“You will not see me again; walk tall, my grandson.”
As quickly and silently as he came, he left. To this day I don’t know how he knew she has passed on and to come to us. Mother was only 33. Gone were the laughter, the smiles, the songs, the sight of her with a baby in her arms and one in her belly; and gone was a mother’s love. Gone was part of my being. The house was no longer a home.
H: How did you manage?
E: Not very well. My oldest sister Pauline quit school to be the woman of the house. Dad tried in every way. Though he worked long hours on the docks, he rushed home to be with us. He wiped our daily tears and our noses. We spoke of her and knew that he felt the emptiness. Each evening he would end a prayer with, “I promise someday, I’ll take all you to France and it will be marvelous.” I was the only one who made it.
CHAPTER 3: THE INCIDENT…THE HOUSE…THE JOURNEY BEGINS
E: It was the fight that put me on the road. My father worked on the warehouse docks unloading cargo from the river cruisers. The white dock boss, named Stevenson, a cracker bigot, hated Dad because Dad was black, educated and had conversations with the warehouse owner, Mr. W.C. Bradley. He was a genial man, didn’t care about color, just wanted work done quickly and without problems. Stevenson, on the other hand, was fat, squat, a foot shorter than the Big Ox and small in mind.
He was an uneducated, brutish, ugly, sadistic bully who ruled the dock and warehouse as if it was his private plantation. He wore a rumpled dirty white shirt, stained with tobacco ashes from his ever-present cigar. His jodhpurs were tucked into highly polished, glistening black boots. A straw, river-boat gambler’s wide brimmed fedora adorned his round head. He was never without a long, thick, hand-carved cane with a silver wolf’s head as its handle. He cradled it lovingly as he verbally and physically abused the black workers. He would curse them and when the thought pleased him, and that was often, he would lash out with that silver handled cane. Each day, he searched for reasons real or not, to use it. “You boys see this hungry wolf? It hates lazy black bodies. It knows its way around your backs. So shut up and do as I say, and do it my way or I’ll let him bite you, hard!”
At home we sensed there were problems, but felt that Dad was able to deal with them. But what we didn’t know was how deep they ran. Each night, my sisters, brothers and I huddled together around the wood table, anxiously waiting and watching for Daddy to come home safe. When he was late, I was frightened, and felt my pounding heart would jump out from my chest. We knew there were men who hated my father because he was black. Many times Daddy would try to explain to us, but it just didn’t make sense. Didn’t make sense then and doesn’t make sense now. I was just a child with fears that only vanished when he opened the door and smiled. It was then I felt safe, but never knew exactly what was going on, only that it was bad.
It was an exceptionally hot day, sweltering hot. Flumes of steam rose from the wood planks at the warehouse wharf. River steamers’ holds were opened to deliver their goods for storage and distribution. The black dockhands, drenched with sweat, grumbled as they climbed non-stop, up and down the gangplanks, burdened with goods from the ships, their muscles and bodies straining as they turned to each other, complaining about the heat, the lack of water, and the favored treatment of the white hands. Boss Stevenson had a favored white crew who had water when they thirsted and relaxed in the shade until the heavy work was done. Blacks, with tongues dried and lips cracked, could only speak in whispers. ”Shit on that man, Stevenson. It’s so fuckin’ hot and we gotta beg for water? We ain’t dogs. That man ain’t human. He cares for no one and no one cares ‘bout him.”
They had to be careful, for if Stevenson overheard or had a suspicion of a complaint from a colored hand, he would happily rush over and apply a mean stroke of the cane. The Big Ox avoided the group and the growing and gnawing discontent. Dad worked in silence. Stevenson hated the Big Ox and singled him out for “special duty,” the hardest work. On this particular day, perhaps it was because of the extreme heat and the burning Sun from a cloudless sky, the friction became more apparent. You could feel it, taste it. The boss man, loud, and coarse, ordered, “You, Mr. Big Nigga, pick up that bundle! Don’t bother to look for help, do it by yourself! Do it now or you’ll enjoy a loving pat from my cane.”
As Dad bent to heft a large bale, Stevenson, using the cane, tripped him. He shoved Ox to the ground scrapping the big man’s arms and legs, and wood splinters dug into his flesh. “Ha, got you good. Git your ass up,” Stevenson laughed. Angered, Dad rose, his fingers tightly clenched into fists. He heard shouts of, “Get him, Big Ox. Crush him!” He looked into Stevenson’s face, braced himself, pulled his arm back as if to hit out. The Boss held up his hands, covered his face, protecting himself from the anticipated blow, flinching, cringing, closing his eyes and backed away. The Ox stopped, waited ‘til Stevenson opened his eyes, then again pretended to prepare to hit him again. Instead he controlled his temper, calmly smiled, gave a short victorious chuckle, took a deep breath, turned, ignored the dock boss, lifted the bale, and walked away.
At that moment, everyone knew that Stevenson had become afraid, a trembling coward. No one had ever dared to look him in the eye or threaten him. Big Ox strode up the gangplank near the storage hold of the ship. Stevenson, enraged, composed himself, followed him, loudly cursing, “You black son of a bitch, you Indian lover. Got your own tribe of little bastard half-breeds. I’ll get you. The wolf will taste you!” No reaction from the giant black man, knowing it would cost him his job or he’d be sent to prison or strung up. The Ox was silent. The fat man was defied. His shouting became screams, almost a girlish whine. “You hear me Ox. Turn around, you shit ass,” Stevenson yelled. The Big Ox gave no sign he heard. He would not be goaded, and continued working. His orders being ignored, Stevenson became more incensed. He paused and carefully looked. The Big Ox had turned away, his back to Stevenson, who saw he had an easy target. He grabbed a pole, lifted it, and swung it down hard on the Big Ox’s head yelling, “That will teach you. Won’t listen to me, eh boy! You’re a dead man.”
The Big Ox went crashing down. A river of blood spouted from his head as he lay there. Stevenson, not content, laughing, screaming, raised the pole and struck the Ox’s back again and again. Dad lay there, still. Stevenson snickered, “Got you good, didn’t I boy! Come on, don’t be a nigga’ baby, git up.” The dock was deathly quiet. Minutes went by. No movement. No one rushed to help the Ox. Was he dead? The Ox moved, slightly at first. Though dazed and bloodied, he slowly rose, staggered to his full height, summoned his strength, tore off the red-blood-stained remnants of his shirt, wiped the blood from his face, and threw it to the ground and roared, “Damn you, damn you to hell you miserable little shit!”
Standing tall and defiant, he grabbed the amazed Stevenson, held him firm, dodging his flaying punches, and slowly wrapped his giant arms about the squealing dockmaster, squeezing him. As Stevenson screamed, “Help me, please dear God help me, I can’t breathe,” Ox raised him high over his head. The crews watched, transfixed and fascinated as Stevenson pleaded, almost crying, and begging, ”Save me. Please. Put me down. You boys get him!” No one moved. “Put me down, don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.” He was squealing like a pig. No one, black or white, came to his aid. The Ox roared, “Damn, you’ll never whip me or anyone again. Look, you bastard, my blood is just as red as yours!” Then he threw the overseer down deep into the hold of the ship they were working. Hearing the commotion, the owner rushed over to see what was happening. Mr. Bradley shouted, “My God in heaven, Big Ox, what have you done? He probably deserved it, but that don’t matter none, you can’t hit a white man! You may have killed him. Don’t say anything, just get the hell out of here, and go home. Don’t matter none if he lives or dies, either way you better get ready to run now. And I mean run, hide, and I mean now! The whole town will be after you. Run, damn you, run. I’ll see to the children. Go. Get out of here! Get the hell out of here. Save yourself! You men go down in the hold and find Stevenson.”
The black crew found him and saw that he was badly hurt but alive. As they turned him over, saw the blood, they suddenly realized the trouble they could be facing. “My gawd, we best get outta here