A picture of Jesus with a crown of thorns. Chairs in the corner. Church folk kneeling. Images of my people squinched down in the fetal position, crying, whimpering, rocking back and forth, hands being held. Some broke out in Negro spirituals, calling out to Jesus on the walls of the Prayer Room. This is the moment, suspended. As an old building, it has rust all over the premises, cracks in multiple places, but when you step foot in there the history speaks loudly to you.

This was the prayer room in the Rudisill North Regional library—Tulsa. The race riot in 1921.

I live in Tulsa, am from Tulsa, grew up in Tulsa, and this absolutely never was taught as part of Oklahoma history as it should have been. Just another thing they leave out.

The smell of the room was like old water, all sweat and sourness. The room still holds what was felt, is still full those moments. As my grandmother explained to me, the room smelled of fear; the darkness and quiet made it worse. The way she felt being in that room was like closing your eyes and imagining your worst nightmare. Someone breaks into your home, and you hear them. You know they're coming. You anticipate the violence, the overpowering fear that makes your stomach hurt, heart palpitate, head pound, and guts twist and churn. The thoughts run through your mind: whether to flee, hide, sneak out the back, gather up your things and run, or stay and fight, all the while understanding the outcome could go either way. Life experience tells you it will not be in your favor.