>>> EMAIL JUST SENT TO SOLEDAD O'BRIEN of CNN:
Dear Ms. O’Brien,
If you receive this, know that two browsers would NOT allow me to send this to you via form on CNN.com . I WILL post this on my blog, whose address is listed below.
I am unable to watch the late-cycling of your piece on the Atlanta Child Murders – although it is on as I type -- because I am overcome with emotion and memory. Unfortunately, my memory is NOT of anything relating to the crimes, directly.
From early November 1981 – the end of April 1982, I was the assistant to playwright Tennessee Williams, and during that time, Mr. Williams was obsessed with the story of what was happening to Wayne Williams in a deeper way than any other news story – and we watched the CBS Evening News together every night. I occasionally caught Mr. Williams reading detailed stories about the situation in Atlanta when he irregularly read newspapers.
The only time I saw Tennessee Williams “break down” and seem to be “losing it” was one night in Manhattan, we visited a liquor store. I wrote about this in my memoir, which after a promised hard-cover launch in spring of 2010, was NOT published – and in fact, Alyson Books’ lawyers called me to tell me they would see it is never published, but nearly two years ago I published it on Amazon with the rave reviews from John Lahr and three of the top Williams scholars. I have continuing political battles that I wage on my "The Weather Up Here" http://scottkenan.blogspot.com . My book can be found by searching Amazon for WALKING ON GLASS: A MEMOIR OF THE LATER DAYS OF TENNESSEE WILLIAMS, or clicking this: http://www.amazon.com/WALKING-ON-GLASS-TENNESSEE-ebook/dp/B0053480S2 .
You should also know that when Tennessee Williams got his mail packet from his agency every two weeks – which included fan mail – he always cried when he got letters from black folks who must never have seen his photo. They ALWAYS (according to Tennessee), assumed he was black. This was the reward for his talent – that black folks could consider him black.
He never once mentioned his two Pulitzer Prizes.
And now I too continue to tell the truth about everything I have learned since deciding to expose my own mother’s crimes – unfortunately she is well connected to Dick Cheney and other key Republicans (and Fox News, of course).
Please tell Wayne Williams about this – and that he has the spirit of Tennessee Williams ABSOLUTELY on his side as he fights to find his right justice.
Scott David Kenan
Puerto Vallarta, Mexico -- in political exile from North Carolina, only
From the USA or Canada, dial my cell phone exactly this way: 011-52-1-XXX-XXX-XXXX.
Here is an excerpt from my book from Chapter 23, “An Uptown Soiree” , about that incident:
One evening while searching for a bottle of Frascati in New York, we found a narrow liquor store wedged into the middle of a block. Entering, I felt the weight of the shelves on either side. Stacked to the peeling tin ceiling, the bottles looked as if they would fall at a sneeze.
A clerk with a mustache and salt-and-pepper afro sat on a bar stool at the end the counter. Seeing him, Tennessee, still hunched from the cold, spoke, practically mumbling.
“He didn‘t do it,” he said. His hands were in his pockets as he looked at the man. “I know he didn‘t. He couldn‘t . . .”
I glanced at the clerk who sat unmoved, watching. Tennessee, fighting tears, continued addressing him. “He would never kill those children. He was framed.”
He had to be referring to Wayne Williams, the young black man in Atlanta accused of a series of child murders. The ongoing disappearance and murder of black children in Atlanta had long gone unsolved. There were rumors the Klan was behind the attacks, and with racial tension mounting, police had been under mounting pressure to find the killer. On scant evidence, they arrested Wayne Williams. The police painted him as a homosexual pedophile and murderer, but when they brought him to trial, they charged him only with the murder of two adults—none of the children. The trial was in progress in Atlanta.
Getting no response from the clerk, Tennessee began to move slowly, bottle-by-bottle, down the aisle.
I squeezed past him and found the Frascati—a miracle to find it stocked in such a small store. Wine in hand, I just wanted to get out of there. I reminded myself that New Yorkers had seen everything. I hoped this was true.
“They won‘t get away with this,” Tennessee muttered to himself.
I slipped back past him and placed the bottle on the counter.
Still near tears, Tennessee looked at the clerk as he approached him. “The blacks think
I‘m one of them you know.”
I checked to be sure the way out was clear.
“They write me all the time. I love the blacks.”
There was no point waiting for him to pay. I pulled a twenty from my wallet. The clerk rang up the sale and handed me change.
“Tom, let‘s go,” I said. “We‘re late.”
Before we walked out the door, Tennessee turned and called back. “He didn‘t do it. I know it. I know it . . .”
The bell on the door jingled as I pulled him through to the cold night air.
.
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