Searching for an Answer

1908-1926

This is a story about Sam, my poppa, and how I remembered himwho also was called by different names because of the roles heplayed in life. But his wife (our momma) called him Sam whilehis children called him Poppa. The blacks who knew him called himReverend Gathing. Most whites called him nigger or boy. And how Iremembered him—this includes some of the experiences he shared withme and with his other children also—was as a strong, intelligent manthat was a leader and a preacher in the community in which we livedand his leadership through his ministers of several churches spreadthroughout surrounding communities. However, under Jim Crow, hewas forced to play the subservient role of a boy.

His childhood was no different from those of other blacks innorthern Mississippi who worked the land as poor farmers—framedhouse, wood-burning stove, with no electricity, no indoor plumbing.

When the fire from the cast-iron heater burned out during thenight, the handmade quilts that Momma, her girls, and sometimesneighborhood women who lived up the hill or across the pasture hadassisted her in making from old tattered clothing from her family thathad been used and reused by older children and passed down to youngerchildren would keep the family warm. The tattered rags were thrown inthe recycle bin to be reused for these beautiful hands to make into quiltsto keep her family warm.

I was an early riser like Poppa and Momma, and as I was lying inour double bed that I shared with my two sisters Alberta and Shug underseveral layer of quilts, I would smell coffee. The strong coffee's aromatold me that Poppa and Momma were up. It was still dark outside. Nosounds in the early morning. The familiar sounds of the crickets andthe occasional hoots of the Mississippi owls were silent. It seemed thatbetween dawn and before sunrise there is complete silence, a stillnessand peace on the farm that could not be found anywhere else. Evenbefore the break of day, the ancient sound of the rooster, a friend tohumans, would awaken me and my family to the sound of its cock-a-doodle-doo—asound that has been around since the beginning of time.For millennium, before the clocks or radios woke up man and beast,the rooster would usually perch on a high place, protecting the henyard that he thinks belongs to him with his head lifted up to heaven.Its mouth wide open, it would sing cock-a-doodle-doo as though heis trying to wake the whole universe, that it's time to rise and shine.When the rooster crowed, every animal and man seemed to respond tothis sound. From the barnyard, the cows would start to moo, and thecalves would respond. The horses would neigh, the pigs would snort.The whole family knows it's time to rise and awaken from the night ofsleep and slumber.

Although the rooster hadn't crowed, Poppa and Momma were up,preparing for the long workday ahead. I eased out of bed between mytwo sisters, trying not to wake them and thinking that I could have a fewmoments alone with Poppa while my siblings are still sleeping. I knewtoo how Poppa loves to talk to his children, giving the dos and don'tsabout life, trying like most other parents to protect their children andtry to stop his children from going in the wrong direction by explainingto them some of his own life's experiences: "Save for a rainy day that'ssure to come. You will reap what you sow."

As I entered the living room, Poppa was sitting in his green reclinerreading his Bible. The living room felt warm and comfortable from thefire he has made in the cast-iron heater with the long pipe extendingthrough the ceiling to the chimney, emitting smoke outside from thewood that one of his boys had brought into the house that they had cutfrom the woodpile out back.

Poppa looked up from his Bible when I said, "Morning, Poppa."

Upon seeing me, his face became warm, glad to see me. "Morning,girl. You are up early, aren't you?" More a statement than a question, Ireplied, "Yes, sir."

Poppa said, "I was just thinking about my poppa. He was born in1882. Remember, he died in 1957. I dreamt about him last night."

"What was it about?" I asked.

"I've had this dream before. I see in this dream my birth mother iswalking away from my poppa as he's holding another woman's hand. Inever see my mother's face, only her back."

"Oh, Poppa, that's a sad dream," I said.

Poppa continued, "My poppa, John Wesley, was a small dark manwho seems to be always working from sunrise to sunset on his five-acrefarm and demanded the same from his five children. My onlysister Mary were the firstborn from my mother Cynthia, and I was thesecond child. You know I was six months old when she died. Roberta, Iwill tell you something about men. Most don't want to be alone. Don'twant to raise children without a woman. That's just the way most menare. Now when my mother died in 1908, she was a young woman, onlytwenty-four years old."

As Poppa was telling me this, a thin veil of sadness just for a momentcovered his face. If I hadn't been paying attention, I would have missedhis brief moment of sadness. Poppa continued. "During this time, itwasn't unusual for complications to occur during childbirth. Womengave birth at home with the presence of a midwife. I was told that's whathappened to my mother. Historically, many died in childbirth. Theirhusbands remarried. My mother didn't die right away from my birth,however she never did recover."

"No one can replace your mother."

"I grew up with two different stepmothers. My sister Mary and Icalled her Momma. Millie was her name, and we knew that she wasn'treally our mother, that she was that woman who slept with our poppa. Idon't remember much about her, though. After giving birth to two of myhalf brothers—Emerson in 1911 and Booker T. in 1912—she also diedyoung like my mother. My brother Emerson was a hard worker like ourpoppa, was a drinker of alcohol, but not a heavy drinker like our brotherBooker...