Bama Boy

By Bobby Morrison

Bama Boy depicts the author's humble beginnings on a sharecropper's farm in North Carolina. One of 12 children, he picked cotton from the time he was six and went to school only on rainy days. "If your teacher ever feeds you, you can go to school every day," his mother told him. However, the book is not one of racial deprivation nor victimization, but one of achievement. Bobby's family moves up, and Bobby is the first in the family to graduate from high school.

This is a story of Americana, coming-of-age, and personal achievement. The author chronicles the 70s and 80s in the Nation's Capital. He realizes his dreams of driving a good car, raising a son and sending him to college, winning tennis trophies and writing his first book.

Some chapter headings are, "Easy Money" which explores the numbers racket, before and after it became legalized, as the lottery and asks the reader to think about the magic and mystery of numbers. See how it's done. "Cars, Cars and More Cars" depicts Bobby's passion for wheels. One chapter involves an interlude in Vietnam. The memoir ends with the author returning to his roots at North Carolina family reunion.

Bama Boy depicts not only the black experience but also the human experience. It is a reading experience for people of all ages. it is especially inspirational for the teenager or young adult. Morrison has an easy, pleasing, graphic way of storytelling. the stories move swiftly and freely from one episode to another, explore the period, giving the reader an easy vicarious identification.

Riding with the author from Washington to Atlantic City, a 17-year-old nephew,
who is not an avid reader, devoured the book from cover to cover and wanted more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2006
• ISBN: 9781412229333

Bobby Morrison

Bobby Morrison is the author of Bama Boy another critically acclaimed work of non-fiction. Born in robeson County North Carolina. He lives in Washington D C. at the present time.

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© Copyright 2005

Bobby Morrison. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey Decimal Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from the Library and Archives of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from their online database at:

www.collectionscanada.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-4140-6

ISBN 978-1-4122-2933-3 (eBook)

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Contents

INTRODUCTION

What Makes Bobby Run?

Bobby Stops Running, Starts Driving

Move Up With the Morrison

The Trouble With Girls Is

Summer Vacation and Some Are Not

Bama Goes to the Big City

Only The Strong Survive

Don’t Bring That Bama Here Again!

Driving A City Bus-A Piece of Cake? Ha!

Big Business: Move Over, Sears and Roebuck

What Make Bobby Run Again?

Cars, Cars, And More Cars

Easy Money

Working Underground-Someone Has to Do It.

Tennis Anyone?

Family Concerns

No man is an island and so I pay my dues to the many people who have encouraged me, one way or another, during the evolution of this book. Thank you Professor David B. Marrin, Margaret Gun, Beverly Murphy, J Johnson, Pat Jones, Gerald and all of my family Alfonso, Annie Muriel, Clorina, Anita, Daphne, James Gilbert, Lyndon, Linwood, Lon, Roy Mack, Tommy Lee, Michael, Jermain, Crystal and all my co-workers at Washington Metropolitan Transit Authority who have been hearing about this book for so long. and first, last and forever, my mother Katherine Morrison and my father Roy Morrison

INTRODUCTION

Bam a Boy, a memoir by Bobby Morrison, depicts the author’s humble beginnings on a sharecropper’s farm in North Carolina. One of 12 children, he picked cotton from the time he was six and went to school only on rainy days. If your teacher will feed you, you can go to school every day, his mother told him. However, the book is not one of racial deprivation nor victimization, but one of achievement. Bobby’s family moves up, and Bobby is the first in the family to graduate from high school.

This is a story of Americana, coming-of-age, and personal achievement. The author chronicles the 70s and 80s in the Nation’s Capital. He realizes his dreams of driving a good car, raising a son and sending him to college, winning tennis trophies and writing his first book.

Some chapter headings are, Easy Money which explores the numbers racket, before and after it became legalized, as the lottery and asks the reader to think about the magic and mystery of numbers. See how it’s done. Cars, Cars, and more Cars depicts Bobby’s passion for wheels. One chapter involves an interlude in Vietnam. Family Concerns starts with two episodes with his son Gerald. The chapter and memoir ends with the author returning to his roots at a North Carolina family reunion.

Bam a Boy depicts not only the black experience but also the human experience. It is a reading experience for all people of all ages. It is especially inspirational for the teenager or young adult. Morrison has an easy, pleasing, graphic way of storytelling. The stories move swiftly and freely from one episode to another, explore the period, giving the reader an easy vicarious identification.

Riding with the author from Washington to Atlantic City, a 17-year-old nephew, who is not an avid reader, devoured the book from cover to cover. I think you will too.

Professor David B. Marrin

Thanks to the human heart by which we live. Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. Williams Wordsworth Ode on Intimation of Immortality

1

What Makes Bobby Run?

As my feet pounded down upon the hard dry surface, I ran in a small circle behind my younger brother Tommy Lee. Dust rose all around us like puffs of smoke. My body was wet with sweat. I was so tired I could barely stand, much less run, but I staggered on, refusing to stop. Tommy Lee was in the same shape as I, but he, too, refused to stop. He was four years old and I was six. My sister, Annie Muriel, who was two years older than I, had been running, but quit after the first fifteen minutes. She sat on the porch and watched us run ourselves nearly to death.

The reward for the one who could outrun the other was nothing more than being able to say I beat you, and I was determined to utter those words.

Had Mom and Dad not returned home from shopping and demanded we cut out that running and get the groceries out of the car, we would probably still be running today. Of course we still didn’t stop immediately, but slowed down our pace until we were in front of Mom and she put the groceries in our arms. I watched Tommy’s feet as he watched mine to see if the groceries would slow us down. The steps that lead to the porch were unsteady. Tommy Lee stopped so that he could carefully place his foot on a step.

I beat you! I yelled.No you didn’t either! he said. "I had to stop for the

steps."

Well, you still stopped before I did, I said and stopped running all together. I can’t remember that we ever ran like that again.

That was in the dry hot North Carolina summer of 1953. Even at that young age I wondered why I was killing myself for such a small reward. How did I get caught up in that marathon with Tommy? I really wanted to quit, but something inside me took over and wouldn’t let me. During that phase of my life, I would also literally walk in the footsteps of my oldest brother, Roy Mack. Before sunrise, when he hitched up Gray Goose, our one and only mule, to begin his day’s work, I would be up, rubbing my eyes, getting the sleep out of them, so I could begin following him. I would walk directly behind him all day long. I don’t remember exactly how I got caught up in the walk-a-thon, but once I started, I didn’t want to stop, or didn’t know how to stop. Passersby would always question my walking behind him.

You shouldn’t allow that little boy to follow you like that, they would say to my brother. Poor little fellow, he’s about to walk himself to death.

He’ll be all right, Roy Mack would say. I looked on with a little smile, hoping they would leave us alone before he changed his mind about my walking. I really loved walking in the freshly plowed dirt. Plus, by watching him everyday, I learned the mule language. To make the mule move forward, Roy Mack would purse his lips and make a loud kissing sound. The Goose would immediately start moving forward. Whoa would stop him. Hee would make him move to the left. And Haa would make him move to the right. I got a thrill watching the mule obey those commands. On several occasions I would unconsciously repeat those commands, Hee, Haa, Whoa topped with a large kissing sound.

If you keep it up, I’m gonna send you home, Roy Mack would say. You’re confusing the mule. I would stop because I didn’t want to be sent home. I didn’t want the passersby to think that I couldn’t handle the walking. There were a few times when I didn’t care to be behind my brother and the goose. That was when I saw the Goose’s tail rise high above his hind legs. I would fall behind a few yards. There was sure to be something coming out that wasn’t a lovely sight or smell. Even though Roy Mack was used to it, he would turn his head away to avoid it.

I can remember following him the entire summer and feeling like I had accomplished something. I don’t remember what I thought I had accomplished.

My fondest memory of that year was Christmas. Santa Claus was good to Tommy and me. Tommy got a tractor that stood about three feet tall and resembled the real thing. I was the proud owner of a bulldozer, about the same height, with a real blade on it. There would be no time for walking behind big brother next year.

We had no idea Santa was going to deliver those beautiful toys. Since we were the kids of a sharecropper, we were used to getting a stocking with hard candy, apples and oranges, with a single cap pistol, if we were lucky. What we really wanted was to carry two guns like Roy Rogers and our boss man’s little white boys. I asked Mom why we couldn’t have them.

Because they have all the money, she would say. I was determined not to let them have all the money. I began saving every penny or dime that was given to me by an aunt or uncle. Before long I had saved twelve dollars with Mom as my banker. Mom and Dad would brag about it to others. I suffered a lot, because I dared not spend a dime when we would go to Mr. Clark’s convenience store. He was also our landlord, or boss man. Eventually I broke down and decided to spend some of my money, only to find out from my mom that it was gone. I was hurt, but knew she must have needed it. That put an end to my saving.

James Gilbert, my second oldest brother, during his younger years, had had quite a money experience, according to a story told by a cousin. Gilbert had been playing outside when he found a coin. He ran inside to tell Dad of his find.

Daddy, Daddy, I found a lot of money, he said.

How much did you find, son?

A lot of money, he said.

Was it a penny you found?

More than that.

A nickel?

More than that.

A dime?

More than that.

A quarter?

Before he could say more than that, Dad had grabbed him by his legs and held him high in the air, shaking him furiously. Before long a brown penny fell out of his pocket and rolled around the floor in a small circle before falling flat. Everyone would laugh when the story was told except me. I didn’t find it that funny. And the story was probably untrue. My cousin was known for his fibs.

I had always heard that the seventh child in the family was the lucky one, and my brother Lenwood, who was the seventh, proved it to be true. He was fortunate to be the baby child when Mom met Mrs. Burgess, who was a maid for the Stuart family. She had no children and was completely crazy about my baby brother. Every day was like Christmas for him. She would always stop by on her way home from work and give him Cracker Jacks or BB Bat candy. As soon as she left, we would all gather around him and stare at his Crack Jacks box, waiting to see what the prize was inside the box.

Sometimes he would spend the night with her and we could hardly wait for his return. He would have more to share when he spend the night. Once in awhile she would ask Mom to let an older child spent the night to keep the baby company. We would all gather around, hoping to be chosen because the chosen one would return with his or her own Cracker Jacks box. Mrs. Liney Burgess was a beautiful old woman. She brought many cheerful moments to Lenwood and our entire family.

Although Mrs. Burgess was a kind and generous human being, I was quick to learn that most people were the complete opposite. When I started school I encountered people who were not only not nice, but down right cruel. The school I attended was about four miles away from our house, located across the street from our church. They both had the same name, Piney Grove. If my sister and I were at the cross road on time, the school bus that carried the high school children would drop us off at the little three-room school. If we were not on time, we had to walk. It’s hard to remember which was worse, riding or walking. If we rode the bus, the highschoolers, who were already aboard the bus, would stick their feet out in the aisle, causing us to trip and fall.

Of course I had experienced this type of sneaky cruelty before at our barber’s, whose home and shop were one and the same. While Tommy Lee and I were waiting for our turn in the barber’s chair, we would be staring at his television, the first one I had ever seen. Before we realized what happened, we would be getting up off the floor. One of the barber’s kids would have stuck his leg out and tripped us. We didn’t need any extra pain because his Dad’s dull clippers were painful enough.

If the highschoolers didn’t trip us, they would thump us on our heads. When we grabbed our heads to massage the pain, they would hit us in the stomach. Whatever they wanted to do to us they did it in that three-mile ride. If we didn’t catch the bus, we were forced to contend with a tough kid named Jimmy who always walked and always wanted to start a fight. If I refused to fight, he would grab my books or my mittens and throw them in the woods.

Getting to school was tough, but I continued to go anyway, not that I had a choice. Once I got there things would be okay. Miss Ivory, my one and only teacher at Piney Grove Elementary, cared deeply about us, but would not hesitate to discipline us with a few smacks on the hand with a twelve-inch ruler. I can only remember being smacked on the hand once. My cousin and I were experimenting with kissing in the classroom.

What do you think you boys are doing? Miss Ivory asked sternly.

We were kissing, I answered.

You boys should not be kissing like that, she bellowed.

How should we be kissing, Miss Ivory? I asked

politely.

You should not be kissing at all. It’s naughty, and I don’t want to ever see you doing that again, she yelled and gave our hands hard whacks with her ruler.

At six years old, I couldn’t understand why it was wrong to kiss someone you loved. I didn’t know how to explain my feeling to Miss Ivory. It’s ironic that children have so much to say without the words to say it, and adults, who have many words, are garrulous and have little to say.

Nevertheless, that ended my kissin-cousin days. From that time on we decided to spend our free time playing with the two girls who sat next to us, Pearly and Queen. I eventually fell in love with Queen, my first love. Danny fell for Pearly.

Sometimes, during my afternoon walk home from school, when I was sure that Jimmy had turned off and headed to his house, I would pick a daisy to see if Queen loved me. I would pluck the leaves off one by one, She loves me, she loves me not. I burned with love for Queen and always prayed that the last leaf represented She loves me.

Whether she loved me or not, it made no difference, because Dad and Mr. Clark could not come to a sharecropper agreement for the next year, which meant we had to move to another community, to a new school and new friends. We would change communities and schools, but always return to Piney Grove Methodist for church service. I would only be able to see Queen on Sunday at church. Gaddy’s Mill was the new community. Number Seven was the school’s name. It had its share of Jimmys too, but they never really bothered me. Maybe they were trying to figure me out before making their move. Anyway, I had my hands full battling Tommy Lee. We had, by this time, acquired our own television and watched the Lone Ranger beat-up the Indians and outlaws every afternoon around five o’clock. We would have a fit if Mom asked us to bring in some firewood during the program and would try to hold off until a commercial before getting it. When the show was over, we would go out and emulate the roles. I would, most of the time, play the Lone Ranger. I explained to Tommy that I had to play the Ranger because I could beat him, and it wouldn’t be right if the Ranger lost.

But that’s not fair, Tommy said.

It is so, I insisted.

Then you just gotta let me be the Lone Ranger and beat you, Tommy suggested.

No.

Tommy remained the Indian. I would have both cap pistols; Tommy would have a homemade bow and arrow. Well, he went along with it for a while, but one day he got fed up with me always being The Lone Ranger and he tried to kill me during one of our battles. He stood about three feet away from me, loaded his bow and arrow and pointed it at my nose, making sure not to miss his target. I dared him to let go of his wooden arrow. He bought my bluff and let it go. Blood flowed down my face while the wooden arrow hung from my nose. Tommy started to cry. I was too shocked to cry, but after Mom treated my wound, she beat both of us. That put an end to our cowboy and Indian battles.

Although we lived in a beautiful big house that reminded me of a boss man’s house that had plenty of room for everyone, none of us really cared much about it or the community. We favored the Piney Grove community, maybe because Dad and Mom both had been raised there. We could barely wait until the year was out so Dad could negotiate with a boss man in our old community.

But as time passed, I began to like Number Seven. A girl named Ruth was helping change my mind. I had never kissed a girl before I kissed Ruth. As a matter of fact, I had never even thought about kissing a girl, and until this day I don’t understand what