Little Cinder Lea
Lea opened her eyes slowly. It was still dark out, but the sun would be rising at any time now, and so should she. It was Wednesday; no, maybe Thursday — Lea just couldn’t remember. Every day seemed to be just like any other. Lea wasn’t but twelve, but today she felt like she was a hundred and twelve. She’d told Miz Mayfield that her room was drafty on account of the wind that was breezin’ right on in the cracked window, but Miz Mayfield didn’t care. Just told her to stuff a rag in the crack and let it be. But when it was really windy, or rainy — and it had been both last night — the rag somehow made its way loose and the damp cold crept through Lea’s bones slowly and surely. She had taken two doses of castor oil just yesterday to try to rid her body of the cold that left her achin’ and painin’, but it hadn’t helped much. Mama said it would, but it didn’t.
Mama. Lea sure wished she could see her mama today, even if it was only for a moment. She wished she could reach out and touch her, or better yet, hug her around the neck real tight like she used to when she was just a little girl. Sometimes the memory of being a child seemed like a fantasy that lived a thousand years ago, but it had been only five or six years since she had been able to awaken each day, roll over, and snuggle closed to her mama, and then get up and fix the family grits, with Mama’s keen eye watchin’ all the while to make sure she didn’t make ’em to stiff or too soupy. Everybody would gather round the table, say grace, and eat together before the younger ones headed to school each day. No matter what, Mama would say, “school was a must.” But now it had been three years since Lea had seen the inside of a schoolroom. Her days were spent miserably tendin’ to Miz Mayfield and her lazy brood.
Would it be easier, she wondered, if she jumped up quick and faced the cold darkness all at once, or eased into the discomfort a little at a time? She stuck her toes out from under the covers and then quickly pulled them back in. Lord, but it was cold. She did have a little fireplace in her room, but cut wood was in such short supply that Miz Mayfield had said she would just have to do without until there was some extra. The nightshirt she had been given to wear was so raggedy that it invited the cool air in to dance mockingly through the useless garment. Even after she washed at the washbowl and dressed, she wouldn’t be a whole lot better off, but at least she could cover the skimpy uniform with a blue sweater. She’d found the sweater in Miz Whitehead’s trash bin — Miz Mayfield’s neighbor. Miz Mayfield and Miz Whitehead were two of a kind, her Mama always said — too-rich-for-their-own-good white women who didn’t have nothin’ for nobody, ’specially no coloreds. “Only thing you can do with the likes of them,” Mama would say, “would be to kill ’em with kindness. That’s what Jesus would have you do.” Mama had said that was what Lea’s granddaddy would always do, and it worked for him. After he died, they even put a marker out for him, that said, “I treated those right who treated me wrong.” Well, Lea did the best she could to honor her granddaddy’s memory, but it sure was hard.
When she walked into that kitchen this morning, it would surely be a mess. Li’l Jenny Mayfield and her brother Billy were always comin’ to the kitchen after dark and sneakin’ sweets. Lea’s Mama always made the Mayfields a big pound cake to last through the week, but it never made it past Wednesday. Them two young’uns would sneak into the darkness, get ahold of that cake, and that would be that. Their Mama never said a word. Sometimes they would drop cake crumbs all over the place, and ants would joyfully swarm with a vengeance. Lea had sprinkled boric acid in the corners of the kitchen, but rather than being discouraged by it, the little buggers seem to thrive on the stuff.
Her Mama would be home this weekend. It would be the first time in over a month that they had the same weekend off. Mama worked way ’cross the county at the Johnson house. She slept in six days one week, and then five the next. Annie Lee, Lea’s older sister, took care of the other five while she and Mama worked. She missed them. She really did. “If there was any other way … ,” her mama had said, shaking her head sadly. “If there was just another way… .”
But there wasn’t. Lea was just about finished dressing, and she looked over and saw the sun peeking through the trees. Two more years and she would be free. Mama had said it, so it must be true. She was bonded to the Mayfields till then, but after that …
Mama had told her how Papa used to be a sharecropper for Mister Mayfield, and how when Papa died, he still owed Mister Mayfield a good bit. There wasn’t no money left over after the buryin’, even after the Good Samaritans paid Mama her widow money, so how could Mama pay him off? Mister Mayfield, kind soul that he was (least to hear him tell it), agreed that four years of Lea’s life would do just fine. That seemed quite fair, after all. Lea was the Mayfields’ now, and there wasn’t a thing nobody could do about it.
The kitchen was a mess; just like she expected it would be. Nobody was up yet, so Lea figured she would be able to steal a few moments of peace and quiet ’fore the start of another busy day.
“Lea!” Miz Mayfield called from her bedroom.
“Ma’am,” Lea answered promptly. She walked over to the closed door and waited.
“We got company comin’ Friday and stayin’ till Sunday. That means you got extra work. You can’t be goin’ home this weekend — maybe next, we’ll see. Meantime, go to the smokehouse and get two of them hams. You gonna need to get started soon if you gonna be ready. You hear me, Lea?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lea choked back a sob.
“You all right, Lea? You ain’t’ gettin’ sick, are you? I got to have you at your best this weekend. You all right?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m fine.” Lea wiped the tears away. Tears were for babies, and she sure wasn’t nobody’s baby. Maybe her daddy had been right when he said that sometimes happiness was a promise that reigned up in Heaven, a million miles away. Lea pulled her sweater closer around her. It wouldn’t do much against the cold out there, but it was all she had, so she opened the door, braced herself, and made her way quickly to the smokehouse.
AFTERTHOUGHTS
Nursery rhymes. Soul-soothing lullabyes. Hand-clapping games. Silly, silly songs. Ring games. Hip shakes. Fairy tales.
These are the oral traditions of childhood, and to hear a particular favorite as an adult is to bring about fond memories of youth. Mothers rocked us to sleep with a lullabye. Daddies tickled our toes to some outrageous little beat, our friends pranced around us in ridiculous little ring games, and fairy tales were woven with hopes and dreams. The hidden message behind each was that someone would take care of us. Innocence of the harsh realities of life was an unspoken gift given free to all children.
Children lore is the scholarship of the childhood experience. Just as folklore is the passing on of wisdom and tradition from adult to adult, or from adult to child, children lore is the passing on of experience and tradition from child to child. For years, researchers in this field studied children lore from only one perspective — a Eurocentric one. They studied one body of childhood traditions and concluded that the cultural perspectives behind these creative expressions were the same for all children. Well, they are not, and they never have been.
Just as adults of different ethnic groups have created their own bounty of folklore to reflect their distinctive view of the world, so, too, have the children of these same groups. If we listen closely to the seemingly silly rituals and watch ever so carefully how little ones “play,” we quickly realize that there is nothing short of genius here as the young interpret for us their environments, their experiences, their fears, their hopes, and their very dreams.
For the little colored child, life was more than tough — it was a cruel mockery of the promise that if you are good, then you will be happy. They heard that often enough on the lips of folks who tried and tried to get them to believe it, but they looked around them at their own reality and soon realized they’d be crazy to allow themselves to be fooled by such nonsense. None of the fairy princesses had kinky hair or full lips. None of the heroes
were shades of pretty brown or deep, deep chocolate. None of the fairy godmothers looked like or worked as hard as their own mamas, scrubbing behind folks that didn’t care nothing for them. Not one of the kings picked cotton like their daddies did till their fingers bled or their backs were breaking, and not one of the little children dressed in the rags that resembled their own clothing. They looked at the little shacks they called home and decided that no amount of pretend was going to turn them into castles and none of the silly songs or fancy dances had a thing to do with them, so they created their own body of children lore that was real and sounded good to them. It was theirs, and nobody could touch it.
Miss Sally Walker might have been a staple on the plantation for all antebellum children, but she was special for the slave children. She wasn’t just some little girl shaking things around a bit; she was the white and weepy slave mistress whom they could poke fun at without her even knowing. Ring games have been around forever and are a significant part of “play” for all children, but watch the African American child and you’ll notice that the dance is more of a sensual rhythm, the behind dips a bit lower, and the words are more improvised and sometimes even a bit naughtier.
The preceding stories were tough ones for me to create. My own childhood was a happy one, and I would like to think that the childhood of my children is very much the same. However, I have listened to many stories from folks now in their seventies and eighties who grew up in a segregated and impoverished South and never had a real childhood. Maybe some of the whimsical and spontaneous things they do now in their later years represent an attempt to make up for some of what they missed early on.
I listened with great admiration as they shared with me the sad experiences of leaving school in order to work and help support their families. I listened in horror as women shared with me a common experience of being abused by white men and how their parents were powerless to interfere. They cried as they told me how they had been made to feel ugly and unworthy because of their dark skin and unruly hair. They had wished time and time again for sweet blond curls and big blue eyes, as if that carried an assurance of happiness they couldn’t get any other way. Despite it all, however, they made it, and now as they nurture grandchildren and great-grandchildren, they can only hope that the world will finally deliver on childhood promises for happiness — at least for this generation of black babies. Still, they’re not real sure about that. No, they really aren’t very sure at all.
This series of three stories began with a nursery rhyme of my own creation. It is a rhyme dedicated to the survivors of those tough times and to the significance of their lives. It is not sweet. It is not pretty. It is not very joyous, but it certainly is real. As one man told me the stories of his painful childhood days, he said, “I don’t reckon nobody will ever write about nothing like that. People don’t want to write about a real colored childhood. They want to pretty it up so folks will feel good when they read it. Nope, ain’t nobody gonna write about the real and the ugly.” Well, he was wrong. Somebody has done just that, and I hope that I’ve done him and all the others the justice they deserve.
Willy Did It
Lil’ Wilbert stood up and stretched. He’d been settin’ on Miz Mildred’s porch for near ’bout an hour and his behind had gone numb. He’d come just like she’d said for him to — right after school let out with no stoppin’ ’long the way or takin’ time to talk to nobody. His mama had said that Miz Mildred wanted to see him and he’d best not to keep her waiting. He was in trouble again, he just knew it. He didn’t know what he’d done this time, but he knew trouble when he saw it. He’d seen it clear as day when he’d walked up and Miz Mildred hadn’t even thought to hug him. She just looked at him with her arms stiffly folded, shook her head from side to side, and then pointed to the steps, silently telling him to sit. Then she’d just stomped on into the house to finish her supper without so much as a by-your-leave.
He could smell the fried chicken though, and it sho’ smelled good. His stomach rumbled in appreciation and he patted it hard, warning it against making another sound. There probably wouldn’t be any chicken in his future — well, least not today. Folks in trouble never got fed too good. He knew that on account of his big brother telling him so. When Elvin had gotten drunk and took to fighting with that no good Neckbone over some girl what hung out at Mister Sam’s juke joint, the sheriff had hauled the two of ’em off to jail. He didn’t give ’em nothing but cracklin’ bread and syrup water for three whole days while they was sleeping it off and waiting to see if they would be joining up with the colored chain gang that would be putting in that new road at the far end of the town. The mayor was the one that decided them things. Mama had gone down there and talked to him though, and Mayor Frank had finally decided to let ’em both go.
Elvin had said that the waiting was the hardest. Not knowing how much trouble you was in, or what folks were going to do to you once they’d decided, could pluck on anybody’s nerves. This waiting around for Miz Mildred was surely plucking his. Seemed like no matter what happened around this place, he seemed to get blamed for it. For as long as he could remember, everybody anywhere near has loved to utter them fateful words: “Willy did it.”
It was his two older sisters’ fault. Every time his mama would ask “Who?” with her lips drawn up tight, they would answer “Willy. Willy did it, Mama. He sho’ did. Willy did it.” It seemed like he’d been hearing it ’fore he could even talk good enough to defend himself. Fact was, he’d heard it so much when he was little that he figured that that must of been his name — Willy did it. Most folks had two names, he reckoned he just had three.
Willy did it. Willy did it. Willy did it. It was the national anthem in his house and everybody loved to sing along. Wasn’t too long before his sisters had taken the message beyond the walls of their own home and started sharing it with the whole rest of the world. “Willy did it,” they happily chanted when Pastor James asked who had snuck into the church storage room and drunk up all the communion wine. It didn’t help none either that his tongue was still red. “Willy did it,” they’d snickered when his mama asked who had been stupid enough to pull up all of her tomato plants instead of the weeds when tending to the vegetable garden. “Willy did it,” they said as they pointed right to him when his daddy asked who’d tripped over his fishing bucket and forgot to pick it back up, settin’ loose dozens of slimy little worms that were making their way slowly ’cross the back porch. Willy hadn’t said one word, just looked down at the floor.
Willy did it. Willy did it. Willy did it. Bad part about the whole thing was that he got hisself into so much trouble it was hard to keep it all straight. Sometimes it got all mixed up in his head and then he couldn’t remember whether he’d done it or not. Other times he got into trouble, and ’cause folks was so used to it nobody would even remember to tell him what he’d done — just skipped straight over the accusing part and went right to the punishing. So there come some times when he wasn’t quite sure which punishment went with which deed.
Today he was in trouble with Miz Mildred and he didn’t know what for — but one thing ’bout Miz Mildred, she didn’t hop around a thing. If she had something on her mind, she would sho’ ’nough let it fly. He didn’t know what he’d done but he’d know soon enough, he was sure of it. He just hoped it wasn’t something too bad. He was bound to get into trouble when his own folks discovered that he’d been the one that had spilled all that sugar all over the kitchen floor just last night. When he’d gotten up this morning there had been hundreds of ants all over the kitchen floor right up near to the back door. He’d grabbed him a piece of cornbread and a glass of buttermilk for breakfast and lit on out of there, heading straight to school before anybody had a chance to discover his latest transgression. Soon as he got home though, his whole family would be waiting on him and once again they would all get together and sing their favorite song — “Willy did it.” It had been an accident, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Wi
lly did it. Willy did it. Willy did it.
Lord have mercy, he wished Miz Mildred would come out. He’d rather get it over with. All this waiting was killing him and was always worse than the punishing. ’Course grown-ups knew all about that, that was why they put you through it. When his mama really wanted to get to him, she didn’t do too much punishing herself. Instead she would sit him in the kitchen as they both waited on his daddy to get home from the fields, reminding him over and over again how mad he was gonna be when he found out what else Willy had done. He would just sit there as his mama went on and on, just imagining all the horrible things his daddy could do to him. By the time his mama had taken her time recounting his crimes for his daddy later that evening and his daddy had taken a moment of weary silence before telling him to go get the switch, then carefully examining the limb to make sure it had just enough sting, the beating was a downright relief. ’Course Willy had this thing down to a science.
You had to pick you a switch that had enough green and enough brown that it wouldn’t hurt too much. All the brown ones broke almost as soon as they hit your legs. That was bound to make your daddy madder than the devil. He was sure to pick out the next one, and you could bet he’d pick out one of them really green ones that could go all night, if your daddy had a mind to. No, the trick was picking out one that was green with just a touch of brown around it. Them were the kind that after about four good hits was sure to give way and break right in half. His daddy was one of the nicer ones, so four good hits usually left him pretty satisfied, and if Willy put his mind to it he could get through four hits without too much agony. The trick was forcing yourself not to think about it whilst they was hitting. After the stick broke, then you had to remember to cry and cry just right. If you didn’t cry right then, they’d beat you again ’cause they didn’t think they’d done it right the first time. Cry too much and that would make folks mad too, and sometimes they took to yelling and threatening more. “Shut that noise up, boy, ’fore I give you something to really cry about,” his grandma loved to say.
Just Plain Folks Page 13