One Step Away

My mother died when I was twelve years old. It was really something to lose my mother at that age because thirty years later I find myself wanting to ‘know’ her… as an adult, as a friend.

I’ve often supposed that’s what happens. After adolescence there’s this sort of bond that forms. A familial relationship between parent and offspring that fortunately blossoms into a friendship when the connection is properly nurtured granted rebellion or detachment doesn’t obstruct.

While visiting my Aunt (my mother’s sister) that desire to ‘know’ struck again.

“Auntie!” I said. I inhaled and a smile formed “tell me a story about my momma. You know? When y’all were kids.”

“Awww!” Auntie said with a sweet, loving pity.

She rolled her eyes back and searched her mind of the times in Marvell, Arkansas circa 1950.

“Ah! Once upon a time, me and your mom were about 12 years old. It was early mornin’ and we were pickin’ cotton, again. I didn’t get no sleep the night before. I had had some chores that took til late or I had a nightmare or something. So we’re pickin’ and I’m just yawnin’. I remember we saw this man drivin’ his truck. The road was so far off you couldn’t see nothin’ but a shadow goin’ by. Your momma said ‘Thelma! Don’t that look just like’ then she turned to the side, poked her bottom lip and her belly way out and said “Mr. Lee” in the deepest voice I had ever heard. We laughed so hard! I mean her expression was spot on. It was perfect. You know? She sounded just like Mr. Lee. He did handy jobs for our neighborhood. When I tell we laughed so hard! I fell on the ground in the cotton field just-a-cackling’ you hear me? Hahaha! Then just like that.. it was 2pm and we had to turn our bags in. I had fell asleep just like that. I started panicking. I was sonmad at Dean (my mom) askin’ her why ain’t she wake me up. She said she tried but I wouldn’t move. I’m cutting my fingers tryna pick as much cotton as a I can before they come get us. Your momma came and start puttin’ somma her cotton in my bag. But it was too late. They started ringing the bell and the trotter came over on his horse to lead us over to the barn where we weighed our daily pick. Not even half a pound. Our daily was supposed to be about two to three pounds. My momma snatched me up and took me home. Boy! I still can feel them lashes on my back and my legs to this day. And I had to do all the chores around the house that night. I learned my lesson...”

She went on but at that point my listening became rather passive due to this thought:

Most African American millennials have not outlived slavery generationally. Though our parents weren’t enslaved they often times worked as if, especially in the south.

The lack of income

No means to own property

Domestic assault deemed discipline

Labor chosen over education

And Christianity over therapy and spirituality

And to think, I was bitter for years at my father for not teaching me financial literacy.

He had no clue

He was only one step away

from slavery

himself.