Whatsoever Things are Pure

The phantoms rolled forward down Pennsylvania Avenue, led by an extraordinary spectre in red.

Akia, her family’s first child, watched from the sides of the avenue along with thousands of other attendees. To her horror, more emerged from the sides of the avenue, dressed in similar dresses, raising the number from tens to hundreds. Despite having their faces covered, Akia could still sense the hatred flowing in the air. When she had seen enough, she resolutely turned her head around, and headed back towards her house - Madison Street 311. She wished not for trifles, for that her father told her so. 

She sat on the balcony of her house, and scrutinized the street outside. She could not see any cars, a strange sight for a busy place like Madison Street. The only men present were standing on the sides of the street silently, but she could sense the anxiousness in the air. She thought of her father, her majestic, mighty father. Where was he now? What was he doing? Before he had taken his leave today, he had promised Akia that he would soon discontinue this bizarre schedule.

“My Love,” he had said, “Worry not. So long as you choose whatsoever things that are pure, no one will harm you.” She kneeled down towards Zaqiel, the angel of purity, and prayed for her father, and for herself. 

She heard a loud noise coming through the streets. They are here! She looked down. She saw an exact replica of what had been seen before, but the numbers petrified her: it had doubled in a matter of thirty minutes. Akia could no longer see the end of the march, and noises soon replaced the original silence. She trembled. Akia knew who these men were. She did not want to join them; and as for her father, who had been the exact representative of nobleness, would never want to join the march, would he?

The street was suddenly filled with turmoil. Akia peeked from the window, and saw the phantoms had suddenly stopped in front of her house. The peculiar leader she saw earlier -- the man in red -- took off his mask and waved his arms at Akia. 

It was her father. 

She took a step back, gasping for breath. Her father! Her exalted, virtuous father! Out of all on this planet, the last Akia expected and wished to see in those linens was her father. She suddenly felt short of breath. She blinked forcefully, attempting to convince herself that she is simply seeing nothing more but a hallucination. Despite her efforts, her father’s figure in red only grew clearer, and she could now hear his faint shouts: “...kia! Akia!” 

What wretchedness Akia saw in her father was unknown, yet later that day, when her father returned home for dinner, he brought her an old rifle, some used bullets, a blood-stained cleaver, a hanging rope and countless other items that Akia could not remember. She firmly closed her eyes, yet he could still hear what her father said. “This rifle was used by your grandfather - He killed five with it… That cleaver had covered itself with the blood of Leo Frank and other blacks. Our purity does not only mean purity at heart, but also extends to the purity of our nation.”

Father paused for a second, and looked at Akia with a kind-hearted smile. “As for your name, I lied to you about it’s meaning.”

“It never meant ‘the First Born,” he said. 

“It had always meant ‘A Klansman I Am.’”