Biley County

By P.H. Henderson

Biley County is a racially filled, intense depiction of integration in the public school system in the deeply segregated south. This compelling story is narrated through the eyes of two boys one African American (Bo) and Jack, his Caucasian friend. The setting is Biley County, Mississippi during the late sixties, early seventies, where the good ole boys are in control of every aspect of life.
Beulah, one of the main characters is a force to be reckoned with. Determined to get an equal education for her son, she goes against all rationale and enrolls him in the all white school.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456849382

P.H. Henderson

Born in Yazoo County, Mississippi, the tenth child in a family of twelve, P. H. Henderson was reared in a small rural town called Benton. Upon her completion of high school, she attended Jackson State University where she studied Communications. Married and a mother of three, she has enjoyed a long career in the healthcare field. Owning a passion to write and feeling she had reached the pinnacle of her career, she decided to pursue her lifelong dream of becoming an author. She and her family currently reside in Jackson, Mississippi and have for over thirty years.

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Copyright © 2011 by P.H. Henderson.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011900218

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4568-4937-5

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4568-4936-8

ISBN: Ebook 978-1-4568-4938-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Biography

Summary

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two: The Tenants

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five: The Grand Tour

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven: The Letter

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven: The License

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen: The School Change

Chapter Fourteen: The Newspaper Article

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen: Mr. Brossiere’s Identity

Foreword

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thank you to my resilient mother. Her vision and strength has given me the drive, encouragement, and determination to accomplish my dream of penning this novel. Her contributions were enormous and greatly appreciated. A huge thank you goes to my husband and children who indulged me throughout my obsession of writing my first novel. I would also like to thank my sister Nell, along with my other siblings. Thanks to all of those who played such a vital role in helping this project come to fruition; especially Clara, Joan, and Louise whose encouragement was unwavering. Thanks to Avery Gillespie for capturing my imagination on the cover.

In honor of my ninety one year old mother

BIOGRAPHY

Born in Yazoo County, Mississippi, the tenth child in a family of twelve, P. H.Henderson was reared in a small rural town called Benton. Upon her completion of high school, she attended Jackson State University and studied Dramatic Arts and Communication.

Married and a parent to three, she has enjoyed a long career in the healthcare field. Owning a passion to write, and, having reached the pinnacle of her career, she decided to pursue a lifelong dream of becoming an author. The family currently resides in Jackson, Mississippi, and has for over thirty years.

SUMMARY

Biley County is a racially filled, intense depiction of integration in the public school system in the deeply segregated south. This compelling story is narrated through the eyes of two boys, one African American (Bo) and Jack, his Caucasian friend. The setting is Biley County, Mississippi during the late sixties, early seventies, where the good ole boys are in control of every aspect of life.

Beulah, one of the main characters is a force to be reckoned with. Determined to get an equal education for her son, she goes against all rationale and enrolls him in the all white school.

FOREWORD

It is not often that one has the opportunity to meet someone special in their lifetime. I have been fortunate enough to know one the last seventeen years. P. H. Henderson is special in so many ways. Her good natured, friendly engaging demeanor betrays a steely assertiveness born out of a lifetime of racial discrimination. Born and raised in Mississippi on sharecroppers land at the nadir of racial prejudice and subjugation, this black lady refused to be contained. She has related many stories of her past, my favorite being her refusal at 10-12 years to call the shopkeeper sir, much to her mother’s fear of reprisal. College educated with a gift for language she has penned this fictitious novel based on her delta experience of school segregation and discrimination. It also tells a story of our past that permeates the present.

Charles H. Gaymes, MD

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CHAPTER ONE

W e were born in 1959 in a small rural delta farming county called Biley. As little boys we vowed we would remain friends for life and we did just that. This is our story as we remember it and reminisce about our lives. Most importantly the year and a half from 1968 to 1969 that helped to shape us into who we would become; our ups and downs, our failures and triumphs.

Biley County was good country, it was God’s country. The rich delta soil was ripe for growing all sorts of crops. Jim Crow was alive and well in the county and all those in charge would soon as keep it that way. Negroes were still afraid to live life because of the restrictions these laws placed upon them. Even though the constitution abolished all the archaic laws that Jim Crow stood for; most Negroes could not forget or move beyond the laws limitations. It was as if these laws would forever be ingrained in their minds because they were still practiced. All Negroes were still considered second class citizens and wouldn’t dare cross certain lines. Drinking from separate water fountains, going to separate schools, and eating at their own restaurants was the normal way of life. Negroes were accustomed to sleeping in their own rundown hotels and doing whatever work white society dictated they should.

Old habits were hard to shake, especially if you were colored and living in the Deep South where a small group of good old boys controlled everything. Cotton fields, soy beans, and sugar cane were in abundance. Huge pecan trees lined the sides of the road leading into Biley. Pecans were one source of income for the county’s group of ole boys. Occasionally a passerby would stop by the side of the road to pick up a few pecans that had fallen by the wayside. It was best not to get caught because the local sheriff was an all out beast. Someone was always stationed as a lookout at the pecan orchard. The sheriff didn’t want anybody stealing the harvest because the owner was his friend. If you were colored and happened to drive through Biley County, it was best to keep driving as fast as possible without breaking the law.

The sheriff stopped motorist whenever he wanted, at will. And, he harassed the driver just because. Of course this wasn’t an abnormal occurrence; it was how the law operated in the Deep South. An out of town license plate required extra scrutiny; especially if the driver was colored. The sheriff would throw the blue lights on. Those lights that gave him another level of superiority that was greater than what he’d already inherited. His sense of existence was grossly inflated. There were questions that needed answers and the sheriff was the one in charge of the asking. It was his entrusted duty to keep the county’s residents safe. The sheriff wanted to know where the driver was headed. How long he was going to be in his town? Or, was the driver just passing through? That way he could keep a watchful eye on any new comers and maintain the status quo. The sheriff would step out of his car with the shotgun resting on his shoulder as if he was in a cavalry unit. His level of arrogance was absolutely vile and stunk to the high heavens. The conversation would always start with, Where you heading boy? Oh, yes, that degrading word ‘boy’, directing it towards a grown man. The driver had no recourse but to answer the question. Of course he answered it without making eye contact because that would amount to committing treason.

The driver would say. Over to the next county, Sir.

Got folks over there? The sheriff would ask.

Yassah was the driver’s answer.

You’d better slow it down when you driving through my county, he said. Else you might find yo’ self in a jail cell. You hear me boy?

Yassah.

Alright get along, the sheriff would say in a derogatory manner.

Speeding was determined by the sheriff himself, not posted on the signs on the highway. That was something the government posted. But the signs didn’t apply to his county, because he was the law.

In our county there were government programs for everything and the ole boy’s had their hands in the cookie jar. There were programs for land erosion, cotton, boll weevils, and soy beans. All were controlled by old money and the ole boys; the ones with the power and influence. They decided who could and could not cash in on the government programs. Cotton was in abundance and the long tilled rows seemed to go on forever and ever. The white pristine bolls ready for harvesting by the colored field hands. My daddy who was one of the ole boys referred to the coloreds in this manner. This was of course an upgrade. Most of the other phrases Daddy used on a daily basis were common place in his circle; field hand was damn near honorable. Daddy vowed he would never refer to any colored person in any other form. He would not do it in his time, or any other time, and neither would any of the ole boys.

No matter how productive the harvest, my daddy and the others would say their crops were total losses. Their friend would prepare the paperwork, send it to the government office, and the crop was paid for in full as a loss. There were no actual losses; just another way to outwit the government and keep the cash flowing. There was something in it for the preparer too, a split of the profit. The boys were so adept at running this scam the money was spent before the check was printed. They were that damn sure of themselves. Of course all this free money was reserved strictly for the ole boys and their friends.

There were very few Negroes in our county that owned land. Those that did only had small parcels, enough to keep the family going. They would never get the chance to participate in a program such as this. Those in charge would not allow it. No Negro would ever know such a program existed. Who would tell them? If by some divine miracle a Negro learned about the program and started to ask questions at the government’s agriculture department; that was not a problem. The government worker that was in the pockets of the ole boys told them they weren’t qualified and to never come in asking about it again. This information was of course shared with his friends. The boys would have to get a handle on the situation before it got out of hand. A Negro who inquired about anything that was considered for the others was labeled a trouble maker and a smart ass nigger. A bull’s eye was placed on him as well as his family. This was privileged information that was not for Negroes. Now they would have to suffer the consequences of their actions. The ole boys would have to send a message to deter any further meddling. Getting necessities for the family would become even more difficult. Other Negroes would see their plight and stay in line.

I was an only child and still very young when I realized things were different for me. My momma and Daddy told me that I was better than the tenants that lived on our property, and I was certainly treated that way. The tenants that were older referred to me as mister and said yassah and nassah to me without hesitation. My daddy farmed land, hundreds of acres of it, and operated a general store in our section of the county. His friends were in charge of everything else in town that was of any value. They were in control of the banks, the schools, the law, and even the dirt we walked on because they owned the land.

The town where we shopped was small and quaint. There was the courthouse, the First Baptist church, and the Sears and Roebuck store. The jail was across the street from the courthouse and mostly housed Negroes. Of course they had their own Negro section. Even if an offense was criminal, being white excluded the sharing of a jail cell with a Negro. No amount of criminal activity could cause the comingling of the races.

From a very early age my daddy always tried to instill in me that colored folk and white folk were meant to be separate. He even professed that the Bible spoke of it. Strangely enough, as I got older, Daddy could never show me the passage to prove his way of thinking. But, as a young child I believed what Momma and Daddy told me. What reason would they have to lie to me, or steer me wrong? They wanted the very best for me and had my best interest at heart. My parents loved me and were doing their best to prepare me for life, so I thought, but they certainly had a non Christian way of showing it. I suspect they had their own Bible too. It must have been written just for my parents and their friends, of course with their very own interpretation. Not only were the stories they told me embedded in my mind, but also in the minds of the other children who lived near us. It was kind of like an early brainwashing. If a young child was told something often enough eventually it would be absorbed and become believable.

There were poor whites that lived in our county too, but Momma and Daddy wouldn’t be caught dead in their company. Some were so poor other white folk wouldn’t even admit they knew of them. Hell, they were so poor paying attention was damn near impossible. But somehow the poor whites still believed they were better than the Negroes. They wouldn’t give a Negro the time of day; even if they owned a wristwatch, which most didn’t. Their children were unkempt with dirty hands and feet. Some didn’t even have shoes to wear. Frankly, they didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, but that was of little concern to them. More importantly they were white. And that was a proverbial feather in the cap, a blessing in itself, and, a sure ticket to heaven. Many of the poor whites didn’t have as much as some of the Negroes in terms of possessions or smarts, but who was checking. Often time when a Negro happened to walk pass their homes, their children yelled out ugly things to them. They would say things such as, hey there nigger, where ya’ll going? You’ll get in trouble around these parts. Many of the colored folk said it was a compliment because a nigger had to be better than what they were; unacceptable to their own kind and not good enough. They were considered as part of the lower class of human life and totally ostracized. For the most part they stayed in their own little cluster, not even attending church, at least not the one we attended. It didn’t matter much to them that they were poor. What mattered most was that they were white; and that was a definite offspring advantage.

I remember when the new minister arrived at our church. His sermons were always about treating one another as equals. He explained to us that God didn’t care whether you were red, yellow, green or black; he loved us all the same. The minister warned us that we should not make distinctions in regards to color. Well, that’s not what the members of the establishment thought. God did care whether you were red, yellow, green or black. You were better off being white and history was proof of that. He quickly learned why he was the new minister. My daddy said the other minister started preaching that bull shit and he and the ole boys ran him out of town quicker than you could say, Amen. Things were working just fine the way they were and no minister was going to come into our town trying to change us.

Our services were very short and to the point. We sang from our hymnals and followed the order of service to the letter. If the sermon got a little long the ole boys would start to shift in their seats and clear their throats. This was a signal that it was time to end the service. Perhaps wind things down and bring the sermon to a close. At our church things were very quiet and orderly. On rare occasions the men would nod their heads in agreement, but not very often. The women just sat passively not acknowledging the preachers words one way or the other. The men were in charge of the head nodding and how things were done in the church. They made the rules, and the rules were not to be broken under any circumstances. If there was a hint that a rule was about to be broken, there was a call for an emergent meeting. Then there was a meeting about the emergent meeting. A meeting about who would be at the meeting. And then there was a meeting about the meeting. And after all the meetings, it was found that no rules were about to be broken after all. The meetings were just in case meetings. They were practice runs, so as to be ready for anything that might spring up. Surprises didn’t bode too well with the ole boys.

The courthouse was in the town square. It was a magnificent piece of architecture built in the early eighteen hundreds; I suspect by slaves. None of the town’s so called elite would ever admit to such. Though, much later in life I found my suspicions to be true. The magnolia trees on the courthouse lawn were beautiful. Their branches seemed as if they were waving to the heavens; their huge outstretched arms reaching towards the sky. The pretty white blossoms were nestled into the green shiny leaves like a bird’s egg in a nest. What a magnificent tree; the grand magnolia in all its glory. Once it roots are set in place, they traverse and amble aimlessly, claiming their territory, digging in roots, possibly anchored for decades. The magnolia tree in front of the courthouse was said to be over one hundred years old and still standing after the war. It also carried some other remarkable history too. It was history that only the Negroes talked about. It was said the tree bore scars of hangings from long ago. Some Negroes said if they had their way they would cut down every magnolia tree they happened upon. The trees only signaled bad memories shared by way of their ancestors.

Magnolia trees were plentiful around these parts and every big plantation home had them on their lawns. Guess it was a sign of wealth for the land owners. We lived in a big white plantation house with a wraparound porch. The four rocking chairs were meticulously placed near the four windows on the front porch. My momma said they had to be placed just so; at certain angles, so that they accented the porch. If the chairs were disturbed when our cleaning lady swept the porch and not replaced in the exact same spot; somehow, my momma knew it. This would throw Momma into a frenzy, and nearly drive her insane. When the housekeeper headed out the front door with the broom, I scampered over to the swing my daddy put together for me. It was in an old oak tree. The swing was fashioned together with a thickly twined rope and a sturdy hickory board. From my swing I watched Momma rant and rave to the cleaning lady about the rocking chairs and her sweeping. My momma said she didn’t hold the broom quite right when sweeping the floors. She complained that the sweeping was too fast and caused dust to fly all over the place. Momma told the housekeeper the sweeping should be done in a slow circular motion; so as to keep the dust to a minimum. Momma tried to show her how she wanted it done. But from her demonstration it appeared as though she had never been near a broom before in her life; let alone held one in her hands. I suppose she had seen her momma’s housekeeper do the sweeping and probably heard the very same tongue lashing she was giving our housekeeper. The grip on the broom would tighten in the housekeeper’s hands and her lips would start to shudder. I thought, one day she’s gonna whack my momma with that broom for sure. I’m certain it crossed her mind many o’ times but she never did. Momma never realized the danger she was in. She was too busy finding meaningless chores that didn’t need any doing.

One day the housekeeper gave it back, and I thought for sure this would be her last day. The housekeeper said to my momma, If you know so damn well that yo’ chairs ain’t in the right place; then you put ‘em where they ‘spose to go.

Then she gave Momma a look that said, And you can go to hell. Shocked! My momma straightened the chairs and stormed off into the house. She wanted to lie down; unsure what to do after the confrontation with the housekeeper. I suppose Momma was really mad. For reasons unknown to me, Momma never reported it to my daddy. Perhaps she wanted to keep her on as our help and wasn’t quite sure what my daddy would do if she told him. After an episode of my momma throwing a fit to the cleaning lady about the chairs; I decided to show her the tiny marks Momma had etched in the wood. The marks were there to determine if the chairs were in place or not. Now that the chairs were in the correct position this drove my Momma mad also. How did the housekeeper know where to place them? Now Momma would have to find some other reason to lash out at the housekeeper.

Our house was passed down to my father through countless generations before him. My daddy inherited it from his daddy, and I was next in line as the new owner. That was my daddy’s plan, not mine. It was expected of me, and was the normal order of transfer. Things had always been that way, and that was the way they were meant to stay; throughout eternity, by any means necessary. The tenants always kept our lawn well manicured and the farmland well tended. It was their job while working for my daddy. Somehow I knew that was not what I wanted for my future. I didn’t want to grow up to be like my daddy, or any of his inner circle for that matter. I didn’t want to oversee a farm, order people around, or talk down to them just to make me feel superior. I was determined I would not be a chip off the old all too familiar block.

There were several tenants that lived on our property called Sugar Creek. People who lived in the county said the parcel of acres near the creek grew the sweetest sugar cane in Biley County. The lady that cleaned and cooked at our house was Beulah, and her son was my friend. Beulah was also in charge of watching me when Momma and Daddy needed to run errands or visit with their friends. Her home was one of the small houses on the property. It was quite well maintained and tidy. I could tell she took pride in the place she lived, and it showed. There was an old iron bed in the front room of the house, and a radio sat atop the small wooden mantle over the fireplace. Beulah managed to scrape enough money together to purchase it. It was the only electronic device she owned. A quilt was thrown over the rocking chair that sat next to the bed; alongside it was a crudely constructed table. The kerosene lamp on the table was for decoration. However, it was useful if the lights were out, or for reading her Bible at night. The lamp was given to her by her momma along with the beautiful quilts that adorn the two beds in the house. Scraps of material were saved and sewn together by her ancestors to make these quilts. They were considered works of art and treasured by any Negro family lucky enough to inherit such an heirloom.

The cracks in the floor of the house were big enough to see the dirt underneath through the openings. Some of them stuffed with paper and anything else that could be found to close the gaping holes. On some bright sunny days the sun’s beam was visible through the long cracks in the poorly fashioned walls. A string attached to the pull cord of the light in the ceiling was tied to the top of the bed. It was for convenience so she and her son could turn out the light without getting out of bed. There was nothing covering the light; just a bright bulb jutting out in the middle of the ceiling. The newspaper on the wall was make shift wall paper. Tattered and worn it had begun to turn brown over the years. The newspaper also served the purpose of covering many of the cracks in the walls; in hopes that it would keep insects out. Sometimes the daddy long legs or lady bugs would wander inside as if they lived there. Beulah never killed them; just picked them up and put them outside. She said they were good luck; even though luck didn’t seem to be visiting her. Beulah was fascinated with the wallpaper in the parlor at our house. On many occasions she would often daydream of having a big fancy house like ours. Beulah would often talk about putting that wallpaper in every room if she ever got the chance. She realized it was just that, a dream, and nothing would ever come of it. But it was alright to let her mind go someplace else and pretend things were different.

Bo was her son and my playmate when the situation was right. It was alright for me to play with Bo and go to his house if Momma and Daddy needed someone to watch me. But that was where it began and end. If we were in town and Beulah and Bo were there; I couldn’t talk to Bo or play with him. My daddy didn’t want me socializing with him in public because some of his friends might see us and disapprove. When we saw each other I would make eye contact and smile, and so would he. We were acknowledging one another as playmates and friends.

Bo’s momma must have told him the same thing. He never tried to talk to me or play with me either when we were in public. They knew the rules for that sort of thing. Although the rules were unspoken; we somehow knew they had to be followed. I didn’t understand the restrictions and when I questioned my parents, they said that was just the way things were. Colored folk liked being with colored folk and white folk liked being with white folk, they said. Momma told me white folk were more educated and spoke proper English. It was a skill that colored folk were lacking in, and she didn’t want any of their bad habits rubbing off on me. Somehow it didn’t matter when we played at my house, or I was at his. I suppose Momma thought I was immune to anything rubbing off on me in these situations.

There were many times when Momma needed Beulah to watch me. It was mostly when she and Daddy had those meetings with their friends. That’s when I got the chance to attend the colored church. And Momma and Daddy didn’t mind. I guess going to the colored church didn’t matter much. It wouldn’t have any influence on me one way or the other. What harm could it do? The first time I attended church with Bo and his momma was revival week, a Tuesday night. The small wood frame building with no paint was within walking distance of the house. Exposure to the earth’s elements for so long had taken its toll on the little church. The wood was weathered and gray. Some of the nails that held the structure together throughout many seasons were starting to pull away from its framework. As we approached the front door, I noticed the crude steeple atop the church was tilting forward. It appeared that it may topple over at the first gust of a strong wind. The rickety steps leading to the inside were in desperate need of repair. At some point there were three steps leading up to the landing, but the third step was not a step at all. The board that was once there was missing. Beulah helped to maneuver me around it. Bo stepped right over it without any indecision. He’d done it so many times it was routine for him. He never even looked down.

Inside the church there was a middle aisle and about ten wooden pews on either side. On one side of the aisle an old iron pot belly heater sat between the pews. Its pipe extended through the wall on the inside to the outside. Bo said you could get a splinter in your backside if you didn’t sit just right on the pew, so I watched Bo to learn just how to sit. When the services finally got underway; there was lots of moaning and humming. I couldn’t tell if the parishioners were happy or sad. I covered my face and peeped through my fingers not wanting to watch. I was a little scared.

On the front pew there were very young children. They were all sitting remarkably still, and paying very close attention to what was being said. Bo said it was the moaning bench. He told me that’s where