you were safe and secure?
E: Sacre bleu! The camp was always on the move. Often a local sheriff or the police or an angry white townsfolk committee would come to the camp and demand it be moved. “Too bad you gypsies didn’t tell your own fortune. If you had, you wouldn’t have chosen to park yourselves here. Listen, your kind ain’t welcome. Don’t need dirty thieves. Move and we mean move now! Pack up and git or we’ll burn you out and put everyone in jail.” Each time, it was like reliving the mob’s attack at my house. Didn’t matter that we didn’t cause trouble. What mattered was that the gypsies were unwanted. Loading a wagon, I asked King, “Why must we move again?” His answer was very direct, “These white folk hate us because we are different. They hate you because of your color and they hate folks that look and act different or have a different religion. Their lives are not full unless they hate. You’ll find there are good and bad people, perhaps more bad.” “Not in France,” I exclaimed.
I worked and shared as an accepted member. I enjoyed their music and I would dance. Would use that dancing wherever I went. Wonderfully, King taught me to tend the horses. I gladly watered them, washed them, rubbed them, brushed them and cleaned up after them. Became very fond of these animals, truly loved them, talked to them and I knew they understood. They were like my brothers and sisters. They did not hate anyone. I had a favorite song that I sang to the big lady horse. She was black, too, so sleek and smooth to my touch. King and the others were surprised she let me tend her, because if anyone else touched her or stood near, she would whine and stomp angrily.
Weeks went by and being young and impatient, I kept pestering King, “When can I ride?” He always answered, “I must teach you more, little blackbird. It is too soon for you to ride. You are still too small.” Hells bells, I was anxious and having seen others ride, felt confident. One afternoon, after feeding the horses, I cornered him in front of the camp and boldly, loudly, stated, so that everyone heard, “I can ride.” “No,” King remarked firmly. “You are just beginning. There is more you must learn before I approve.” Defiant, full of youthful confidence, I kept insisting, “Now. Please make it now. I know I can ride!” He reluctantly agreed. “You are a foolish boy. Alright, let this be your first lesson, take the black.” Queen Rose pleaded, “Don’t let him try. Please, he will get hurt. He is just a little sparrow who hasn’t got his wings.” “Don’t worry, Mother Rose, I can do it,” I said to calm her, knowing deep inside I could.
I knew that the gypsies had named the black, la chienne (the bitch), because no one could ride her. She had shucked off others attempting to put a wool blanket or leather saddle on her. She was big and wild, fiery-eyed, her hooves always scuffing the dirt. You could hear her loud, impatient whinny to be free. I was not afraid as I bathed, brushed and talked to her each day.
The gypsies gathered around, watching, waiting and ready to laugh at my being bounced high in the air. Their chuckling changed to a stare as I threw a blanket on her glistening back. She did not move. I belted the saddle. She stood still. She did not twitch a muscle as I closed the bridle. I leaped aboard. There was no laughter, just sighs and gasps of amazement and then loud applause. The black responded gently to my touch. We galloped off, fast and faster. It was as if we were one. From that day on I rode her every morning, feeling her strength and desire to run. With the wind rushing against my face, I felt free. Years later I would have that feeling again. Being small and light, I became the gypsies’ jockey, riding the black in many races, making money for the camp and, yes, a small portion for myself. I carefully saved it for my trip. I loved the people, but knew in my heart that staying here was not the way to France.
H: Did you really feel you were ready to go?
E: Yes, I felt ready. I was grateful to the gypsies for the year and months of protection and kindness, but it was time to move on. They taught me about the world, about being confident and willing to face whatever threatens. I was a little older, a little taller and stronger. My goal had not changed. Tearfully, I stroked the black, patted and kissed her forehead. She bowed her head, nuzzled my shoulder, as if she knew it was our last time together. Reluctantly, but self-assured, said goodbye, thanking everyone, hugged King Raul, kissed la dame (Queen) Rose. She wrapped her arms about me, her tears matched mine as she said, “We will miss you little black sparrow. You asked so often so now I tell your fortune. You will go and meet your destiny. You will fly high in the face of obstacles and achieve your goals, slay your enemies, and be loved as I love you. Sparrow, my black bird, you will lead the way and then be forgotten.” She was right.
H: What was your plan? What was your next stop?
E: It is hard to recall, so many different people and places that run together. Now I am old, my mind plays tricks. I walked ‘til I ached. Hitched a ride when possible. I kept following the railroad tracks knowing it would reach a town. I’ll never forget this incident.
H: Eugene, are you laughing?
E: Just bear with me. There was the whistle, a trail of dark smoke and then I saw a freight train stop for water. Wonder of wonders, it was there for me. Silently and carefully I checked each freight car door until I found one slightly open. I did not hesitate. There was just enough room. I jumped aboard and squeezed into the darkness of the wooden boxcar. Clang! The motorman closed the door. Trapped! It was a terrible feeling.
H: Terrible? But you are laughing.
E: Guess I was paying the penalty for sneaking aboard. It was a stinking cattle and pig car. The stink! The shit! I yelled, “Stop the train! I want off.” No one heard over the clattering of the wheels. Going too fast to jump, it went on for miles and miles. I gagged and coughed, tried to hold my nose, but the smell was too powerful. There was no fresh air. I skidded on the slop and slipped to the floor that was covered by all sorts of crap. Damn! My clothes were full of it. It was in my hair, on my face and hands. “Please, stop the train! Let me off, before I die,” I pleaded to no avail. When going up a hill, the train slowed. I slid the door back and dove, no, flew out, landing, scraping my knees but gratefully away from that freight car. I walked to a little town where people shied away from me. Couldn’t blame them. Fortunately, there was a nearby stream and I flung myself, fully clothed, into it, hoping the smell and dirt would be washed off. Every time I see a freight train I smile.
H: Things didn’t come easy for that boy.
E: There are other situations I can’t forget. There was a white couple loading their wagon. She was very pretty with long yellow hair. Suddenly, the man who was with her, yelled out, “What are you gawking at nigger boy? Take your black eyes off her.” I tried to explain that I wanted to offer to work if I could get a ride, but…(Gene slammed his hands together). Hear that sound Henri? Whack! That was the sound of a horse whip whistling across my shoulders as he shouted, “Git out of here nigger.” I stood and glared at him, showing I was unafraid, then turned and walked away.
There were good and bad folks. In one town, after dancing in the street, an elderly, kind, white lady took me to her home where I had a meal. When it was time to leave she packed a bundle of food and gave me some old clothes and said, “I’ll pray for you little man.” Of course, there is more, but this was the beginning of the very tough and dangerous road to my destiny. Trying to survive, I took any job, sometimes working just for a meal and a place to sleep, usually in a barn or under a porch.
H: I know there is more.
E: Yes. Now where was I? Wanted to find the road to Atlanta and see my sister and brother. But which way was Atlanta? I had made some money picking cotton and oranges. As near as I could figure, had been in Georgia, Mississippi and Florida. Knew how my Daddy felt, never staying in one place too long. Months turned into years and I was no closer to France.
H: How did you survive?
E: Worked when I could. Sometimes I would find a popular corner in a town
