It made me very uneasy that Mr. Sandman read my thoughts. Often I felt as if my head must be transparent, Mr. Sandman could peer inside.

“They would slash our throats in our beds, if they could. You will see! And they all know your name—‘Kerrigan.’ They know whose sister you are. And your flamboyant relative—‘Tom’ Kerrigan. They certainly know his name.”

Vaguely I was aware that my father’s uncle was running again for political office in South Niagara. In the local newspaper there’d been articles about Tom Kerrigan’s “controversial”—“inflammatory”—interviews, speeches, accusations. In the recent Republican primary for state assembly Tom Kerrigan had received more votes than a younger, more moderate rival. His campaign emphasized “law and order”—“welfare reform”—“an end to affirmative action.” It was Tom Kerrigan’s belief that affirmative action was the “new racism—against whites.”

Of course, Tom Kerrigan defended his young nephews who’d been “wrongfully convicted” of manslaughter . . .

“Kerrigan is crude, but sometimes crudeness is the best weapon. A mallet, not a surgical instrument. A shotgun, not a pearl-handled revolver. Did you know your uncle well, Violet?”

“N-No . . .”

“You didn’t visit his house? He didn’t visit yours?”

It seemed that I was disappointing Mr. Sandman. His wiry grizzled eyebrows knitted over his fierce eyes.

I had not ever met Tom Kerrigan though I’d been hearing about him for as long as I could remember. I’d seen photographs of him—an older man, broad-chested, white-haired, not handsome like Daddy but with a recognizable Kerrigan face. A mean pike mouth disguised by a wide smile.

“Most politicians shrink from associating themselves with the ‘race issue’ at the present time. But Tom Kerrigan—he plunges right in.” Mr. Sandman laughed, enviously. “As a public school teacher, I am in a very different position. At least, in this northern state. And so, I’ve had to be the very soul of discretion. I never ‘discriminate’ against Negro students, when they are in my classes. Nothing could be proved against me if the NAACP tried to sue. I never go out of my way to help, or to hinder. But I rarely acknowledge them, either. For the most part they are invisible to me.”

This seemed sad, and wrong. I dared to ask Mr. Sandman why he didn’t like Ethel, Lorraine, and Tyrell, in our class? They were all nice, and Tyrell was smart.

“It isn’t a matter of ‘liking’ them as individuals. As individuals they might be inoffensive. They do behave themselves in our class. It’s the race that is a threat. Suppose the Negroes were carrying plague virus? You’d avoid them then, even if they are ‘nice.’”

“But—they don’t have the plague . . .”

“Silly girl! They have something worse than the plague. They have the virus that will destroy the white race, from within. Look, I am one of the most fair-minded teachers in the Port Oriskany school district. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt. But the Ne-groes, I do not. I draw the line. I don’t ‘see’ them and I don’t want to teach them. I am obliged to teach them, but I am not obliged to ‘see’ them.”