The photo on the left is my mother in 1959, at age fourteen.
This is a photo of my mother (right), taken on a bridge in Georgia, when she was almost three years old. She was born in Texas in 1945, and she and my grandparents lived in a little two room rock house with a dirt floor until she was about two years old.
My Grandfather served in the Army during WWII, and met my Grandmother while stateside on furlough. My mother was born two months after the end of the war.
My grandfather became ill not long after she was born and he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. After having most of one lung removed, he went into remission. The heat of Texas was hard on him after he returned home from the V.A. hospital, so he decided to move the family to Georgia, where he was born and raised, and where most of his family lived.
They moved into a little house on a tobacco/cotton farm, and they all picked cotton to make ends meet, even my mother. She remembers having her own little child-sized sack in which to put the cotton. She also remembers how sharp the cotton bolls were. When she turned five years old she started first grade in the only little school for miles, and only had to pick cotton on weekends.
My mother didn't have a lot of friends her age before she started school, but once she entered first grade, she made friends with a couple of little girls in her class. Within a few weeks, one of those friends invited her over to play, and she was so excited. They ran together all the way to her friends house and played until the little girls father came home.
When the father walked in the front door, he took one look at my mother and took his wife by the arm into the kitchen. He did not look pleased. The kids, being kids, eavesdropped on the conversation. All my mother remembers hearing was something about not wanting a little "ni**er" kid in his house. My mother was promptly sent home, and she cried all the way there.
She had been a little "sheltered" living on the farm. Most of the people she had spent time with until then were the other "cotton-picking" families, or relatives. She didn't understand why the little girls father didn't like her. It didn't take long to find out, and in subsequent years she came to know all too well the inexorable sting of racism.
My grandfather became ill not long after she was born and he was diagnosed with tuberculosis. After having most of one lung removed, he went into remission. The heat of Texas was hard on him after he returned home from the V.A. hospital, so he decided to move the family to Georgia, where he was born and raised, and where most of his family lived.
They moved into a little house on a tobacco/cotton farm, and they all picked cotton to make ends meet, even my mother. She remembers having her own little child-sized sack in which to put the cotton. She also remembers how sharp the cotton bolls were. When she turned five years old she started first grade in the only little school for miles, and only had to pick cotton on weekends.
My mother didn't have a lot of friends her age before she started school, but once she entered first grade, she made friends with a couple of little girls in her class. Within a few weeks, one of those friends invited her over to play, and she was so excited. They ran together all the way to her friends house and played until the little girls father came home.
When the father walked in the front door, he took one look at my mother and took his wife by the arm into the kitchen. He did not look pleased. The kids, being kids, eavesdropped on the conversation. All my mother remembers hearing was something about not wanting a little "ni**er" kid in his house. My mother was promptly sent home, and she cried all the way there.
She had been a little "sheltered" living on the farm. Most of the people she had spent time with until then were the other "cotton-picking" families, or relatives. She didn't understand why the little girls father didn't like her. It didn't take long to find out, and in subsequent years she came to know all too well the inexorable sting of racism.
The 50's and 60's were the height of the civil rights movement. Her black eyes, dark skin, and short, coarse black hair made her a target of discrimination by many whites. By the way, did I mention my mother is not black?
My Great Grandmother, (her Dads Mother,) was full blood Seminole. My Great Grandfather, (her Dads Father,) was European, Seminole, and Cherokee. My Grandmother, (her Mother,) is Scotch-Irish (from Great Grandpa McDonald), Cherokee, and Apache (from Great Grandma). That's a lot of Indian blood. Enough Indian to produce a black eyed, black haired, dark skinned little girl.
So what does all that make me? I refer to myself as a "Mutt." I like it. Did you know a pure-bred anything is usually less healthy and more prone to genetic defects and extreme temperaments? Google it.
Because of my Mothers experiences in life, I believe she has a unique perspective compared to many. She was/is Native American, which came/comes with it's own set of preconceived notions. She was considered and treated "black" as a child during the civil rights movement. She is also considered "caucasion." Needless to say, my brother and I were raised to not only believe, but to LIVE by, the fact that "content of character" was the only acceptable, unfailing way to judge a person. That, my friends, is a very very GOOD thing.
Thank you, Mom.
1 comment:
Excellent, piece, Tyra.. glad I "found" your blog. Now write a little more often. =-)
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