Stone Mountain

A man that my friend Shelby knows from work is Indian by origin– I mean from the country of India.  He is a lawyer. When Shelby went on a trip to Atlanta, Georgia a few weeks back, she told this coworker that she was going to visit a tourist spot called Stone Mountain. (It’s a mini-Mount Rushmore, and actually carved by the same artist.) So he shared the following story about his own experience years ago at the same spot.

Back when this Indian man was in law school in the South, he and another fellow were the only people “of color” in the university,  so they stuck together and became friends.

One weekend this black friend invited him to visit Stone Mountain for a little Friday night college-boy adventure. They drove up a winding forested road to its remote location, and as they hopped out of the car, the friend popped the trunk to reveal two blazing white KKK robes– pointy hats and all! This black college-boy had planned to attend a KKK rally in disguise!  Wide-eyed but unwilling to make waves with his buddy, he proceeded with the plan.

And so they joined the chanting crowd of white-robed racists, all the while hiding their identities behind costumes of no color.   When it was all over, this audacious young man went so far as to remove his disguise and shout profanity at the shocked KKK-ers.

Running to their car, Shelby’s Indian friend and his black companion were of course pursued by a furious and growing group.   As they turned the ignition to make a get away, shaking fingers caused the engine to flood.  The shouting mob grew closer as panic grew in their chests.   Their lives were truly on the line at this point.

None too soon, the engine revved up, and the two began their wild descent back down the dark and winding road. A stream of headlights marched closer in the mirror, so they turned off their own, careening blindly now across unseen bumps and curves.   Finally, rounding a corner, the car flew off the road and jolted to a stop in a muddy ditch.

They soon watched with wonder as 100 cars or more blazed past, their headlights failing to light up the darkened spot where the men of color now lay miraculously hidden from view. It was a shaky pair that finally hobbled and squeaked their way home hours later, having made their statement to an unjust world, but barely escaping its wrath.





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