Bales & Bolls: A Memoir in Short Stories

By E.J. Cash

From the tobacco and cotton fields in North Carolina to working in middle management in a Fortune 500 company, Bales & Bolls chronicles E. J. Cashs journey to overcome the problems of her dysfunctional upbringing in the Jim Crow South of the forties and fifties.

Struggling to survive the erratic behavior of her alcoholic father with his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality created fear, conflict, and confusion, as she grappled with his attempts to rape her, his voyeurism, and his brutal use of the belt.

And her mothers silence strained their relationship, causing a breach difficult to overcome.

Hers is a hard-fought journey breaking free from Jim Crow and its limitations from without and her fathers lewdness and her mothers complicity from within.

Then she stumbled into a relationship with God, beginning a spiritual journey leading to the discovery of Gods transforming power of healing through repentance for the forgiveness of sins.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490861296

E.J. Cash

Through her prayer ministry, E.J. Cash teaches the message of God’s coming kingdom, bringing people from a place of unbelief to an understanding of kingdom truths, with an emphasis on repentance for the forgiveness of sins. She is retired and lives in the Midwest. E-mail: [e-mail].

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Copyright © 2014 E.J. Cash.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Names of most people, cities, and schools have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Scripture taken from the New American Standard Bible, © Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-6130-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-6131-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-6129-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014921086

WestBow Press rev. date: 12/05/2014

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

PART 1

Virtue

Color, Race, and Ethnicity

The Hair Wars

A Reflective Essay on Farm Life

A Cautionary Tale

Bales & Bolls

Chores and Duties

A Radio with Moving Pictures!

King Tobacco

Let’s Pretend …

The Tyranny of the Belt

The Worst Day of the Year

My Beloved Granny

Demon Rum

Educating E. J.

Hopes and Dreams Derail

Not-So-Holy Matrimony

Adjusting to a Different Kind of Work

Going It Alone

On the Road to Self-Sufficiency

Single Again

PART 2

Serendipity

Requiem for a Reprobate

Faith Takes Root

Beginning a New Season

A Call to Intercession

Dismantling Strongholds

Unresolved

Behold the Nature of Spiritual Warfare

Finding Respite in India

In the Aftermath of Battle

On Turning Seventy

A Tribute to Aunt Ginny

Abiding in His Presence

Bibliography

To

Jehovah Jireh, the God who provides,

and

El Shaddai, the Almighty, the All-Sufficient One

Preface

I HAVE KNOWN for over twenty years that I would write my story. I had clear recurring visions of writing it, with incredible details, including the marketplace response. But being a private person, I didn’t relish sharing details of my personal life, so I had no problem waiting on God’s timing. The visions continued through the years; then others began praying about my writing assignment, even though I had never told them about the visions. Since I’m not a public person, I questioned why God wanted me to write my story. Who would want to read it? What purpose would it serve? Then I remembered that God chooses the foolish things of the world to shame the wise and the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong (1 Corinthians 1:27). If God wanted me to write my story, then He had purposed to use it to His glory. In the latter part of 2011, He launched my writing ministry, directing me to write a memoir with an unconventional format—topical stories, instead of chronological chapters. He then proceeded to download the core of the first story, and continued guiding me through the entire process.

I lived my first fourteen years in the Jim Crow South of the forties and fifties with my parents, sister, and three brothers, where we struggled to survive as itinerant sharecroppers working in tobacco and cotton. Then the family moved to a large city, and we brought our problems along with us—problems that were magnified in the unforgiving poverty and sordidness of our ghetto tenement. My father was an alcoholic, but I never used that term. I called him a drunk—a lewd, mean-spirited drunk. Although I was afraid of him when he drank because he wreaked havoc with his belt, his persistent attempts to rape me, and his voyeurism caused the greater fear. And my mother’s silence strained our relationship. From my perspective, both parents had betrayed me. Bitterness and resentment against them took root early on and continued to grow, impacting me in unexpected ways.

Through the years, my dreams never worked out, making me despair of ever breaking free from my past. Work became my solution. Driven to an unhealthy dependence on my own self-sufficiency, I sought affirmation, acceptance, and fulfillment through working hard, enabling me to live a different lifestyle. Yet work failed to solve the problems of the past. Overcoming the betrayal of family and friends threatened to sabotage my workplace gains. Mine is a hard-fought journey of breaking free from Jim Crow and its limitations without, as well as my father’s lewdness and my mother’s complicity from within. These forces converged, creating strongholds and bondage that plagued me through the years.

After spending years contending with the residue of my dysfunctional upbringing, I stumbled into a relationship with God—a relationship that surprised me given my blasphemous accusations against Him and all He represented. Thus I began my spiritual journey, soon discovering God’s transforming power of healing through repentance for the forgiveness of sins. I embraced His offer of deliverance and started my journey to freedom.

Acknowledgments

To the many family and friends for their love, support, and encouragement. What a blessing to have you walk with me through the writing of this memoir.

To the many intercessors that prayed for years for this project, well before I started writing, and continued to pray while I wrote it. I’m grateful for your faithful prayers that sustained and strengthened me.

To Irving Joyner, professor of law, at North Carolina Central University School of Law. Thank you for referring me to the link listing a sampling of Jim Crow laws.

To the WestBow Press team for their patience and steadfastness. Thank you for escorting me through the publishing process.

To Jehovah Jireh, who provided all I needed as His instrument in completing this work. I pray You alone will be glorified through these short stories.

Part 1

Virtue

I WOKE WITH A START. Then terror gripped me when I realized Daddy had been kissing me while I slept. I started trembling, horrified at what he had done and what he might have done. I had fallen asleep on my bed because of painful menstrual cramps. And the unspeakable had happened while being alone in the house with him. I usually avoided being alone with him. I sat up abruptly, slightly disoriented, and got off the bed. Somehow being on the bed signaled greater danger—the danger of him raping me. Ma must not be at home, I thought. She probably went to the Hardestys’ to clean their house. So Daddy seized the opportunity when he saw me sleeping. I felt paralyzed, unsure whether to run or to stay. He continued to sit on the bed, staring at me with bloodshot eyes. His look made me even more afraid—that strange yet familiar look that made me nervous and uncomfortable. I hated that look. He remained silent. He always remained silent. Then he did something unusual. He gave me a blue sweater. Considering we neither celebrated birthdays nor received Christmas presents every year, being given a gift outside of the holiday raised suspicion. On some intuitive level, I knew he had attached strings to that gift. I glanced at it but refused to accept it, thinking it would make me a willing participant in his lustful scheme. I continued to stand still without saying anything, then I gathered up the courage to leave and hurried outside, seeking safety in the company of my sister and brothers. Unsure what to say to them, I said nothing, but with effort, I tried to act casual.

Feeling soiled, I walked over to the pump in the backyard and pumped cool water into the dipper and rinsed out my mouth. A few minutes later I heard Daddy firing up his old Chevy. After a few attempts, the engine turned over, and I watched the clay-tinged billows as the car sputtered down the sandy path leading to the main road. Relieved that he had left and that I probably wouldn’t see him until morning, I tried to relax, but my heart continued to race, beating so loudly I thought the others heard it. He had escalated his attacks, getting bolder, and it terrified me. I trembled thinking about that close call—too close for comfort. Finally I calmed down, although still shaken by the incident. Fear had become a constant companion over the years. Hardly a day passed without it drawing me into its suffocating embrace, reveling in its impact on me. I wanted to rid myself of that menace, but it had taken root, consuming me and keeping me on edge. I felt trapped, unable to stop Daddy and his attempts to rape me. But I refused to give in to fear.

At thirteen that fall of 1957, I had a vague understanding of sexual purity, yet I knew I had to safeguard it. And based on information Aunt Ginny, Daddy’s youngest sister, had shared the previous year, Daddy had crossed lines of acceptable behavior. He had intensified his efforts to violate me, creating opportunities to isolate me. Although Ginny had explained the finer points of the facts of life, I remained unclear about some aspects. Why did Daddy behave in this manner? Should fathers act this way? Not having a context for it, I had no idea how to respond. How do you fight against your father’s less-than-honorable actions? I fought this battle alone, but I needed help.

The next morning, I pretended nothing unusual had happened. I went to the barn with the others to grade and tie tobacco, the last phase of the season before the tobacco went to market. Unnerved by Daddy’s blatant assault the day before, I remained on edge, trying to anticipate his next move. I have no memory of discussing this with Ma or Buddy, who was two years older, or Sissy, two years younger. My two younger brothers, Toby and Junior, were ten and six and unable to understand these things, not that I planned to say anything to them. I carried heavy burdens, shouldering sordid things hard to understand. And living in the same house with Daddy, I had no place of refuge, never knowing what to expect—what schemes he might be plotting. Avoiding direct contact that morning, I concentrated on the tobacco. Then I breathed a sigh of relief when he left. But I remained in a state of anxiety as I continued working that morning.

After those vile episodes, Daddy acted as if nothing had happened when the effects of the alcohol wore off. In the aftermath of those incidents, I used to cast furtive glances at him, trying to see if indeed he had no memory of his lewd behavior, or to detect some knowing glint in his eyes. I never saw any indication of guilt, and he seemed incapable of feigning ignorance, pretending nothing happened. Since he showed no remorse or shame, I wondered if he remembered. Did he use drunkenness as a shield? Since he started drinking as an eight-year-old, I wondered what alcohol had done to his brain. For my safety, I assumed that he posed a threat whether drunk or sober, and that I needed to keep alert. Perhaps he continued to devise his plans while sober and thinking more clearly. Pondering these things made me uneasy, but I thought of nothing else. Indeed, maintaining my safety consumed me.

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DURING SPRING BREAK from nursing school the previous year, Aunt Ginny worked in the tobacco plant beds with Sissy and me. And one morning she told us the facts of life. Undoubtedly she knew that if the task were left to Ma, we might never know. Ginny, only nine years older than I, seemed more like a big sister than an aunt. She related well to us and discussed these delicate matters without reservation or embarrassment. I imagine her training as a nurse gave her confidence. When she explained the particulars of sex and reproduction and the schemes of boys to pressure girls into compromising their virtue, I started crying, shocked by the stark reality of what she said. I knew nothing of what she talked about. The information frightened me, and the sheer volume overwhelmed me. It sounded so complicated. Later Ginny said Ma expressed gratitude that she had shared this information with Sissy and me. Apparently broaching the topic with us made her uncomfortable.

Ginny’s discussion brought clarity to a disturbing incident that happened on the school playground the previous year. A classmate told me that a boy named Woody was my brother. I stated with certainty the impossibility of that because my parents were married to each other. The girl snickered, realizing that I had no knowledge of these things. Of course, Aunt Ginny hadn’t discussed the facts of life with me yet. I had no clue where babies came from at that time. I asked Ma when I got home that day, and she confirmed that Woody was indeed my brother. Of course, that confused me even more because I couldn’t understand how that was possible. After Ginny described conception in detail, then I understood how Woody could be my brother.

A few years later, I learned more about the situation. I discovered that Daddy had had an affair with a woman, who may have been married also. He impregnated her while Ma was pregnant. The babies were born around the same time. I can only imagine Ma’s emotional turmoil and pain during that pregnancy and its impact on the baby while still in the womb. Add to that Ma’s public humiliation as a result of living in the small farming community that had knowledge of the sordid affair. With each incident, the evidence against Daddy mounted, giving me greater insight into his moral character. In fact, when old enough to understand these matters, I saw few redeeming qualities in him. Woody turned out to be one among several children Daddy and his handsome brothers fathered out of wedlock. They had no problem attracting women. Grandma referred to these illegitimate offspring as outside children and those within the marriage as inside children. She made the distinction clear. Needless to say, my father and uncles’ unconventional lifestyle distorted my view of virtue and marital fidelity. Integrating the illegitimate children into our family structure confused me. I thought it sanctioned the immoral behavior of the profligate fathers, giving them undeserved legitimacy, in my uninformed opinion.

Doubtless taking an unintended cue from Grandma, I resented the outside children who, so I thought, insinuated themselves into the family. I detested their inclusion in family gatherings, wanting them to remain outside in their designated place. I never saw my half siblings at family social events though. Only as an adult did I view my siblings and cousins as innocent byproducts of their parents’ moral failings. Indeed, Daddy and his brothers’ careless dalliances brought forth a number of illegitimate children that, from my perspective, sullied the family. Of course, my nebulous understanding of immorality and illegitimacy confused the issue. At the time, given my warped perception, I cast these cousins in a negative light, considering them thieves, having stolen something from me, although I was unsure what. Years later I was confronted with a reality that rocked my foundations regarding this issue.

After that discussion with Ginny, armed with greater knowledge and understanding, I barely slept at night, fearing what Daddy might do to me—a fear that dogged me the entire time I lived at home. I never felt safe, feeling trapped like a hunted animal in our small, confined space. Living the carefree existence of a young girl seemed impossible. I stayed alert at all times, keeping close surveillance over my surroundings, noting Daddy’s whereabouts, and tracking his movements. It behooved me not to be caught with my guard down. Ginny never warned me that fathers posed a threat. Daddy’s perplexing behavior defied explanation. And Ma’s reticence bothered me just as much, perhaps even more because she knew about his attempts to harm me yet never said anything to me, leaving me to fight alone. I wanted her to help me, to demonstrate in a tangible and empathetic way that she would protect me, that she understood my fears. But she provided no such assurance. Her silence became a major stumbling block in our relationship, yet she never recognized it.

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ONE MORNING SHORTLY after the incident that happened while I slept on my bed, as I dressed alone in the bedroom Sissy and I shared, I rejoiced at having a room of our own. After years of moving from one tenant dwelling to another, sharing a room with our three brothers, we had privacy for the first time. And it had a door instead of a flimsy curtain separating the room from the boys’ adjacent room, providing another layer of privacy. Our small bedroom had a double bed and a dresser. Since tenant housing never had closets, we hung a few clothes on nails on the otherwise bare walls. Despite the condition of the room, I loved having a space to call my own. And early in the mornings while getting ready for the day, I loved the smells coming from the kitchen, drifting through the small clapboard house. Each morning, Ma got up early, built a fire in the stove, and prepared breakfast, making biscuits and, in more prosperous times, cooking ham and eggs or grits. But always the smell and sound of coffee percolating and biscuits baking filled the house. Usually we sopped molasses with the biscuits, savoring the thick, sweet syrup, and ate a piece of fried fatback, our usual fare. I heard Ma putting more wood in the stove that morning, stoking the fire to keep the heat even. I looked forward to eating breakfast. The inviting aroma inspired me to dress faster.

The smell of biscuits and fatback distracted me from thinking about our life, with a history of drifting from farm to farm working as itinerant sharecroppers in tobacco, cotton, and other crops in eastern North Carolina. However, for a couple of years Daddy hadn’t farmed; instead, we worked as hired hands or day laborers on others’ farms, which made working even more crucial to ensure we had enough money to live on. Longing for school to start—or, more accurately, when we could start attending school that year—kept me focused. The fall semester had begun a few weeks earlier, but we needed to complete the last phase of harvesting tobacco and picking cotton. Anticipating my return to school diverted my attention from the issues at home. I hadn’t had any reading material all summer, so I thought about the books I planned to check out of the library, my favorite place at school. I spent as much time among the stacks as possible, foraging through its treasures. I lost myself in books, discovering another world, a more refined and genteel world. I longed for that world, but I saw no way out of my present world. But in the meantime, school became my haven, the one place where I excelled—the one place that affirmed me, and the only place I felt safe.

Quietly, on cats’ paws, Daddy slipped into the bedroom that morning while I dressed, breaking the peaceful mood created by the smells and sounds of Ma preparing breakfast. I turned and gasped, frightened that he had sneaked in undetected, and my heart began pounding. The door had no lock, and after Sissy left the room earlier, I had removed the ladder-back chair I had propped underneath the knob. I needed to be more alert. I admonished myself for allowing this breach in security. With Ma in the next room, I assumed he wouldn’t try anything. I looked at him, trying to determine his motives, and soon discovered his intention when he approached me. I began backing up in the only direction possible. He had blocked my exit, maneuvering me into a corner, leaving me without an escape route. I began screaming piercing screams, but to my horror, I heard no sound, only Daddy’s breathing. As usual, he said nothing. My screams of terror went unheard. I began to panic! As he drew near, he made lewd gestures. Finally, with bloodcurdling intensity, the sound burst forth, rising from deep within as if giving voice to the many abused and violated children through the ages who have been rendered mute. Like a primal eruption, I shrieked, "Mama!" The sound reverberated throughout the small house. I heard Ma’s footsteps as she hurried toward my room. Daddy rushed past her as he ran out the door and drove off speedily. Through labored breathing, I told Ma what Daddy had tried to do. I knew my report disturbed her, but she said nothing. As usual, I searched her face, looking for compassion and understanding, but only a blank stare greeted me. After standing there a few minutes, she returned to the kitchen to tend to the food cooking on the stove, probably relieved to have that distraction. My screams had woken up my brothers, and Sissy hurried back to the room. I told only Ma. I’m sure the others wondered what had caused the commotion. We filed into the kitchen and ate breakfast in silence. I kept my eyes averted, not wanting to see the others looking at me. It bothered me that Ma offered neither comfort nor consolation. Then again, she never said anything when I told her about these things. I wondered why. Her continued silence deepened my growing resentment and bitterness.

Late that night after everyone had gone to bed, Daddy returned home drunk, and I heard muffled voices as he and Ma argued. I imagined she had confronted him about the incident. They continued arguing for a while as I lay in bed thinking about what had happened, feeling apprehensive and unable to sleep. I glanced at the door to make sure I had placed the chair underneath the knob. As I lay there, I wondered what Ma thought of her husband, my father, who looked for opportunities to assault me. My father stalked me, not some crazed, perverted stranger from whom I could flee to my house, bolt the door, and find safety, but my own father—my own flesh and blood—in my home. Did he envision having relations with his daughter and his wife under the same roof? Did he comprehend the devastating consequences of violating me, his own daughter, leaving me a legacy of shame and horrifying memories to haunt me for the rest of my life? Why would a father do this? How could Ma live with such a man? This went far beyond my comprehension. What drove him to plot ways to defile his own child? Of course I had no answers to these questions. Finally I fell asleep, but I remained restless, waking periodically, afraid to sleep too soundly. Over the years, I had perfected the art of sleeping with one eye open. And after the recent incident, I committed to being even more conscious of sleeping lightly.

After those two incidents and knowing what Daddy had done in the past, I became more vigilant in ensuring my safety, developing strategies and contingency plans, keeping alert to the possible dangers. I could ill afford to be inattentive when Daddy was around. Since the house had no indoor bathroom, I had to be careful when I took a bath or used the chamber pot. Only during his absences did I relax and play games with my sister and brothers or read or behave like a normal thirteen-year-old. Truth be known, I had no idea what the life of a normal thirteen-year-old looked like. As soon as Daddy returned from his drinking bouts, I tensed. With his every request, I made a quick mental evaluation, trying to detect hidden motives so that I could prepare a counterattack if needed. Filled with fear and tension, my life revolved around ensuring my well-being, with stress increasing in all facets of my life.

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GROWING UP IN THE rural South of the late fifties, I had no concept of virtue. During this period, many placed sexual purity under the umbrella of being a good girl. And many labeled colored girls as promiscuous because they engaged in sexual activity and had babies out of wedlock. But society held white girls in a different light, viewing them as paragons of virtue, living celibate lives until marriage. As a young colored girl, I felt tarnished by that perception—that prevailing view. However, years later I discovered that white girls behaved the same way, but they had means of dealing with unwanted pregnancies, the evidence of their sexual activity. Their parents whisked them off to one of the many homes for unwed mothers, and they gave their babies up for adoption. Or others took the grand tour of Europe and gave birth to their babies there, leaving them overseas. Then they returned home and pretended nothing ever happened, resuming the facade of being sexually pure and avoiding bringing shame on the family. Since I had no knowledge of this at the time, I felt the pressure of guarding my virtue, not wanting to be counted among the less-than-virtuous masses, especially since Aunt Ginny had impressed upon me to remain a virgin until I got married. I wanted to be a good girl.

When I began studying history, I thought about the slave women that included my foremothers. Being chattel, bought and paid for, they were property to be used at will by unprincipled men. Their bodies belonged to someone else, not themselves, making it futile for them to scream in protest at being raped or to argue when subjugated to the whims of slave owners and of overseers. Slave women had no control over their virtue, and that saddened me. They had no power or ability to declare or to practice abstinence or to remain virtuous until marriage. The thought that their virtue had been usurped in a foul and demeaning manner appalled me. I recognized that that spiritual legacy from slavery continues in various ways because there’s no statute of limitations governing spiritual bondage, and its impact remains until that stronghold is broken.

As a young girl, I understood neither that aspect of slavery nor the power of God to break generational curses and to remove embedded strongholds. In retrospect, I unknowingly fought to break free from that legacy, but now the unprincipled man was my father. It disturbed me that the sordidness of the historical past continued in my own household, making Daddy’s behavior even more egregious. Rather than safeguarding my virtue, he sought to violate it. It created confusion as I grappled with making sense of his behavior that looked more like that of the slave owners and the overseers instead of that of a protective father. What caused him to align himself on the wrong side of this issue? In my young, naive fashion, I fought to maintain control over my virtue. It belonged to me, and no one had a right to take it, especially my father. Undeterred, I struggled alone in this battle, determined to avoid being raped. I purposed to fight for my virtue.

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MY FIRST MEMORIES of the peculiar threat posed by men were formed during early childhood. As third and first graders, Buddy and I walked the five miles to and from school in our rural farming community in the late 1940s. At times, Ma told us to stop by Grandma and Grandpa’s house for various reasons, since we passed it on the way home. I remember whining because I hated going to their house. Each time we stopped at our grandparents’ house, Grandpa would pick me up and touch me in an inappropriate manner. As I squirmed to get down, he would hold me in a viselike grip, breathing on me that foul, suffocating smell of whiskey and tobacco. I hated it. And I hated him for making me feel so uncomfortable. No one understood why I hated going to my grandparents’ home or why finding Grandpa home alone scared me. I tried to avoid him as much as possible. And it frustrated me that no one listened to me. No one heard my voice.

To my dismay, around the same time, I discovered Daddy posed a similar threat. Once I woke up in the middle of the night to discover Daddy kneeling beside my bed, behaving improperly. It frightened me, so I pretended to be asleep. I smelled that mixture of whiskey and tobacco, which triggered fear in me. For years the smell of whiskey and tobacco caused that conditioned response to rise up in me. Usually when I smelled that odor, something unsavory, frightening, or painful happened. I feared his reaction if he knew I was awake. Would he beat me? Would he do something even more horrible to me? A few minutes later Ma came into the room and started beating Daddy about the head and shoulders, saying, What are you doing? I sensed her quiet, controlled anger and perhaps her fear. Get out of here! She kept her voice low so as not to wake us. Sissy and I shared a bed, and my two brothers shared a bed in the opposite corner of the small room. Perhaps, like me, they observed the scene silently, pretending to be asleep. Sometimes the safest thing to do is to pretend you don’t know what’s going on.

Based on that incident, I knew with certainty that Ma knew Daddy’s potential to harm me. She had caught him in the very act. Yet, in the ensuing years, she never said anything to me when I sought her help, when I needed to be comforted, to be reassured, or when I needed her to allay my fears. I never understood why she kept silent. I wondered what she said to him when they argued after I told her about his improper behavior. Did she discuss it with him when he was sober? Did she fight behind the scenes on my behalf? A simple assurance that she fought for me would have helped. Ma’s awareness and subsequent silence about Daddy’s threatening behavior created an unspoken barrier between us with which I learned to live, but over time it festered. Yet Ma never knew the barrier existed, which made it worse. What blinded her to the impact Daddy’s behavior had on me or to the pain of her silence?

Exposure to sexual abuse at an early age created confusion because I had no context in which to place it. When these things occurred during my early years, I knew nothing about the facts of life. Adult authority figures brought me into their sordid world, doing things that scared me. I suspected less than-honorable-intentions, however, because of their drinking. Daddy and Grandpa frightened me when they drank. Somehow I made the connection that because they did these things only when they drank whiskey that it must be a bad thing. Although I had no understanding of the implications of their actions, it gave me insight into the improper nature of their behavior. As a result of my suspicion, I became wary of men, Daddy and Grandpa in particular. I developed negative feelings toward them, bordering on hatred at times. Moreover, as a young child, I recognized that I had neither control over their behavior nor the ability to avoid them. And no other adults seemed aware of their abuse, except Ma knew about Daddy’s actions. The realization that I had to fight the problem alone crept in, filling me with hopelessness that continued to grow through the years.

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ONE MORNING A FEW days after the encounter with Daddy in my bedroom, I fluffed the sheet, spreading it over the bed, and tucked the edges underneath the mattress as I tidied up. Then I happened to look up and saw a small hole in the wall above the tall wooden headboard. I kneeled on the bed to get a closer look. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? Anyone standing on the stair steps leading to Daddy and Ma’s unfinished loft bedroom had a clear view of the room. I made a spitball from a piece of paper and I plugged the tiny opening. After that last episode, I refused to let down my guard, since Daddy had become more aggressive. It bothered me that I hadn’t noticed the tiny hole before. I felt vulnerable and exposed. Had he seen me taking baths or in various stages of undress since the family moved into the house over a year before? I thought it counterproductive to worry and speculate about what might have happened in the past. So I forced myself to concentrate on the present.

A few days later, I woke up in the middle of the night when Daddy opened the front door. I heard his footsteps as he started walking upstairs; then he stopped on the stair step near the hole and lingered there. The next morning, I noticed that the wad of paper plugging the hole was missing. Subsequently, each time I plugged the opening, he removed it. Daddy used different ploys in his attempts to assault me or to invade my privacy. Convinced that he had been spying on me through that hole, I decided to search for other holes. I placed a chair against the wall in the bedroom and stood on it, looking for small holes in the wall, and if I found one, I wadded a piece of paper and plugged it. I scanned the lower part of the wall as well.

I continued placing a chair underneath the doorknob each night and when I bathed and dressed. But knowing Daddy spied on me, hoping to see me undressed, disturbed me. I added voyeurism to his many immoral offenses; he was a Peeping Tom, observing his unsuspecting daughter. So I searched the walls periodically, looking for minute openings just big enough for an eye to peer through, and I checked on holes that I had plugged previously. Knowing that he spied on me gave me a creepy feeling. At times, I worried that I hadn’t found and patched well-camouflaged holes. I don’t know if he created the holes or whether they existed before we moved into the house. But my inability to stay ahead of him increased my fear, making me paranoid at times. He continued to come home drunk in the middle of the night, stopping on the stairs, obviously peeping through the small opening. I had no place to hide from his prying eyes. His lewdness created a constant source of frustration, as I did not know when my best efforts at keeping safe might fall short.

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IT HAPPENED THAT we finished harvesting the crops at this time, enabling me to return to school to begin the eighth grade, giving me a needed break from Daddy. What a relief to be able to relax and to feel safe for most of the day. The teachers gave me makeup assignments that I finished quickly, not wanting to fall behind further. We weren’t the only children who started school late. Others had similar obligations on the farm. Consequently, the teachers provided a means of catching up on the lessons we had missed. I wanted to do well and looked forward to graduating, which made it a special year. Once again I immersed myself in school, falling back into the rhythm of doing homework, studying, and learning. School served as my haven, nourishing me on many levels and engaging my senses like nothing else.

Our small school library served as a haven within a haven. What great joy I found in indulging myself in reading once more. How I missed reading during the summer and the early fall before starting school. I began checking out books, satisfying that deep inner yearning. And since I worked in the library during my free period, I had plenty of time to peruse the shelves when I refiled books. I breathed in the books, allowing them to infuse me as I journeyed into the worlds they offered. They opened my eyes to things that had been foreign and unreachable to me. As I read, I spanned the globe, going deep into history, living in a fantasy, or riding the high seas, crying or laughing. Reading evoked many emotions as I lost myself in worlds that differed from my own. I wanted to remain in those worlds, never to return to the poverty and perversion and drunkenness. Reading stirred me up, agitated me, causing me to long for something better; but it seemed unattainable. At times, I wondered if reading was a blessing or a bane.

Each afternoon when I boarded the bus to return home, I felt a sinking feeling deep in my bones. I dreaded facing my reality, which lacked refinement and gentility—and promise. When I got off the bus and walked the short distance to the house with my sister and brothers, I morphed into another person, reengaging my survival instincts and putting on my invisible battle gear as I prepared to reenter the war zone. I never knew what to expect, but I hoped Daddy wouldn’t be at home. Not being a silent drunk, he talked and cursed incessantly as he paced through the house, making threats and spewing venom. He polluted the atmosphere with his diatribe, often continuing well into the night. His coarseness repulsed me. Everything at home seemed darker and more perverse after spending the day at school.

I managed to do my chores around the house, do homework, and exercise due diligence in fighting an unending war that began years earlier. Would it ever end? My focus remained resolute, however, as I juggled my responsibilities along with the things I needed to do to prevent Daddy from assaulting me. I valued the private space of my room. Escaping to my little corner enabled me to concentrate on doing schoolwork, required reading, and pleasure reading. In fact, I fought for these things. I insisted on keeping them in the forefront, considering them sacrosanct—an essential part of my survival kit. Since contending with Daddy and the battle strategies overwhelmed me, I needed a place of escape within the house to refuel, to reassess; and my room served that purpose.

However, during this period, I no longer contended with Grandpa, because I learned to avoid being in situations that left me vulnerable to his abuse. However, living in the same house with Daddy made escaping his reach almost impossible. My father and my grandfather created major stumbling blocks in my life. Even as a youngster I noticed their eerily similar behaviors; the strongholds of drunkenness and abuse dominated their lives. Yet at times when sober, they both displayed admirable qualities. That confused me until I observed that drinking whiskey made the difference. Both threatened members of their family, and their respective offspring lived in fear when they drank. Interestingly, they never got along. Perhaps they saw in each other what they abhorred in themselves.

As an adult I realized that the bondage of alcohol and immorality gripped them. Moreover, these curses probably had their genesis in earlier generations. And they held others in our extended family in captivity as well, with perversions manifesting in various deviant behaviors. After being called into a relationship with God, I learned how to pray, asking God to break the power of those inherited curses. Having no understanding of the nature of spiritual matters, Daddy and Grandpa lacked the ability to overcome their bondage. And I suffered the consequences of their ignorance.

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GRANDPA WAS AN ENIGMA, exhibiting contradictory behaviors difficult to fathom. An avid reader, he devoured books although he had only a third-grade education. And after reading them, he often held family, friends, and neighbors enthralled, regaling us through his dramatic retelling of the stories. An engaging raconteur, he specialized in telling ghost stories and cowboy tales. My sister and brothers and I, among the first grandchildren in the family, often sat among others on the floor listening to him, spellbound by the stories. He made them come alive in a fascinating and suspenseful manner. Grandpa and Grandma taught themselves when their formal education ended after the third grade. Both learned to read and to write—unlike Daddy, who dropped out of school after completing the second grade. I believe Daddy’s illiteracy became a major stumbling block in his life. I’m convinced that many of his problems stemmed from Grandma’s rejection of him from an early age; he was the black sheep in the family. Grandma’s treatment drove him to escape through drinking, which I suspect empowered him, from his perspective.

I saw Grandpa’s dominant, competitive personality play out on many levels. He loved playing checkers, being rather expert at it, and few could beat him at the game. And being a good cook, he made delicious, flavorful chicken stews and fish stews, seasoning them with a liberal dose of hot red peppers that set my mouth on fire. We shared many of those meals, and afterward the entire family played baseball, our favorite sport. The teams kept score by drawing lines in the dirt to indicate runs. Not averse to cheating, Grandpa at times used two fingers to draw two lines with one quick motion, inflating his team’s score. On occasion someone called him on it. Although most considered it funny, they kept a close eye on him nonetheless when he recorded the score. Baseball knitted the family together like nothing else. We enjoyed these times—until people started drinking. When drunk, Grandpa turned into a mean-spirited person who posed a threat on many levels. The fun at family get-togethers ended when the drinking changed the dynamic, creating conflict, sometimes resulting in violent confrontations.

One of Grandpa’s less violent but mysterious behaviors involved abandoning the family periodically. At least once a year after harvest, he took off without notice, leaving Grandma and the children to fend for themselves. Taking the money earned from the season’s crops, he stayed away an average of three months. According to his reports, he used to hop freight trains, join hobos around their campfires, and walk long distances during those self-imposed sabbaticals. Each year, Grandpa gave Grandma an acre of tobacco, and she kept the proceeds after the landowner took his share. And when one of her sons went into the military, he sent money to Grandma. Without these alternative sources of income, it’s doubtful the family would have survived Grandpa’s prolonged absences. I often wondered what possessed him to take off on his adventures. Did he have another family out there, or did something drive him to escape for some other unknown reason? Given his drunken belligerence, the children—and perhaps Grandma as well—enjoyed the respite. Aunt Ginny confessed that she felt a letdown upon his return, when he resurfaced suddenly, just as mysteriously as he had disappeared.

No one in the family trusted Grandpa, because of his tendencies to touch inappropriately, to expose himself, and to harm others physically. How do you reconcile these divergent personalities—mild-mannered, congenial raconteur and abuser? He was two different people housed in the same body. His most egregious act occurred in the mid-1950s after Ginny started nursing school. While Grandma worked alone in the yard one day, Grandpa followed through on one of his threats and sneaked up behind her, bludgeoning her, reportedly with the handle of an axe, seriously wounding her. She passed out, and neighbors found her sprawled on the ground, bleeding, and took her to the hospital. I remember seeing stitches on her shaved head. She spent time in the hospital and had a lengthy recovery.

Shortly thereafter, in 1956, Ginny graduated from nursing school. She, Grandma, and her son Theo—one of Daddy’s younger brothers—and his family moved to Washington, DC, the following year. Grandpa spent three years on the county chain gang for assaulting Grandma, working chained with other prisoners alongside roadways and ditches, clearing underbrush and debris. I saw him serving on a work detail once during his sentence when the crew worked near our house. Those men frightened me. I imagined them to be capable of all sorts of evil, and I hated the way they looked at us while we played in the yard. I saw little of Grandpa after his release. He died of a stroke at the age of seventy-six, alienated from many in the family.

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IN OCTOBER 1958, we moved to Washington, DC, following the family members who had moved the previous year. We left North Carolina and the farming life behind—the only life I had known. I doubt Daddy gave Buddy, Sissy, Toby, Junior, and me advanced notice of this move. No one factored our input into these decisions. Although I had friends at school, I had no neighborhood friends, because of Daddy’s hostility toward anyone who came to the house and our frequent moves. Although I would miss some of my classmates, leaving my beloved Granny, my maternal grandmother, saddened me most of all. I loved her so much, and the thought of not visiting her on a regular basis broke my heart. And not knowing when I would see her again deepened my sorrow.

The family decided to make a clean break as we prepared to become city folk, a notion I had problems accepting. The idea of living in the city never set well with me, doubtless owing to my inferiority complex and low self-esteem. Being a plain country girl, with country ideas, country ways, and country dreams, I had no concept of living in the city. And being a city girl sounded foreign, distant, and a bit pretentious and aloof, much like putting on airs, which country folk detested. I saw no similarities between what I imagined an urban dweller looked like and my own appearance, which created a major gulf. And I doubted my ability to bridge that chasm. Always lurking, fear tried to take over my thoughts. Although these things occupied my mind, the most pressing issue concerned what to expect from Daddy. Did I dare hope that this move meant the end of his lewd behavior? I hoped that changing locations and living with relatives might be the answer to my lifelong dilemma. Cautious optimism crept in at the possibility of having a better, more carefree life. A bit of joy entered my heart.

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AS I PACKED, my mind began to wander, feeling freer to think about other aspects of the move. I began fantasizing about the future. Would we ever return triumphant, displaying our newfound prosperity from living in the land of milk and honey? I remembered the excitement when Uncle Edward, Aunt Selma, and little Eddie would come home. Uncle Edward, a handsome man with soft, wavy hair and a fair complexion, was Daddy’s older brother. They had problems getting along, especially when drunk. I suspect Grandma may have contributed to their mutual animosity. Being three-fourths white, she favored her firstborn, fair-skinned Edward over Daddy, her second child, with his dark-brown skin. They buried the hatchet on these short visits, I imagine, until demon rum drew them back into that dark, ugly place. Aunt Selma, who was attractive, with a tan complexion, had an assumed air of sophistication that she had cultivated over time. Her off-putting attitude made me wary of her because she acted like a phony. Or at least that was my impression at the time. I suspect envy and jealousy distorted my view, magnifying her perceived shortcomings.

They resided in New York, which seemed worlds apart from me, living a life filled with wondrous things—things missing from my life on the farm. I thought they lived a life of luxury, and I envied them, longing to taste that life. Indeed life seemed much better up north. If roads weren’t paved with gold, at least they were paved. Aunt Selma dressed Eddie in nice shorts, shoes, and socks even in the summer. I stayed barefoot the entire summer, so I couldn’t relate. Why would anyone wear shoes in the summer? Our curly-haired cousin looked like a young rich boy. And Aunt Selma wore beautiful clothes and stylish hairdos, red lipstick, nail polish, and a faint, stale scent of cheap cologne that she had dabbed on her dress. For some country folk, she dressed like a fast woman, perhaps not averse to taking a drink of whiskey or to frequenting honky-tonks and dancing the hoochie koochie.

I wondered if Ma envied Aunt Selma. Ma never wore lipstick, and she braided her hair in short plaits. She had no fancy clothes but wore plain cotton dresses or old denim overalls most of the time. A short, petite woman with a light tan complexion and light brown eyes, she had a beauty without adornment. But did she long for nice Sunday-go-to-meeting dresses, colorful ear bobs, a touch of rouge on her cheeks, and painted lips? As a child growing up on the farm, I never saw Ma dressed. She epitomized the poor itinerant sharecropper, overburdened with too many children and saddled with a drunken, ill-mannered husband. If she had dreams of a different life—a better life—she had abandoned them long ago. Did she feel ashamed of her plain clothing when northern visitors strutted in dressed in all their finery? She remained gracious and accommodating even in the absence of anything to serve them. We could ill afford to share the little we had. Of course, somehow Daddy found whiskey to share, which he considered a must, given his inability to socialize when sober. Watching Daddy and the others drinking made me nervous. At times, I saw that look in his eyes that made me wary. I wondered about the reaction the visitors would have if they knew of his sick perversions.

Often sharecroppers who migrated North saw the move as an opportunity to reinvent themselves, to bury the old country ways that had defined them, and to put on polish enabling them to shine in their new persona. They fooled the less discerning, who saw no difference. But often that country patois crept in—the dropping of endings on words, and other tell-tell signs and mannerisms—exposing their true identity. Often those of us who remained on the farm, subjected to all the hardships, judged our relatives who lived the good life up north. However, truth be known, most lived lives of pretense, bordering on poverty or destitution in their northern ghettos. They wore masks, covering their true identities, pretending to be something else.

On occasion, the visitors came from another country. Ma’s older brother, Uncle Stan, spent many years in Japan before retiring from the army. At one point he came home on leave with his beautiful, exotic Japanese wife and their cute young daughter who was about four or five years old. I gazed at her, although I had been taught not to stare at people. I had never seen anyone who looked like her before, making it impossible not to stare. And our little cousin Emily was fair, with curly hair and long eyelashes. Her hair never looked neat, because Aunt Kamiko lacked the skill to dress Emily’s curly hair. Aunt Kamiko spoke rudimentary English, and I remember she washed my feet when my siblings and I went to Granny’s to see them. My feet needed washing for sure, because I never wore shoes during the summer and my feet accumulated all manner of dirt and grime by the end of the day. But I thought it odd that she washed my feet. I remember she gave me a pair of wooden shoes and a colorful scarf. As with most visiting relatives, I experienced a tinge of jealousy over their skin color and hair texture. I made comparisons and always came up short, leaving me feeling ugly and unworthy.

As a youngster, however, I looked in awe when relatives visited our plain tenant houses, whether they came from the North or from another country like Uncle Stan and his family. Women smoking their Chesterfields or Camels, wearing fancy store-bought clothes, jewelry, and makeup, with their smooth, fair complexions or pale porcelain skin like Aunt Kamiko’s, magnified my insecurities regarding how I looked. I tried to stay in the background, willing myself to be as invisible as possible, but inevitably someone remarked at how much I had grown since the last visit, drawing unwanted attention. Then some cousin twice removed buried me in her ample bosom as she hugged me. Indeed, compared to us, our relatives enjoyed a good life from their perspective. We presented a less-than-enviable picture as the poor relations living on the farm, with darkened skin from working in the fields, uncombed hair, and fading clothes that had seen the scrub board once too often. Their visits left me longing for what they had, dragging me into that pit of self-hatred and causing me to loathe my lot in life. And Daddy stayed drunk during these visits, increasing my vulnerability to his lewd behavior once the guests left.

Many years later, Eddie confessed that Uncle Edward and Aunt Selma bought clothes for the trips back home for the sake of the country relatives, justifying their flight up north. They pretended to live the good life, when in fact they hardly had two nickels to rub together. He said that at times, he ate mayonnaise sandwiches and little else. It would have been unconscionable to admit failure or disappointment about moving north. Oftentimes they went into debt just to keep up appearances—to save face. They lived a lie, and we bought it, believing that those paved roads had a bit of gold in them.

Although individual members of our family returned for visits over the years, we never returned to North Carolina again as a family. We never experienced a triumphant reentry, wearing our finery and pretending we lived the good life. To the contrary, we discovered all too soon the reality of living up north; we were ill-prepared former farmers trying to forge a different life, but we were never able to pull it off in those early years.

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SO WITH OUR MEAGER well-worn furniture and other belongings packed on a truck and with some following in a car, we headed for the great unknown, with plans to join our brethren up north, to become city folk. Although oblivious to the pattern, we had become a part of that great migration of colored people leaving farms in the South, seeking their fortunes in the North and the West, believing the cities held the promise of a better life, a life free from Jim Crow and its limitations. I can’t imagine us moving if other family hadn’t gone before us. That would have been too daring an undertaking for Daddy. And in our case, I doubt we sought fortunes, but rather a means of living above the level of subsistence farming—to make ends meet. The old shanties, company stores, fields of dried corn stalks and cotton shrubs, with pieces of cotton clinging to the empty bolls, flashed by as I stared out the window, beginning to feel nostalgic. Although I had few pleasant memories, they were the only memories I had, which gave me an odd comfort. I knew what to expect, having grown accustomed to the ways of living in a farming community and even coping with Daddy and his problems.

As we approached Interstate 95, along the well-traveled migratory route, we moved out of our region, and I soon lost sight of everything familiar. So many thoughts swirled in my head. With a mixture of excitement and apprehension, I wondered what to expect in the big city. The largest town I had visited had a short main street and one stop sign. I envisioned drastic changes in the way we lived. It seemed impossible to imagine life without tobacco and cotton and all the other responsibilities associated with farming. Those two crops had dominated my life since early childhood. They defined me, to a certain extent. With my life so intertwined with those crops, I had difficulty knowing where one stopped and the other began. And what to expect from Daddy occupied my thoughts as we sped along the highway. I had hope upon hope that the move portended a positive difference. Believing that living with others meant the end of Daddy’s lewd behavior gave me a renewed sense of purpose. Would I finally have respite from my lifelong struggle defending myself against his plots and schemes? I imagined he would no longer be a threat once we moved in with Uncle Theo and the other relatives. Surely their presence would be a deterrent.

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THE LONG, TEDIOUS trip took more time than expected, at least from my perspective, but we finally arrived. Although exhausted, we perked up at seeing Ginny and the others. It had been a year since we had seen them. They helped unload the truck and get us settled in Uncle Theo’s home. He had rented a brownstone in a neat, clean neighborhood. As I took in my surroundings, I experienced sensory overload, marveling at the contrast between the rural farming communities and the city. The city glittered, with flickering lights emanating from homes, shops, and vehicles. Indeed, the lights put on a dazzling display. As I was accustomed to silence, punctuated only by the pleasant tweeting of birds and the occasional noise of wild and domesticated animals, I found the insistent, clamorous street noises deafening. I had grown up surrounded by dirt, but here I saw only concrete, pavement, and the occasional small grassy plot in front of the row houses. Needless to say, our new environment overwhelmed me. Everything seemed new and exciting, yet strange and unsettling. I had landed in an alien world. Would it ever feel like home? Would I find peace in this congested city?

After enjoying a short reunion and getting acclimated to the area, Ma hit the ground running, knowing that she would be the primary breadwinner for the family. She got a few jobs, working as a housekeeper for families in the suburbs surrounding Washington. Indeed she became the family’s sole source of income. Other than farming, Daddy had no employable skills. And with more free time on his hands, he drank even more than before, content to allow Ma to be the de facto head of household, which grated on me, and even more so on Ma. I don’t know what financial arrangements had been made with Uncle Theo, since he had rented the house. But given Ma’s sense of responsibility, she held up our end of the financial bargain, knowing that if it were left up to Daddy, we would never meet our obligations.

Aunt Ginny had scoped out the schools and informed each of us of their location. Like Ma, we had to hit the ground running as well. The thought of attending school in