She tried to comfort us saying, “Someday, we’ll all go to France.” I wondered if there was such a place. And then tragedy, the worst day of my life.”
H: (At this point in our conversation, I noticed that Eugene’s eyes welled-up. Small tears rolled down his cheeks). Eugene, do you want to stop for a while?
E: Non, it is best we pass this point quickly. This one morning the house was strangely silent. I didn’t hear my mother call, “Hurry Eugene, breakfast.” No voices, only low moans. This darkness and sounds frightened me. I jumped out of bed, “Where is Momma?” My father’s answer tore at my heart and reached into the very depths of my soul. “Gene, she is with God in heaven.”
With God. My mother died during the night. I rushed to my parents’ room and threw myself across her body. Oh, how I cried. The heartache penetrated my entire body. Pain so bad I couldn’t breathe. It hurt so. I wailed, screamed, pleaded and begged, “God, please give her back. We need her, we love her, I promise I’ll be good.” As I lay there, a shadow crossed the bed. I looked up at a figure of a man with the same dark eyes and skin as hers. He stood, his strong hands on my small shoulder, chanting and muttering words and sounds I had never heard, strange yet soothing sounds. When he finished, he lifted me up, hugged me to his breast and said, “She is at peace. Be strong, for you now carry her spirit.” He put me down saying
“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,
