The Houston Chronicle editorial today is on the Arbery murder.
Just as we moved to Houston there was a horrid case of the police throwing a Hispanic man off of a bridge over Buffalo Bayou. With his hands cuffed behind him he drowned. There were protests for a long time at a park not far from where we live now. Our first house out in the boonies was near a small neighborhood of Mexican immigrants who worked in the support jobs that unincorporated Harris County depended on. Our church had a volunteer social worker who recruited some of the white women to share meals with the women from the immigrant community.
One of the men, Moses, asked me to go to a funeral across the street from a funeral where one of his cousins was being waked. I didn’t tell Teddy but I went. Drove myself into an area of Houston I would never had seen. Old oak trees bungalows and poverty also the way the police made money off of the community and provided a much needed service.
The funeral home was inside of a private home with a very large garage. The policemen dressed in civies arrived With a refrigerator truck. Everyone gathered outside to see the dead man take his last journey home to be buried with his family. At the last minuted the funeral director rushed up to Moses and the driver and a discussion followed by a collection of change from the mourners. I was going to put a dollar in but Moses stopped me. Too much. Just a little change. The dead man’s body was wrapped in a dirty blue chenille bed cover. “This is poverty. His family in Mexico and here don’t have the money for coffin. It’s important for him to go home.” It is our shame to be so poor that we can’t provide boxes for all of our dead”.
This story just came back to me, like a haunt.