I still did not understand why we were living in poverty. At that age, I didn’t understand racism and oppression. We were the poorest of the poor. We were the poorest families in the communities we lived in and probably the schools we attended. I thought God had forgotten about us. The pictures I saw of both MaDear and Dad’s families proved they were not always poor. MaDear and Dad tried their best to let us know that circumstances beyond their control caused an economic turn for the worse. Some things we can’t control and some things we can. It was up to us to know our rights, remain hopeful and get an education. If we didn’t go to college, we had a responsibility to be knowledgeable and respectful. We could gain knowledge by reading books, asking questions, being observant and listening. We also learned about faith and trusting God. We developed character. They gave us a foundation for success. As we got older, we learned new strategies to put in our toolboxes.
This cotton field is similar to the one in front of our shack. The shack was located off a main highway that stretched from Memphis to Mississippi. I used to play in the hot sun near a power line tower. It seemed the choppers would never finish for the day. I had no children or toys to play with. I drew pictures in the hard clay dirt with a stick. I don’t recall what I drew but somehow, those pictures provided comfort. I learned to daydream and play make-believe to pass the lonely hours. I wondered why all the people chopping the cotton had skin that was kissed by the sun and the people on the horses were pale in comparison. I watched the field hands work. Some had gloves on, most didn’t. With their sharp hoes, they thinned the weeds from the cotton plants and propped them up with dirt. They tilted the hoe so the sharp points gouged the weeds out of the hard earth. I liked the crisp sound the sharp hoe made. They wiped the sweat from their brows with their hands or handkerchiefs. That’s it! I wanted to chop cotton when I got bigger. I thought if I was good at chopping, I would get a chance to sit on the horse and supervise others but I wouldn’t be mean. After sharing my five-year-old dreams with my parents, I don’t remember going to the field again for many years.
Read more in my memoir. It’s available for purchase in the book section of this blog or on Amazon.
