I Could’ve Been the Next George Stinney
Summer of 1994. I was ten years old, a skinny Black kid with skin the color of ground cinnamon, living in a small coastal town in North Carolina. My parents were both active-duty Army, so I was alone most of the time, wandering streets, riding my bike, or exploring the woods.
That day, I met two girls I had never seen before. One had long red braids and violet eyes — Barbara Billings. The other had golden-blonde hair in twin braids, sapphire eyes — Stacy Courtney Washington.
When they told me their names, I shyly said mine: “Carlsbad Rainier Thompson.”
They giggled softly — not cruelly, just amused by how shy I sounded. Barbara smiled, “We’re not laughing at your name — just at how shy you are. It’s kinda cute.”
They asked what I was doing out alone. I explained my parents were away on duty, and sometimes I had babysitters, sometimes not.
Then Barbara looked me up and down. “Do you have trouble getting food? You’re kinda skinny.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m a vegan.”
Their eyes widened. “Really? You don’t eat chicken or pork or anything?” Stacy asked.
I shrugged. “I know people assume all Black kids eat that stuff, but not all of us do. I used to be obese from ages four to nine, and veganism helped me lose the weight when exercise alone didn’t work.”
Barbara grinned. “Wow. And you’re muscular too… six-pack, tone arms. You must really exercise.”
Stacy nodded. “Yeah, you can’t just get that from being black. You clearly work for it.”
I nodded, a little proud. “Exactly. You can’t assume anything about someone just because of the way they look.”
We walked through my mostly Black neighborhood. People gave us sideways looks. Some adults stopped us.
“What’s going on here, Carlsbad?” one woman asked, squinting.
“They’re my babysitters,” I said. The girls nodded, smiling politely. Only then did the adults let us go.
When we crossed into the white part of town, the contrast was sharp. Adults didn’t ask me anything. They just heard the girls say, “We’re his babysitters,” and accepted it immediately. No confirmation needed. That moment stayed with me — the quiet, subtle ways bias works.
We wandered into the woods — about a mile in. Not because we were afraid, but because we loved nature: the smell of pine and grass, the sounds of birds and rushing water, the sight of squirrels and rabbits. It was peaceful.
After a few minutes, I felt it: someone was watching us. Barbara whispered, “We’re being followed.” Stacy nodded.
That’s when they acted. Barbara suddenly said loudly, “Let’s go to the donut shop! I’ve got a sweet tooth!”
“Yeah! I want chocolate glaze!” Stacy added.
We spoke loud enough so anyone following us would hear — a trap.
We walked to the donut shop. Inside, the girls told the gray-haired, bearded manager everything. I waited outside, pretending nothing was happening.
Then we saw him: Thomas Huckleberry Jackson-Hoover. He stood in the street about six yards away, trying to look casual. Then he turned and ran straight toward me — socks pounding on the pavement after kicking off his boots.
Before he reached me, the manager burst out and tackled him hard. “You should’ve realized the kids were onto you when they started talking loud enough for everyone to hear!” he shouted. Police were called. He was arrested.
The manager handed each of us a free donut: Stacy chose chocolate glaze, Barbara strawberry with sprinkles, and I got the devil’s food donut I had mentioned earlier.
Barbara whispered, “We’re Catholic. We think God was watching over us today.” Stacy crossed herself. I wanted to believe that.
After we left the shop, I told them about George Stinney.
I explained how he was fourteen in 1944, a Black boy in South Carolina, accused of killing two white girls — Betty June Binnicker and Mary Emma Thames. The police claimed he confessed, though the details never matched. Some white neighbors claimed — unconfirmed — that George had bullied or threatened white girls, and the police used this as justification. His parents were forced to flee town. His lawyer called no witnesses. An all-white jury convicted him in ten minutes. He was executed a month later, sitting on a Bible to fit the electric chair.
I told the girls what scared me most: if Thomas Jackson-Hoover had caught us, I could have been blamed just like George. No one would have listened. I could have been accused.
Barbara shivered. “They wouldn’t have believed you?”
“No,” I said quietly. “They’d have said I did it. Just like Stinney. That’s what scares me the most.”
We decided not to stay out on the street anymore. We went to Stacy’s house. I stayed in contact with both girls afterward. Reporters later called our survival “luck,” but I knew it wasn’t.
Looking back now, in 2025, it hits me even harder: in 1994, minors could still receive capital punishment in the United States. Had things gone differently, I wouldn’t just have been blamed — I might have faced the ultimate consequence.
It’s the way society’s assumptions, biases, and blind faith in convenient narratives can determine life or death. One step, one glance, one confirmation — a ten-year-old could’ve been the next George Stinney.
Isn’t it kind of funny how the same things happen over and over again? Or, in my case… how they almost do.
That day, I met two girls I had never seen before. One had long red braids and violet eyes — Barbara Billings. The other had golden-blonde hair in twin braids, sapphire eyes — Stacy Courtney Washington.
When they told me their names, I shyly said mine: “Carlsbad Rainier Thompson.”
They giggled softly — not cruelly, just amused by how shy I sounded. Barbara smiled, “We’re not laughing at your name — just at how shy you are. It’s kinda cute.”
They asked what I was doing out alone. I explained my parents were away on duty, and sometimes I had babysitters, sometimes not.
Then Barbara looked me up and down. “Do you have trouble getting food? You’re kinda skinny.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m a vegan.”
Their eyes widened. “Really? You don’t eat chicken or pork or anything?” Stacy asked.
I shrugged. “I know people assume all Black kids eat that stuff, but not all of us do. I used to be obese from ages four to nine, and veganism helped me lose the weight when exercise alone didn’t work.”
Barbara grinned. “Wow. And you’re muscular too… six-pack, tone arms. You must really exercise.”
Stacy nodded. “Yeah, you can’t just get that from being black. You clearly work for it.”
I nodded, a little proud. “Exactly. You can’t assume anything about someone just because of the way they look.”
We walked through my mostly Black neighborhood. People gave us sideways looks. Some adults stopped us.
“What’s going on here, Carlsbad?” one woman asked, squinting.
“They’re my babysitters,” I said. The girls nodded, smiling politely. Only then did the adults let us go.
When we crossed into the white part of town, the contrast was sharp. Adults didn’t ask me anything. They just heard the girls say, “We’re his babysitters,” and accepted it immediately. No confirmation needed. That moment stayed with me — the quiet, subtle ways bias works.
We wandered into the woods — about a mile in. Not because we were afraid, but because we loved nature: the smell of pine and grass, the sounds of birds and rushing water, the sight of squirrels and rabbits. It was peaceful.
After a few minutes, I felt it: someone was watching us. Barbara whispered, “We’re being followed.” Stacy nodded.
That’s when they acted. Barbara suddenly said loudly, “Let’s go to the donut shop! I’ve got a sweet tooth!”
“Yeah! I want chocolate glaze!” Stacy added.
We spoke loud enough so anyone following us would hear — a trap.
We walked to the donut shop. Inside, the girls told the gray-haired, bearded manager everything. I waited outside, pretending nothing was happening.
Then we saw him: Thomas Huckleberry Jackson-Hoover. He stood in the street about six yards away, trying to look casual. Then he turned and ran straight toward me — socks pounding on the pavement after kicking off his boots.
Before he reached me, the manager burst out and tackled him hard. “You should’ve realized the kids were onto you when they started talking loud enough for everyone to hear!” he shouted. Police were called. He was arrested.
The manager handed each of us a free donut: Stacy chose chocolate glaze, Barbara strawberry with sprinkles, and I got the devil’s food donut I had mentioned earlier.
Barbara whispered, “We’re Catholic. We think God was watching over us today.” Stacy crossed herself. I wanted to believe that.
After we left the shop, I told them about George Stinney.
I explained how he was fourteen in 1944, a Black boy in South Carolina, accused of killing two white girls — Betty June Binnicker and Mary Emma Thames. The police claimed he confessed, though the details never matched. Some white neighbors claimed — unconfirmed — that George had bullied or threatened white girls, and the police used this as justification. His parents were forced to flee town. His lawyer called no witnesses. An all-white jury convicted him in ten minutes. He was executed a month later, sitting on a Bible to fit the electric chair.
I told the girls what scared me most: if Thomas Jackson-Hoover had caught us, I could have been blamed just like George. No one would have listened. I could have been accused.
Barbara shivered. “They wouldn’t have believed you?”
“No,” I said quietly. “They’d have said I did it. Just like Stinney. That’s what scares me the most.”
We decided not to stay out on the street anymore. We went to Stacy’s house. I stayed in contact with both girls afterward. Reporters later called our survival “luck,” but I knew it wasn’t.
Looking back now, in 2025, it hits me even harder: in 1994, minors could still receive capital punishment in the United States. Had things gone differently, I wouldn’t just have been blamed — I might have faced the ultimate consequence.
It’s the way society’s assumptions, biases, and blind faith in convenient narratives can determine life or death. One step, one glance, one confirmation — a ten-year-old could’ve been the next George Stinney.
Isn’t it kind of funny how the same things happen over and over again? Or, in my case… how they almost do.
31-35, M