Ghosts
A food and fiction vignette: a story of forbidden desire and its haunting consequences
I originally posted this series on Instagram last year, but inevitably it has become buried, and I want to edit it, breathe new life into it, and get more eyes on it. It’s a bit of a change from the usual writing I share, but it’s good to switch things up sometimes, no?
In November 2023, I spent an afternoon at the Paris Photo Fair with my good friend, photographer Alejandra Hauser. The moment we arrived at the temporary Grand Palais space, she couldn’t stop talking about a photo series she was sure I’d love.
And she was right. To say that I was blown away by this collaboration and the work that came from it is an understatement.
In the photo series “Being There”, photographer Omar Victor Diop worked with visual artist Lee Schulman to insert himself into the white, privileged, American world of birthdays, graduations, vacations, dinners, and various other celebrations during the 1950s and 60s; a time fraught with segregation.
As a Black person who often navigates white spaces, I couldn’t help but wonder: what if these photographs were real? Under what context could a Black man be a part of this world back then? WHAT’S THE STORY BE HERE? OMAR ARE YOU OKAY???? 🗣️🗣️🎙️🎙️
Inspired by these questions, I decided to create the stories. I chose a few photos from the collection and wrote little vignettes for each. I also prepared the dishes featured in each vignette. Why? Well, because I’m me and it wouldn’t be a Sutanya production if food wasn’t involved someway, somehow.
Over the next four days, I’ll publish a new vignette each day to get into the rhythm of using this Substack and staying consistent. I originally wrote five, but depending on your response, I may write more. :)
I hope you enjoy reading the vignettes as much as I enjoyed writing them!
GHOSTS
Everyone has secrets. Mildred Perkins has accepted that fact. What she’s unsure of is if everyone is also haunted by a past they’d rather forget.
Back in Pinewich, every day after school, and most weekends, Mildred worked in her family’s general store. The rotating cast of characters who cycled through the store amused her enough. Among them was Loretta Alden, a white-gloved former debutante whose perplexing dualities included being a raging kleptomaniac while holding the distinguished title of lead soloist in the Calvary Baptist Church choir. And Buck Hawthorne, the gruff but kind farmer, who regularly left Mildred baskets of fresh vegetables to show his affection.
But truthfully, it wasn’t the customers or produce that drew Mildred behind the till without pouting. It was the mere possibility of seeing Tom Thompson.
Tom, with his round, large downcast eyes that perfectly mirrored his innocent, sweet, and gentle nature made even the toughest folks soften. At seventeen, he was the only boy her age who matched her height. The subtle act of tilting her head upward to meet his gaze flooded Mildred with a feeling of dainty appeal usually only afforded to the Loretta Aldens in her world.
Tom’s visit to the store that day started like any other. He walked in, tipped his hat, and greeted Mildred,
“How ya doin’ Ms. Millie? You got anything good for me today?”.
“I do, but you don’t want it,” she said, with a sly smile. She leaned forward on the counter, her elbows cupping her chin, watching him closely.
When Mildred and Tom were alone, she wasn’t shy about her interest in him. Despite being mutually attracted to her and equally curious, Tom usually rebuffed her advances out of fear. He’d say a few words and leave quickly. He knew that a Black boy seen with a white girl was trouble. Everyone knew it. It didn’t matter if she flirted first or how innocent the conversation seemed.
But that day he wanted to play Mildred’s game for a few minutes. Maybe it was the way she looked at him. Maybe it was because Tom was tired of denying his humanity. Or maybe, it was because, for once he wanted to forget the invisible line that kept them apart.
He glanced toward the entrance of the store.
“What’s the matter Tom?” she asked, her voice low and breathy. “You nervous?”
His eyes flickered to hers, then back down to the floor. The tension between them was rising, he knew how dangerous this was and a moment of weakness could cost him everything.
“I ain’t nervous,” he muttered. Though they both knew it was a lie. “You gonn’ get me in trouble, Miss Millie”.
Mildred gracefully moved from behind the counter as she walked past him to engage in a well-practiced charade of dusting shelves. As she passed, she purposely brushed against his right arm, closing the distance between them. By the time she circled back, sweat beads had gathered on Tom’s upper lip. Without a word, she swiftly slipped her hand into his.
“You know I can’t do that,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mildred’s smile slowly faded. She was tired of everyone else’s rules–her parents’, the town’s, the world’s. Why should she care what they thought?
For a brief moment, Tom let himself imagine living in a world where he could say yes to Mildred. Where he could stay in the store with her, help her, laugh with her, and be something more than just a boy on the wrong side of the color line.
Standing there face-to-face, hand-in-hand, time stopped. The outside world, with its nonsensical rules and prejudices, faded into the background as they broke the barriers that divided them. The kiss that followed was an exquisite, desperate dance of shared desire and longing–steeped in urgency, wonder, and risk.
But as quickly as the spell was cast, it shattered, throwing them back into reality when Mildred’s father, Ray Perkins, stormed into the store.
“Mildred Blanche Perkins what on God’s green earth is going on here?”, he screamed, his voice shaking the walls.
Tom pulled away, stumbling back as he stammered, “Mr. Perkins, I–I can explain.”
Tom’s attempt to diffuse the situation only intensified Ray’s rage. His eyes filled with fury, narrowed. “Explain?” he spat, advancing towards Tom.
Without warning, Ray punched Tom in the mouth, sending him crashing to the floor. “You think you can take advantage of my daughter, boy? Think you can get away with this?”
Tom, stunned, wiped the blood from his lip, his heart pounding with panic and regret. He looked at Mildred, eyes wide, silently begging for help. But Ray had already turned to her, his face still full of rage.
“Go get your brothers and your uncle Earl”, he snapped at her. Without hesitation, Mildred ran. She sprinted down the dirt road, her heart racing as much from shock as from dread.
The arrival of Mildred’s family signaled the beginning of a grim sequence of events as Tom was forcibly dragged to Earl’s pickup truck. In a last desperate plea, his voice tinged with disbelief, Tom looked up at Mildred and asked, “Millie, you really gonn’ let’em do this to me? Tell’em I wasn’t tryin’ to hurt you.”
Shocked by the escalating situation and disgusted with herself for obeying her father, Mildred averted her gaze. A small part of her believed this would blow over—they’d rough him up, scare him off, and then it would be over. They’d let Tom go then she could explain and apologize.
However, an hour later at the store, while inspecting Bisquick boxes, Loretta Alden casually asked, “I wonder what that poor Tom Thompson did?”
Mildred froze. “What do you mean?”
“You can go see for yourself. They got him down at your Uncle Earl’s.” Her voice was light, almost cheerful.
Panic seized Mildred’s body. Without a word, she bolted out of the door, running faster than she ever had in her life. Pushing herself to run without stopping despite searing cramps and burning and burning muscles attempting to slow her down.
With no one around, Loretta gleefully slipped three boxes of Bisquick into her bag without a second thought and proudly walked out the door.
Out of breath and exhausted, Milred arrived at her uncle’s farm to find a disturbing scene.
The atmosphere was disgustingly festive. Families gathered around tables overflowing with fried chicken and biscuits, children ran around with balloons, and cups of sweet tea were being generously poured into sparkling mason jars. Laughter and chatter filled the air, as Mildred’s eyes found the poplar tree.
There swung Tom Thompson’s lifeless body, gently swaying in the breeze.
Mildred’s breath caught in her throat as she collapsed on her knees, she was sickened by the scene. Her father, standing tall like an injured war hero home from battle, was shaking hands with the men in the crowd. The women blushed when they caught his eye. The barbaric act he committed went unquestioned. They all wholeheartedly believed he had done the right thing.
Later that night, long after the crowds left, Mildred snuck back to the farm. She hid in the shadows watching Tom’s family gently cut his body down from the tree. His mother, Eunice, was weeping softly, her hands trembling as she wiped the dirt from her son’s face and kissed his cheek. Her voice, rough and broken, echoed in the night an anguished refrain, “My baby, my baby.”
Leaves rustled under Mildred’s feet, drawing attention to her presence. Eunice’s bloodshot eyes met hers and her expression hardened. “
Why did you stop them? Eunice’s voice was a fragile whisper carrying the weight of unimaginable pain. “You knew he wasn’t hurting you.”
Mildred’s heart shattered under the weight of her guilt and shame. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Eunice’s words hung in the air, “He couldn’t hurt you. He wouldn’t.”
Mildred began to choke on her disgust. She stood by and let it happen. She was a coward who let fear and obedience stop her from doing what was right.
Shortly after Tom Thompson’s lynching, Mildred left Pinewich, unable to bear its smell, the sight of the town, its people, or herself. She yearned for a new start to remove this stain from her life, but no matter how far she went or who she was with, the ghost of Tom Thompson stood beside her.
Mildred could never outrun her guilt. Tom Thompson’s death became the shadow she carried for the rest of her life—a mark she would never wash away.
