The Andersons

Here is a detailed analysis of how internalized racism can break apart a family. The first section serves as the last documented words from Mrs. Margaret Anderson that were caught on camera within the office of a licensed clinical psychologist by the name of Helga Brinkley.

Brinkley: And Mrs. Anderson, I understand that you have been dealing with some trauma for quite some time.

Anderson: Yes.

– pause –

Brinkley: You’re awfully quiet Mrs. Anderson, what are you thinking about?

Anderson: I don’t understand how I got here. When you say, ‘what I did,’ do you suggest that I did something wrong?

Brinkley: Yes, Mrs. Anderson. You took an African American boy home and locked him in your basement, you don’t remember that?

– pause –

Brinkley: From what your husband has told us, you have been experiencing trauma with working alongside a black male at the office, your husband said your exact words are ‘this nigger gets in the way of us accomplishing a lot,’ you then proceeded to kidnap one his son in order to ‘teach a lesson.’

– pause –

Brinkley: Now, Mrs. Anderson, your husband has set it up with the courts to have you undergo treatment for fugue state, so long as you comply. But, you will not be allowed to reintegrate into society or have any dealings with your children.

Anderson: But, I didn’t…

Brinkley: I know Mrs. Anderson, ‘you didn’t do it,’ that is why he knew that this would be a great get-out-of-jail-free card for the both of you. You just have to comply.


During April of 2017 a court reporter was able to type all of the words that were spoken by Mr. John Anderson when he took to the stand.

It was January 8th of 2017 when I walked down into the basement, I was just looking for my spare kitchen utensils that were boxed up but I ran into a brown skinned boy sitting in the corner of the room.

He had a short haircut, was wearing a red striped t-shirt, and just sat on the bottom of the floor with tape around his mouth. I didn’t know where he came from so I undid the tape and he began tearing up. He was crying but I was confused. I began asking, what was going on? How did he get here?

But, before I could get any answers my wife came down into the basement with a butcher’s knife pointed at me and said, “Put the tape back on his mouth.” S

he was snarling through her lips and I knew then that something wasn’t quite right.

I did. I placed the tape back over his mouth. I listened to her just so the boy and I could both escape.

She started to harass me about coming down into the basement without her permission. I didn’t know I needed to ask her if I could visit a space within my house that I pay for. I just wanted to grab some spare kitchen supplies.

After we argued for about an hour she gave in and told me to leave her alone, she threatened me as well.

The next day, I went to the police, told them what I had found in my basement; they were surprised to hear and said that a small boy by the name of Isaiah Ford had been missing from school for almost a week.

They said that they would have an investigation take place at my home and that my wife would be detained.

Well, that’s what happened, they busted down the doors to my house while I was away on a late evening shift two days later.

While driving back towards my house I knew the repercussions that were at hand so I called my lawyer and asked what I could do.

I didn’t want to be an accessory to a crime that I did not commit and my reputation for doing well on the job could not be threatened, either.

He told me it was best if I had her plead insane by way of fugue state. We both could get off so long as she abides and does not mind spending the rest of her life in a mental institution.

Two or three days later I dialed the number to a therapist that he works alongside by the name of Helga Brinkley. She set up a meeting with my wife, who had been sleeping in the holding cell of jail. An officer was to allow her some privacy to be with the therapist while she underwent some routine questioning.

I have to confess, in order for her memory to be temporarily erased I had the therapist offer her a glass of water which was slightly tainted.

Yes, by slightly tainted I mean poisoned.

I did not want to take any chance of her saying too much or too less, she only needed to remember the basic details of her life without the intricacies of last week.

Apparently, there was a camera in the therapist’s office recording the session, I didn’t find out until they brought me in for questioning. They showed me the tape and brought out an autopsy of her body where poison was found in the therapist’s blood.

My wife was acting just fine, in the recording, she had a slightly bit of fugue, on the tape you could see her contemplating.

But, the therapist, by the end of the session, she was badly beaten by my wife and left to bleed out, the poison, Flunitrazepam, in her system as well.

The officers said that they knew only someone with a medical background would know what to do with Flunitrazepam as well as where to buy it.

He suggested that it was why my wife may have went crazy, in uncontrolled dosages it can cause the brain to overwork itself, if you will.

There was a giant pill that I had to swallow, our entire lives were going to shatters over racism.

After this, I spent some time reflecting and I came to believe that racism is taught.

My kids go to school and talk to the other children of color within their classes, I knew that my despite not saying much my heart would always race faster whenever they would bring home an “AJ” or “Gabriel.”

I guess it was how we talked about them whenever another one of their shootings came on the news or how we looked at them in the grocery stores.

I wish that our children did not have to suffer because of my wife’s intolerance for race. It was subconscious, now that I reflect on it.

I miss her. The officers couldn’t find her after they watched the fight on the camera. But, these kinds of things happen all the time. We buy our way out.

I knew what lawyer to call, what therapist to talk to, which officer to have “standing” in front of the office. That wasn’t just a coincidence.

That is how my father, my father’s father, and his father are able to own grand businesses without worrying about anything else, and I think that’s what my wife feared.

She feared working under a black man of power.


Sara Anderson, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, appeared on the stand to talk about her experiences with living in the house under the principles of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.

My parents were gone. I was in school, Conner was on his way to his freshman year of college. He wasn’t allowed to go home. It was hard.

When I look back on what I was told that happened I just remember thinking, “my mom or dad would never do those things.” I remember feeling as if I did not know them anymore.

The people who put food on my table were racist? So racist that they were working alongside each other for people to not find out my mother kidnapped someone’s child? I just can’t believe that.

I couldn’t believe it at all.

I thought that maybe it was all a joke, but it wasn’t.

When I saw them on the news for the first time I felt this huge bug slide down my throat, it was soft, slimy, and crunchy. It was the bug of truth.

I never realized just how obvious but unobvious that it was.

I mean, I started thinking back to my grandfather and some of the things he would say while we were at dinner, I never thought much of it.

I just thought, “Wow, Grandpa sure knows how to tell a joke,” but never, “This man hates niggers.” He was never that kind of guy.

But, to see my parents on the news just made my heart crawl to my stomach.

The worst part of it all was that everyone knew that those were my parents.

I felt embarrassed. Wow, those are my parents.

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