“Even in death the boys were trouble.”

Whitehead’s opening sentence signals something ominous, but also strangely hopeful. The “boys” are, in death, stirring up bad forgotten memories. This trouble, however, is righteous trouble, the kind of trouble former U.S. Representative John Lewis would label “good” and “necessary,” for it is only through the trouble of waking long dead ghosts that Nickel’s past sins are brought to light. 

“Explain the misguided thinking of some whites—not all whites, but enough whites—that gave it force and meaning.” 

Elwood imagines a conversation between Dr. King and his young daughter, Yolanda, in which he must explain to her why she can’t enter Fun Town, a local amusement park. Careful not to condemn all White people, King must nevertheless concede that those who don’t agree with—but don’t take an active stand against—institutions like segregation are giving tacit support by refusing to raise their voices in protest.

“To see him from across the street—the serious young lad heaving his freight of the world’s knowledge—was to witness a scene that might have been illustrated by Norman Rockwell, if Elwood had had white skin.” 

For Elwood, knowledge is a beacon of hope, a passport to the world beyond Tallahassee, so when he finds a set of encyclopedias at the hotel where Harriet works, he can’t wait to dive into their pages. It is an adorable image—a young boy, lugging a set of books, eager for knowledge—but as Whitehead points out, the Norman Rockwell painting that would capture this image would necessarily portray the boy as White.