Treasure in a Tin Box (Wall of Silence Book 1)

by Dorey Whittaker

  Holding up an old copy of Treasure Island, Tobias smiled at the audience. “Not much to look at, right?” In the year 1907, I was ten years old, and my best friend, Sully, was thirteen the first time she read this story to us. Ms. Pearl reread this story three times before we would allow her to move on to another story. She followed it with The Swiss Family Robinson and then Jack London’s The Call of the Wild; these three stories made me want to board a ship and sail the seas, get a team of dogs and explore the frozen north, and build a tree-house in my backyard. She knew these stories would ignite both our imagination and our hunger to learn how to read.

  Tobias then set down Treasure Island and picked up his well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo for all to see. “This novel has quite a daunting look about it, right?” Leafing through the pages for effect, Tobias announced, “This copy was printed in 1859 and has 753 pages of old English—not something uneducated young black boys could follow, right?”

  In the year 1910, when I was thirteen years old, and my best friend, Sulley, was then sixteen, Ms. Pearl read this very book to us. Oh, she knew better than to start out with this novel. First, she shared the simple adventures of the likes of Tom Sawyer, Jim Hawkins, and Oliver Twist. Once she had us hooked, we were glad to see this book had so many pages because we were saddened when the other stories ended much too soon.

  When the book was finished, Auntie Pearl peppered both of us with questions, and Sulley and I were amazed at how much we had retained. Afterward, Ms. Pearl said, “Boys, look at what you have accomplished. You know this story inside and out. It contains 753 pages of complicated storyline, yet you both remember every little detail because it was exciting. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that you are incapable of learning. This book proves that you are capable.”

  Replacing the book on the podium, Tobias let his eyes sweep over the crowd, “This copy has been in my family since 1883 and is my most prized possession.” Ms. Pearl bought four other copies and did the same thing with every one of her Brigade Clubs.

  As she began her Boys’ Brigades, her greatest struggle was convincing the parents of those boys that it was not a waste of time. This reason angered Ms. Pearl, and she would rant, “We can change all the laws we want, but if our own people believe our children are incapable of learning, our children will not learn.”

  To prove the parents wrong, she knew she needed to get the boys so excited about the stories that they would beg to hear the story of Edmond Dantès. She captured the imagination of every single boy the same way she had for Sulley and me. She showed them that they too could understand this novel and remember hundreds of details. From then on, the older boys would proudly tell the younger boys, “Just you wait. One of these days Ms. Pearl will decide you are ready to hear the story of The Count of Monte Cristo; just you wait!”

  Proud of his great-aunt’s wisdom, Tobias again quoted Ms. Pearl, “White men were able to justify slavery because they believed that blacks were less than human. They believed blacks were incapable of learning anything but the simplest of tasks, treating them like children who needed white people to control them. Education will change how the world views you.”

  Tobias smiled. My Aunt Pearl was always preaching this truth to the parents of her boys. Ladies and gentlemen, when black people believe their children are incapable of learning, they are reinforcing the same lie that many whites still use to justify laws like Separate but Equal. It may have been separate, but it has never been equal.

  Looking around this room, I realize I am preaching to the choir today. We are the select few who have benefitted from a good, strong education; but what about all the others?

  We need more black lawyers like Thurgood Marshall, who will work within the courts to change the laws, but we also need to change the attitudes of our people. Blacks are every bit as capable of learning as whites are. We have had hundreds of years of limited education, and that practice must stop. We need to help every child reach his greatest potential—with or without the help of white people. We cannot wait until they decide our children are capable. If we educate our children, laws or no laws, educated people will make themselves be heard and will force a fair place for themselves in this country.

  I will leave you with one of Ms. Pearl’s favorite sayings, “Slaves had no control over their own lives; they had no choices. Emancipation set us free—but without the tools to flourish. Education is the tool that will keep the door to freedom open for us. If we neglect to educate our children, that door will close again. Self-control and self-determination are the hallmarks of freedom. Education is the key that will open the doors of our children’s future.”

  Tobias took his seat to thunderous applause. He knew the task of accomplishing this would be left to other men; it was his responsibility to light the flame, and he knew he had accomplished that.

  CHAPTER 39

  Nothing is as it was Before

  THE REST OF the weekend was wonderful. Josiah’s son took them everywhere, and by the time they had boarded the southbound train, all they wanted to do was sleep. Even Ruth did not dare look around for a needy person with whom to chat. They quickly tucked their belongings on the luggage shelf and got comfortable. Ruth leaned against Tobias’ shoulder and was out like a light within minutes, but as tired as he was, sleep eluded him.

  As the train made its way along the Potomac River, swiftly carrying them southward, Tobias reviewed his speech and its impact on the audience. He was pleased. Watching the moonlight dance upon the water, he tried to ignore what was bothering him, but he knew what it was. He had deliberately taken his time on the train ride north, making sure he had finished reviewing his family history exactly where he stopped right as they had reached Washington, D.C. He knew he needed to get off the train two days earlier in a solid state of mind and not be an emotional wreck. He was bothered that the entire Bascom family history had not yet been fully told. Pulling his suit coat over Ruth’s body, he decided that if he intended to get any sleep, he needed to cover the last nine years.

  The first two years after World War II had undoubtedly been the most turbulent years of his life. As a young man, the winds of persecution had always been part of his life, but as long as he minded his own business, worked hard, and steered clear of trouble, he had felt safe; but World War II changed everything. As the boys of war began returning home, many of them wanted to change the social order of things. Having served arm-in-arm together, lots of them refused to return to the old order of things; but the “good ol’ boys” were not going to give up their positions quietly.

  Soon sorrow and loss were running rampant, and even as our country was celebrating our great victory, few black people felt victorious. Yet again, just as it had been for Grandpa Samuel after the Civil War, and for me after World War I, jobs were scarce, war wounds were fresh, and men were desperate. None of these factors would bode well for the people whom he loved. This time, however, the young men were determined to see change; they began to challenge the old ways. Young white soldiers asked why, and the old guard fought back, desperate to hold onto what they knew, but it was our boys who would pay the price of freedom here at home.

  As we began reading of an increase in lynchings, we worried about our boys. Men of my age were usually safe as long as we showed respect, but our younger generation was tired of showing respect when none was given in return. Discouragement tried to consume me, and there were long periods of time where the only thing I could hold onto was the witness of those who had endured before me. Their lives reminded me that God is always faithful, that trials and tribulations come to stretch us—not to destroy us.

  The gift of seeing Van’s settled faith becoming real to him was one of the anchors God placed in my life. It is easy to ignore the blessings when the enemy is screaming in your ears. Loss after loss, attack after attack, and I began to focus on the Enemy rather than on the One who held my future. I am not sure when it started, but I remember the day I realized how much I had allowed it to consum
e me.

  It all started on January 27, 1947, the day we learned that old Mr. Sutterfield, the owner of our warehouse, had passed away. He had been ill for some time, and since he had no living children and had been a widower for many years, no one knew what would happen to the business. Quietly, I thought that maybe old Mr. Sutterfield might have left the business to Karl. Of course, I never voiced this idea, but knowing how much the old man had looked out for Karl, I thought it might be possible; I was wrong.

  Mr. Sutterfield was not even buried before the swarm of lawyers descended on the freight yard. Files were ransacked, freight contracts studied, appraisers were everywhere, trying to determine the value of the company. Karl was always being dragged into one meeting or another. They were going over employee records, asking him how best to streamline the payroll in order to make the bottom line look most appealing. They were putting the business up for sale.

  At first, Sulley, Karl and I didn’t worry about it. We had years with the company and were highly respected, but two months later, everything changed. The new owner took over with an iron hand. He was one of those men who would be heard, who would not listen, and who does not believe he answers to anyone. His first step was to call Karl into his office and announce, ‘I don’t care how you do it, but I want all seven of those darkies off my payroll by Friday. Lots of able-bodied vets are looking for work; you make room for them.’”

  At first, Karl simply ignored this direct order. He did not say a word to Sulley or me. Friday came and went, and nothing changed. That next Monday morning, Sulley and I showed up, along with the other five, and clocked into work as usual. I barely had my lunch pail in my locker when the new owner flew down the stairs screaming at Karl, “I told you to get rid of these boys. What are they doing here?”

  Sulley and I turned to look at Karl. “What is he talking about, Karl?”

  “He ordered me to fire all of you, and I refuse to.” Karl stood there with the most defiant look I had ever seen on his face. “Mr. Wilson, it isn’t right to fire these men. They all have perfect work records.”

  Mr. Wilson was now toe-to-toe with Karl. His face was beet-red, and his nostrils flared like a stampeding bull, “I don’t recall asking your opinion, Karl. The last time I looked, it was my name on the business loan of this company.”

  Karl did not back down. “I am not going to fire these men, Mr. Wilson, and don’t you dare use unemployed veterans as your excuse. I lost a boy to that war. Sulley’s boy spent two years in a POW camp for that war, and Cleveland’s boy came home without a leg. Every one of these men defended this country every bit as much as those white men you want me to hire.”

  “I’ll hire and fire whomever I wish,” screamed Wilson. “This is still a free country, and if I don’t want darkies working for me, I have that right. So since you are such a lover of darkies, why don’t you head up to that office of yours and start packing it up? You are fired too!”

  Karl stood there defiantly, “You can’t fire me, Mr. Wilson, because first thing this morning I turned in my resignation and packed up my office. I would rather be a garbage collector than work for the likes of you.”

  We were all quiet until we passed beyond the security gate. Sulley grabbed hold of Karl’s arm and asked, “Does Gladys know what you did this morning, Karl?”

  “Yes, and she agreed with me. She knew I could not give that man one more day of labor if I was forced to fire you guys.”

  I remained quiet all the way home. I knew that the church would reinstate my pastor’s salary, and Ruth earned a good living as the head baker at the hospital. I wasn’t worried about us, but Karl and Gladys and Sulley and Whippoorwill were in real trouble. Somehow I knew things were going to change—but right then, I didn’t know how much.

  By May of 1947, no more available jobs remained in Atlanta. Returning soldiers had filled every opening. Gladys’ brother Bill found Karl work within a month, but Sulley was struggling. Finally, Sulley and Van decided to look outside of Atlanta. None of us wanted to lose them, but we knew they had to find work. Sulley had been my close friend since I was seven years old. He had become a strong anchor for me. Sulley was never the student that I was, but Sulley’s faith was grounded and as strong as he was. He was a man I had come to admire and depend upon, and I had not prepared myself for this loss.

  In early June, Sulley returned to Atlanta to tell us that he found work in a small town about ninety miles outside of Atlanta. Both he and Van had been hired on by the school district as custodians and handymen. They were to maintain all of the buildings and the school grounds. “Tobias, it’s a nice little town. Jefferson, Georgia, is not a bad place to live.”

  One week later, we said goodbye to Sulley, Whippoorwill, Van, Carletta, and Clare. They were only moving ninety miles away, but my world felt empty without them. I just didn’t know how empty my world would soon become.

  By the middle of June, we realized that my Great-Auntie Ruby was failing fast. She was ninety-eight years old, and we had known for many years that her time was coming to an end. How do you prepare to say goodbye to one of the two most important women in your life? Ms. Ruby had been there for me since I was seven. She was the keeper of all my stories. She was my encourager, my challenger—the one who would always help me set my compass to the correct course. How was I to go on in a world that no longer included Ms. Ruby or her wisdom?

  Ruth and I sat by her bedside and stared into those eyes that had never judged, only loved. We remembered all of the old stories that had filled my childhood with pride and direction. I knew I was the man I had become because of those who had gone before and had set the course for my life.

  A woman who was loved by many, Ms. Ruby had friends coming in to say their goodbyes. On the second-to-last day, she reminded me of my promise, “Toby Boy, please don’t let Momma Hannah, Samuel, Pearl, Joseph, my Arthur, or little Estée down. You need to write their stories so, years from now, people can know what they endured and what they overcame. When people read their stories, they will come to life again in the hearts of the readers. Promise me, Toby Boy.”

  “I promise, Auntie Ruby.”

  She then pointed at her bookcase beside her bed. “Toby, get down our special book.”

  In a house filled with books, you might think that would be a vague request, but I knew exactly what book Ms. Ruby was referring to. I reached up and took down The Count of Monte Cristo and handed it to her. The only book in our house more prized than this one was the Bible.

  Auntie Ruby caressed the book, remembering all the exciting hours this book took her so far away from here. Her precious wrinkled hands that had patted my back so many years earlier patted the book as she said, “Toby, my boy, there is a letter inside this book for you. I don’t want you to read it until after you have kept your promise. Only then may you open it and read it. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Auntie Ruby.”

  Two days later, the last connection to my past was gone. I struggled as I prepared the message for her memorial service. How do you sum up a life like hers? I grew up in a home that honored self-control and self-determination, honorable behavior, a strong work ethic, and submission to God’s will; but that day, I wanted to scream, “I am not ready to let go of her, God! I do not feel in control of myself. I know You gave me forty-three beautiful years with this lady, but it wasn’t enough—not nearly enough. Please God, I cannot go through this again with my Ruth. Please, God, please take me first. I don’t want to feel this deep loss ever again.”

  As these words came out of my mouth, the room became very quiet. I thought of all the losses I had experienced over the past few years, and a calm and peaceful thought, which I believe came from God, occurred to me. “That pain you feel when you lose these precious people you love is a gift. Love fills you up and expands your heart, Tobias. When that loved one is taken away, it tears at your heart because that person dwelled there. That pain is the price you pay for having a great love in your life. Embrace it, Tobias
. It is proof of their value to you.”

  I sat for a few moments and pondered the message. I had had so many wonderful people in my life. I was blessed to have Grandpa Samuel. He was MY grandfather. Who else in this whole wide world can say that? Ms. Pearl was MY great-auntie. She loved me as her own son. Hundreds of grown men, all graduates of her reading brigade, would have given anything to be able to make that claim. Karl, Jr., had been like a son to me. I had led his daddy to Christ, and I had been privileged to baptize him. He had been a young man who had known where he was going when he died, and I will see him again.

  My Auntie Ruby is not really gone; I know I’ll see her again. Then it occurred to me that, for months, I had been staring into the face of the Enemy, focusing on all of my losses and feeling so sorry for myself. I was licking my wounds at the loss of my dear friends, Sulley and Whippoorwill, instead of rejoicing that I had been given so many years of their friendship.

  I sat at my desk and chuckled.

  God, You are correcting my compass yet again. My course was set on self-pity and loss, but today, You corrected it and now it is set on gratitude. Thank You for all of these precious people You have put in my life to teach me how to live and how to love. Please, God, make me worthy of these gifts. Thank You for loving us and for giving us others to love as well.

  I tore up the message I had written that morning. Instead, I wrote a tribute of thanksgiving. On the top of my notes, I wrote a reminder to myself, “Its okay to let them see you cry,” and I did.

  As I spoke at Aunt Ruby’s funeral, I made it a celebration—not a wake. I decided to set my tin box on the podium and tell everyone some of my favorite family stories. While doing this, I would open the tin box and pull out the keepsake that went with the memory. After several of these, I closed the tin box and held it up. “What does this tin box represent? It represents our heart. Every one of us have had both painful and happy experiences. Life is hard, and no one gets through it without some pain, but one of the most important lessons my Great-Aunt Ruby ever taught me was “Toby-Boy, only treasure the good memories. We remember the bad ones, but never hold onto them. That which you treasure you will become. Fill your tin box with memories that will make you a better man—not a bitter man.”