His eyes dart from side to side as if this is a means of going back in memory and deep within to seek the wisdom I ask him to share with you.
“I would tell them, you’re never too big to go to school.”
My father’s father was a sharecropper. Actually, if the man of the house was a sharecropper, then so were his offspring. The oldest children, Ella Jane, Buster (Samuel, Jr. ) and Pete (a.k.a U.T.) worked the fields.
Sharecropping was a plan devised by plantation owners to swindle the people they could no longer own as slaves. Typically, a family would arrive at a cotton or tobacco plantation looking for work.
“Tell you what,” the boss would drawl, “You can live and work here for now, and I’ll cover your expenses. I will pay you to work the farm and you will be paid at the end of harvest time. At that time, I will deduct your rent and expenses from your pay.
After harvesting, my grandfather would go to collect his pay. After expenses the pay would not be enough to get the family through the winter. Sometimes, the sharecropper would end up owing the plantation owner. Then the indebted family would sneak out and look for another plantation that would allow them to stay for the winter and work off the money owed after planting and harvesting. This is in every sense a vicious cycle. Daddy tells me that he felt angry at his father, felt that his father was too stupid to do better and that he would someday do better than his father.
Peter Singletary, Sr. rarely got to attend school for more than a few months at a time. A time came when the family settled near a city and Pete was finally able to attend school again.
A playful and curious child, Pete is thrilled. He is happy to be freed from the harsh hard labor and excited about learning. He is 10, old enough to be in the 5th or 6th grade, however is placed in the third grade.
His teacher, Mrs. Jackson (he remembered her name all his life) asks him to spell a word. He can’t spell the word so the teacher picks up a switch and whacks him three times on his open palm). The stinging pain spreads quickly to wound his pride. He is the biggest student and feels like the dumbest kid. He feels ashamed.
His glance escapes to the window and out of it, he sees his oldest sister, Ella Jane, walking home. He jumps out the window and goes home with his sister. Pete is a third grade school dropout . . .
After he shares this story, we sing,
“Oft our cherished plans have failed,
Disappointments have prevailed,
and we’ve wandered in the darkness
Heavy-hearted and alone.
But we’re trusting in the Lord
And according to His Word
we will understand it better by and by.”
“I think she’s dead now,” Daddy says about the teacher that delivered the life-changing wound. “Maybe she understands better now.”
Wow! This brought me back some. With tears in my eyes I read this article of Daddy telling his stories. This is totally full circle for me!
I REMEMBER IN CATHOLIC SCHOOL IN MY SIXTH-GRADE CLASS MY TEACHER.. SISTER ST. WILLIAM HIT ME WITH A YARD STICK (Used As A Pointer.) She exclaimed “Now you know better to fall asleep in my classroom!” I told Mommy that afternoon and all she said was, “Served You Right!”
That night I looked to my Dad for comfort but as children we knew not to bother him while he sat on his upholstered chair reading the DAILY NEWSPAPER! That next day after school I decided to visit daddy at his job and remembered how adamant he became after hearing my side of the story. I remembered no response was made about school. All I can visualize is watching him walk to the back of his shop and told me to head on home/be careful crossing the streets/and no talking to strangers…as he sat on an unfinished chair and eating a sweet potato wrapped in aluminum foil.
To my surprise I was called to the principal’s office that next morning(which was another story of embarrassment) and I saw my Dad talking to Sister Mary Arthur and he said no..I want to see her teacher too! I can still picture his face as he looked at Sister St William later with a stern remark saying slowly.. “As long as God breathe breath in your body, don’t you ever hit my daughter with a stick again!” If she does this again, just call my house or here…here is my number at work!” (something like that)
I remember Mommy saying to her friend Love W. on the phone over and over again. “I cannot believe that man left his job to go to her school!”
I never got in trouble for sleeping in school again for I had an earlier bed time (now remember I was a sixth grader and they made sure I was in my bottom bunk!) lol WOW..I’M PUTTING PIECES BACK IN THE PUZZLE!
I must disagree with you because when I was having all that trouble mastering that Trigonometry Class In The 12th Grade..All I Remember Daddy Talking About is YOU BETTER GRADUATE THIS YEAR..ALL I HAD WAS A SEVENTH-GRADE EDUCATION! YOU JUST GOT TO DO BETTER! (Many of nights I rode the train home with the employed commuters in the dark.. but I passed that first-period class to get that diploma!) Thanks Again For Taking Us Back.. So We Can Navigate Our Forths With Relayed Fortitude!! Okay..Deb!
Thank you both for these stories of courage and fortitude! As a 45-year-old college freshman, I appreciate your father’s wisdom.
Deborah,
This touched me deeply. My mother’s father was also a sharecropper–and you are right, that makes the entire family sharecroppers. I recently learned that one of my mother’s brothers, furious at his father for the cycle of debt, just left the farm with no word. I also learned that my grandfather fell into a terrible depression (and maybe Alzheimer’s disease?) because of his “inability” to “do better” by his family. I have to send your column to my mother…thank you for sharing this.