When I was a kid, my mom told me a story about her grandfather: That he got in trouble with some white men down south, and escaped lynching by running to Chicago. That he chose his new last name "Jones," because it was the most common name in the phone book. That, for years, he would sit in his chair facing the door, shotgun on his lap, waiting for them to come for him.
I used to dream about this image — nightmares, really.
Thing is, I never knew much more about the story than that — until last month, when I found out the secret was literally in my blood the whole time.