On the day of the march Malone woke up worrying that rioters might disrupt proceedings. This wouldn’t be the first time in the town’s history when a reckoning with race drew outside partisans. Organisers heard rumours from law-enforcement sources that a panoply of groups was planning to descend on Vidor: white-supremacist gangs the Black Panthers, a black-nationalist organisation Antifa, an anti-fascist political movement and those merely in search of a riot. Agitators threatened on Twitter to turn up at the protest and “shoot y’all up”. A former co-worker asked, “Why are you bringing this to our town?” Some of her social-media accounts were hacked. She was called a “n-r lover” and an attention-seeker. The march was a chance to show people of colour that they would be safe in her town.Īlongside messages of support, Malone also received abuse. “Whenever I would tell people I’m from Vidor, people would automatically associate me with being racist,” she said. As Malone’s circle of friends expanded to include people of other races in other cities, she quickly became tired of hearing them worry about coming to Vidor (she once had to convince a black friend from Houston that he wouldn’t get shot if he visited her). She reckoned that she was allowed to become friends with Baaheth because Malone’s family regarded her as a “good Christian” (they met through church). It was understood that she must date only white men. ![]() Malone had also grown up in a devout family. In 1993 Texas Monthly labelled Vidor 'Texas’ most hate-filled town' “Stop making us a point in someone else’s agenda for trouble.” When people cried “Black lives matter”, many conservative townsfolk heard calls for defunding the police, abortion on demand and outright socialism. “We have all races that live here and there is no problem,” wrote a woman in one of Vidor’s Facebook groups. Some Vidorians couldn’t see any reason to protest. “This is not a protest but a lynching disguised as one,” implored another post. ![]() A few even thought the event was a pretext to lure black people to their deaths. Some tweets sounded the alarm: “DO NOT GO TO THE PROTEST IF YOU ARE BLACK! It is a stronghold for the kkk ! DO NOT GO!” urged one woman. Malone and Baaheth posted a call on social media for a “Peace March in Vidor” in memory of George Floyd. Worried that participating might endanger her job, Baaheth asked her boss at Chick-fil-A, a fast-food chain, if she could attend. “But if we don’t do this, then we’re not giving the people in Vidor the chance to show their support,” she thought. In 1993 a cover story in Texas Monthly labelled Vidor “Texas’ most hate-filled town”.īaaheth had grown up in a conservative family that believed they should trust God alone to fight their battles. Many knew the stories of the few black people who’d been run out of town after trying to settle there. For generations, black people warned each other not to stop there even to buy petrol. Some 98% of the population is white (compared with 79% in the entire state of Texas). In this part of Texas, Vidor is notorious for being a former haven for the Ku Klux Klan. Would Baaheth help her organise a march? Baaheth’s initial enthusiasm dwindled when she learned precisely where Malone wanted to hold it. She called Yalakesen Baaheth, a black friend who lived in Port Arthur, a more racially diverse city nearby. Maddy Malone, a 23-year-old white woman from Vidor, had been attending Black Lives Matter protests in nearby towns and wanted to organise one in her own community. It was a hot summer and waves of anger and indignation were rippling across the country after George Floyd was murdered by a police officer in Minneapolis. On June 5th last year, the town of Vidor in East Texas, home to 11,000 people, awoke in a nervous sweat.
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