Death of Innocence : The Story of the Hate Crime That Changed America (9781588363244) by Jesse Rev (FRW) Christopher; Jackson Mamie; Benson Till-Mobley Page B
didn’t want to wear those things. “Nobody else is wearing them,” he said. But he was no match for Mama. She ruled the roost. I remember how she made me wear long, white stockings in the winter. And I hated those stockings. She also made me wear long underwear, and then pull my stockings up over them. When I’d get to school, I would go straight to the washroom and I would pull the legs of those drawers up as high as they would go and then I would pull my stockingsback up over my bare legs. Then I’d have to go to the washroom again at just about three o’clock every day.
One day the teacher couldn’t resist any longer. “Why is it that you have to go to the bathroom every day at three o’clock?”
She had gotten wise to me. Or somebody had told on me. It didn’t matter how she knew, she wasn’t letting me go. And that meant that I had to go home without readjusting myself, and face Mama. Bo wouldn’t stand a chance. Thanks to me and a teacher who wouldn’t let me go to the washroom, Mama knew all the tricks.
Emmett was always looking for something to do to make some extra money or get a treat. It started with the milk truck. Emmett would help the deliveryman carry bottles of milk from the truck to the front doors of all the customers on our block. Bo would wind up getting a bottle of chocolate milk for his troubles. The next thing I knew he was picking up bottles in alleys and collecting the deposits. He even ran down the hill to the train yard where the railcars were delivering coal to fire up the furnaces of the Corn Products plant. Coal would always fall off the coal cars. Bo had a scuttle. He’d pick up spilled coal, carry it back to our block, and walk up and down yelling, “Coal. Coal man. Coal.” He could sell a scuttleful for ten to twenty-five cents. Then he’d run back to the train yard to collect more spilled coal to sell. But his favorite “job” was ice delivery. He’d run ahead of the man on the ice truck, knock on doors, and take orders from the houses. Then he would tell the iceman how much each customer would buy. Twenty-five pounds here, fifty pounds there. Bo actually even tried to carry a twenty-five-pound block of ice once. Just once. The iceman appreciated the help. He liked Bo and gave him a chunk of ice wrapped in a little rag for him to enjoy on the hot days. But that wasn’t all. He also paid Bo a quarter.
A strong sense of responsibility was an important quality to have back in Argo, when Emmett was coming up. In a way, our section of town was a community of immigrants. That’s what we were, really, all those black folks from the South. People coming to a strange, new land—the land of milk and honey—in search of the kind of grand opportunities they would never have back home. There is always something special about people like that. They don’t look back. They don’t let anything stand in their way. Every day, the people in our little Argo community could see the Corn Products plant spread out there on the horizon, dominating our landscape. It stood there as a constant reminder that the gateway to a better life was hard work. So, even those folks who had no jobs worked in whateverway they could to make a way for themselves. Bo saw them, he watched them, he learned from them. Now, a six-year-old boy really doesn’t need a job. And, with everything we gave Bo, he certainly didn’t need money. What he did need, though, was a sense of his place in his world. A sense of belonging. And to belong, you had to make a contribution. Making a contribution had its value, but it also had its rewards. At the time, for little Emmett, that reward was only twenty-five cents. But it was a good start.
CHAPTER 6
E ven though I’ve always believed that we’re strengthened by our values, sometimes I think we can be limited by our customs. As a child in Argo, I learned somehow that the most important thing for a little girl was to grow up to become some man’s wife. I wasn’t the
One day the teacher couldn’t resist any longer. “Why is it that you have to go to the bathroom every day at three o’clock?”
She had gotten wise to me. Or somebody had told on me. It didn’t matter how she knew, she wasn’t letting me go. And that meant that I had to go home without readjusting myself, and face Mama. Bo wouldn’t stand a chance. Thanks to me and a teacher who wouldn’t let me go to the washroom, Mama knew all the tricks.
Emmett was always looking for something to do to make some extra money or get a treat. It started with the milk truck. Emmett would help the deliveryman carry bottles of milk from the truck to the front doors of all the customers on our block. Bo would wind up getting a bottle of chocolate milk for his troubles. The next thing I knew he was picking up bottles in alleys and collecting the deposits. He even ran down the hill to the train yard where the railcars were delivering coal to fire up the furnaces of the Corn Products plant. Coal would always fall off the coal cars. Bo had a scuttle. He’d pick up spilled coal, carry it back to our block, and walk up and down yelling, “Coal. Coal man. Coal.” He could sell a scuttleful for ten to twenty-five cents. Then he’d run back to the train yard to collect more spilled coal to sell. But his favorite “job” was ice delivery. He’d run ahead of the man on the ice truck, knock on doors, and take orders from the houses. Then he would tell the iceman how much each customer would buy. Twenty-five pounds here, fifty pounds there. Bo actually even tried to carry a twenty-five-pound block of ice once. Just once. The iceman appreciated the help. He liked Bo and gave him a chunk of ice wrapped in a little rag for him to enjoy on the hot days. But that wasn’t all. He also paid Bo a quarter.
A strong sense of responsibility was an important quality to have back in Argo, when Emmett was coming up. In a way, our section of town was a community of immigrants. That’s what we were, really, all those black folks from the South. People coming to a strange, new land—the land of milk and honey—in search of the kind of grand opportunities they would never have back home. There is always something special about people like that. They don’t look back. They don’t let anything stand in their way. Every day, the people in our little Argo community could see the Corn Products plant spread out there on the horizon, dominating our landscape. It stood there as a constant reminder that the gateway to a better life was hard work. So, even those folks who had no jobs worked in whateverway they could to make a way for themselves. Bo saw them, he watched them, he learned from them. Now, a six-year-old boy really doesn’t need a job. And, with everything we gave Bo, he certainly didn’t need money. What he did need, though, was a sense of his place in his world. A sense of belonging. And to belong, you had to make a contribution. Making a contribution had its value, but it also had its rewards. At the time, for little Emmett, that reward was only twenty-five cents. But it was a good start.
CHAPTER 6
E ven though I’ve always believed that we’re strengthened by our values, sometimes I think we can be limited by our customs. As a child in Argo, I learned somehow that the most important thing for a little girl was to grow up to become some man’s wife. I wasn’t the
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