brings back to the surface pain, fear and the reality that racisim last today. The younger Teel are fearful to say their name because they will be harrashed, barated, or beaten for actions they themselves did not do. While a insightful book, it is a book that has caused more pain and suffering than it was really worth.

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 16, 2009

    Great Book!

    I had to read this book for a college course, but while reading it, I was able to meet the author. After listening to commentary from the author, I realized how important this book was to history. Dr. Tyson used a lot of historical facts to incoporate into his personal story. Especially if you are NC or the south, it is a must-read! It is definitely thought-provoking to think how different the world is today.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 1, 2006

    WOW!!

    What an amazing book! Growing up a white farm girl in NC, I remember. Tyson does a great job of conveying his personal story. A page turner for me!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 15, 2004

    An honest look at racism

    With this devastating story Tyson gives us a hard, cold, honest look at hatred, prejudice and racism in North Carolina in the sixties and seventies. I know. I was there.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 1, 2004

    Excellent History and Autobiography

    By chance I came across a review of Tyson's book in Entertainment Weekly, where it was highly praised. Simply put, this is one of the finest books I've read on the country's struggle with the legacy of slavery and white supremacy. Tyson is unflinchingly honest about his own life, his family's past, and the past of his native North Carolina. Rather than dancing around the painful facts of race relations in the U.S., he confronts them head on. The book is, thankfully, not preachy or sanctimonious, as Tyson examines his own personal complicity in the system of white domination. As a result, the book does what good literature always does - helps the reader examine his or her own unquestioned assumptions and prejudices. Tyson also offers, in his own modest way, some reflections on how we might find our way out of the mess that slavery and white supremacy have created in the U.S. And I don't want to make the book sound dull and dry. Though the subject is grim, Tyson writes his story in a compelling and highly readable manner. Highly recommended!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 24, 2013

    White Circle

    As you finally unlock the final Black Door, a lush castle surrounded by waterfalls comes into view. Birds fly around, tittering and chirping. A stone bridge gaps the ravine between you and your prize, and as you approach it, you find a piece of paper inside a white chalk circle. You pick it up and undo the elaborate seal, reading.<br><br>Congratulations, reader. You have discovered White Circle, your very own haven and castle. It is unique in many ways. Many mythical beings are in hibernation in the catacombs, some friendly and others not. (Until you find the Asther Staff and the Grey Lock, I would advise staying away from Banished Cavern, as the liches there are lethally unfriendly to those who do not bear the Grey Lock on an Asther Staff. The Grey Lock is in a shadowy hole in the Crumbling Tower domain in the Imagine Room, simply go to the Room and enter "CLFRTOW62" into the Locations notebook. The Asther Staff is in the Element Room, by the Eighth Spire inside a boulder. Touch the boulder and say "I'm hollow and faceless." The boulder shall split, and you must catch the staff before it hits the ground.) You may invite anyone here, as this is now your kingdom. Use this place wisely, and try not to destroy it. I shall visit from time to time, if I must.<br><br>Signed, Dust Man.<br><br>You put the letter down and walk to the gate, spotting an indent in the shaoe of your hand. You place your hand in the indent and the gate rumbles open. A large hall spans in front of you, two doors on either side. They are titled "Imagine Room," "Element Room," "Atlantis," and "Castle." You walk to the Castle door, and it opens before you, revealing a feasting hall. As you spend the next few hours exploring, you find an extensive wardrobe filled with modern clothing for you, a pool, two kitchens, three bathrooms, a sparring room, a Magic Artifact room, an armory, a reading room, and two guestrooms.<br>White Circle is now yours.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 13, 2011

    To :Painful

    It is interesting how you never mentioned how the victim's family and all the other victimized blacks felt then and how the feel NOW! You only mention concerns for the family members that did the horrible killing!

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted January 26, 2011

    dont listen to the last review

    the last review was given by one of the aquitted members of that family...read the book for yourself.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 7, 2007

    A reviewer

    I really enjoy this book it took me to everyplace that was decribe in the stroy of the book, I like the fact author told the truth. How his feelings were as a child with unearned white privileged had, oppose to the African Americans in this country in this country and he wrote this true story. I like the fact I found out that African Americans did not just burn their own side of towns down. It was a lot of history in this book also,ENJOYED.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 16, 2005

    Manhattan Country School Honors Tyson with 'Living the Dream' Mentor Award

    Tyson relentlessly pursues a more complex understanding of race relations through the history that recreates them, from slavery to the civil rights movement to the interpersonal relationships among friends. Through 'a true story' that emerges from historical documents, stories gathered from many people involved, and personal memories Tyson reveals the possibilities still to be experienced across racial divides. His writing makes the reader feel as if in the presence of an accomplished storyteller. The Mentor Award honors an author who inpsires others to 'live the dream,' which in in this case is entirely deserved. 'My search for the meaning of the troubles in Oxford launched me toward a life of learning, across the lines of color and caste, out of my little boy's vision of my family's well-lighted place in the world and into the shadows where histories and memories and hopes abide.'

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 15, 2005

    forgiveness and reconciliation

    This author put his soul to work when he honestly critiqued everyone involved in his story. There is no wonder he speaks with such authenticity as a storyteller. Confronting your own reality--all of it-- will help you find a more approximate truth. I actually laughed out loud in many places. A lot of emotions are invoked from the disclosure of loss, hate, pain, embarrassment, pride, and acceptance. The author is a folk art storyteller, and a scholar. The book title is an excellent expression of what the author seems to reveal about his relationship with the divine and reconciliation.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 2, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted June 20, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 9, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted January 11, 2013

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted April 3, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 15, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted February 17, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 24, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

  • Anonymous

    Posted March 28, 2010

    No text was provided for this review.

See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 22 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)