I'll Suffer First

By Derek A. Chandler

Opal May Kane's courageous journey is a tale of triumph over overwhelming adversity. A poor Southern girl, she who grew up on a small pig farm in Mississippi facing the harsh realities of poverty and missed opportunities. Her life is ravished by the depths of an unjust, unfair, and cruel existence. The normalcy of childhood and lost innocence ma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Weathered The Storm Publishing Inc.
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781989557037

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Chapter 1

1929 – 6 Years of Age

The sour stink of pigs and the sounds of Pappy railing on my momma are two of my earliest memories of life on the farm, way down in the butt-end of Mississippi.

There’s something so unmistakably raw about the way pigs smell; it’s a sharp, prickly tang that hits you all the way down the back of your throat, like the fear-sweat reek of a bad man about to face the hangin’ tree. I used to think the smell was so much more than that of the poop and pee that Pappy’s pigs seemed so happy to roll around in—that it was the acrid stench of desperation, of the poor animals’ knowledge that they were destined to die one day in order to feed the very folks who’d looked after them.

But, for as nasty and all-pervading as that earthy smell was, for me, it was most definitely the smell of home.

I can recall, like it was just yesterday, how those poor ol’ pigs would squeal blue murder whenever Pappy killed one of ’em off for the table—how they’d kick and scream and stir up such an unholy ruckus and how their eyes would roll back in their heads when Pappy took the freshly-sharpened blade to their throats. There was a time when I wasn’t able to watch him perform the rest of that chore, and I’d turn away before Pappy strung ’em up and slit their bellies from bow to stern—more often than not while their little fat legs were still kicking, and it looked for all the world as if the poor beasts were trying to run away.

But by the time I’d reached the grand old age of six, watching my pappy butchering up a pig for dinner was as commonplace as looking on as he shaved the ragged salt ’n pepper stubble of his chin for church or hittin’ on Momma. I guess I’d seen so much of the latter across the years that watching a pig bleeding its last drops of lifeblood into an old tin bucket really didn’t seem all that bad.

There were times, though, when I’d hear the screaming and Pappy cussin’ that I could never be entirely sure if it was the pigs, their kin who had no choice but to watch the killing, or Momma as Pappy beat her black and blue. So, I’d run as fast as my skinny little legs could carry me to find my momma and seek solace around her dusty skirts.

There were just the three of us back then: Pappy, Momma, and me—four if you counted Missy Daisy, who was my best friend and sister, all rolled into one. Missy Daisy— usually just Daisy for short, unless she was in trouble with me, in which case I’d use her full name, just like Momma did with me—used to be Meemaw’s dolly, but she’d handed her down to me the day I was dragged kicking and screaming from my momma’s belly into the stinking, hot dust of God’s once-green earth; Meemaw figured I could do with a friend, I reckon.

When she was Meemaw’s, Daisy had gone by the name of Missy Cornrow, but I’d decided early on in our life together that I really didn’t like that name so much; Daisy was a far prettier one, way more alluring than mine—and it was a white folks’ name.

I’d always look on with envious eyes at the little white girls at Sam’s General Store, especially when their fair-skinned, neatly dressed mothers would spoil them with a lollipop from the wide-necked candy jar that sat there on Mr. Sam’s countertop, right next to the cash register, as if to taunt me. And how I longed to be just like those privileged little white girls, who seemed to me to want for nothing, even in that time of austerity; my bread-line life tending the farm with Pappy and Momma was as different to their lives as it was ever possible to get. Pappy never did care much for Missy Daisy. Even by the tender age of six, he reckoned I was too old to be playing with dollies, and he’d often snatch her from my hands, throw her down into the dirt, and growl at me to go do something more useful around the farm.

My momma had me christened Opal—Pappy had nothing to do with naming me since I wasn’t the boy child he’d been praying to the Good Lord for—because she said that the opal stone is supposed to be the sign of darkness. She’d explain to me that it didn’t mean she thought I was the Devil’s child or something but that the sparkle of an opal stone reminded her of the pretty glow of the moon and stars and that the darkness of the night when Pappy was fast asleep, was the one time in her day that brought her some peace from the troubles he would bring with him when he awoke.

Daisy and I shared everything together; that tattered old dolly never once left my side, and I’d held her so tight over the years that her little blue gingham dress was held together by little more than Momma’s expert darning. Her plaited hair had grown straggly and threadbare, and her cheery face had all but worn away completely—but still, I loved that little doll more than life itself.

She was my absolute best friend in the world, the one person I could talk to at night as I’d fall asleep crying while Momma and Pappy argued and fussed at each other into the darkest hours, and I’d hear the sharp, resounding smack of Pappy’s rough, toil-calloused hand against my mother’s beautiful, dark-skinned cheek.

Missy Daisy would also comfort me in the cold darkness of the night, when I’d hide in the small, cramped closet while the violent, wind-whipped storms or Pappy’s drunken temper would keep me awake, more often than not until dawn had crept over the horizon and the old rooster out in the yard began his crowing. I told that dolly my greatest fears and darkest secrets—although the only one of the latter I’d harbored at such a tender age was the hope that my pappy would somehow fall beneath the plow one day when he was out working the fields or get trampled by either one of his mean old oxen out there.

It’s not that I ever wished my father dead—that would’ve gone completely against everything Pastor Jesse’s wife taught us, kids, each week in Sunday school about loving your fellow man and honoring your father—I just kinda hoped that Pappy would get hurt enough to stop taking out his frustrations on Momma and me and that he’d be grateful to have at least the one child, even if I was only a girl.

But sometimes my pappy could be happy, even without the pee-yellow bootleg liquor he and Uncle Henry brewed up in the rickety old still they thought they’d hidden so carefully behind the barn—Momma and I weren’t supposed to know about it, but of course, we did. On cold mornings, Daisy and I would sneak out and sit out there by the rusty, bubbling boiler to enjoy its warmth and the wonderful, earthy smells the thing puffed out in wispy threads of steam that I always thought looked like little, friendly ghosts.

My pappy was always at his most cheerful, relatively speaking when he’d been working the land all day; he’d often say that guiding that plow behind his prize-winning oxen was the closest a man could get to God without actually dying. And, although our weary old land kicked up more and more lifeless red dust each year, there was always a smile on Pappy’s face and a whistle from his lips—and that’s just how I would’ve loved to have remembered him.

Heave-ho! Heave-ho! Pappy shouted at the oxen, bringing the bullwhip down hard on their backs, the harsh lash digging down into the thick hide where the knobbed ridges of the beasts’ spines were most prominent. I looked on sadly as Pappy thrashed those once prized oxen—in their prime, the prettiest and strongest of any creatures to have worked a farm—in a vain attempt to squeeze every last ounce of energy from their weary bodies; they simply didn’t have it in them and hadn’t been able to bring in a fruitful yield in many a year. There was a time when they’d work the fields all day and then haul Pappy’s wagon full of farming tools from one side of our land to the other—but that was back in their glory days, long since passed.

Lucky and Betty—he’d actually given in and named the beasts after they’d won him first and second at the county fair back in ’26, after having said that it was wrong to name farmyard critters because that made it harder come slaughtering time—groaned and pulled a little harder, digging that plow deeper into the dying dirt that hadn’t seen a lick of rain in three weeks.

I’d been watching my pappy work all that morning since he’d led the two oxen out from the barn just as the brightness of the sun was warming up the farm. His huge, thick-set body strained hard against the cool steel handles of the plow, the dark skin of his smooth-shaven head glinting with the perspiration of his efforts. He’d stripped down to the pants he wore especially for tending the fields; they’d once been solely for church, kept pristine and starched good and proper for the Lord, but now, they were so caked with old mud and dirt that Momma used to swear the things could stand up all by themselves!

Although he was advancing in years—the middle years of your thirties were often considered all but past your prime, thanks to the brutal, grinding existence of the rural southern states—my pappy was as broad and fit as he was tall and his back straight; there wasn’t an ounce of fat on that man, and on days when his dark skin glistened from his toiling, he’d almost look like somebody had skinned him, just like the jackrabbits Uncle Henry used to catch us from time to time.

A thick plume of fine dust kicked up from way down the lane, catching my attention. And, as I watched, an old Ford truck came wobbling along the wheel-rutted track that ran alongside Pappy’s field. I recognized the truck immediately, the pair of white folks who occupied the front bench seat, and the ancient, rusted-up wagon that rattled along behind the truck like a baby cow tryin’ to keep up with its momma. It was Mr. Christianson and his business partner, Dwayne Deakins—they owned the farm that joined ours to the east, and they were by far the most unpleasant pair of white men you could ever wish to meet.

Yo! Mr. Christianson yelled out at Pappy as he brought his old truck to a shuddering halt by the side of the field. Hey! Kane, ya dirty ol’ raccoon-lookin’ fool!

Ho! Pappy called out to his oxen to slow ’em up some. Grateful for the rest, Lucky and Betty quit pulling on the plow and came to a standstill, snorting loudly through wide, flared nostrils. Pappy looked across at the two men in the truck and raised a hand by means of a greeting.

Mr. Christianson, a huge tub of lard of a man, clambered out of the driver’s seat of the rickety old truck, puffing and panting with the exertion. He wore a pair of dark blue pants held up with red suspenders and a white shirt that was open almost to his navel, stained yellow and wet at the underarms. Say, you got our bales of hay ’n cotton like we asked? he shouted across to my pappy, gasping to catch his breath.

We need it, Kane! Deakins followed up, his voice laced with impatience and threat. We need it now! He stayed put in the truck, his skinny frame looking quite skeletal through the dusty windshield.

No, sir, I heard my pappy saying as he trekked across the dry dirt of his field toward Christianson and Deakins. I swear I’d never heard him sound so humble—he certainly didn’t have the intimidating tone about him that he did with Momma and me. Pappy dug out the gnarled, red plaid handkerchief he always kept in the back pocket of his pants, mopped away the fat beads of sweat that rolled down his face—honest work sweat, he called it—and squinted up his eyes against the harsh glare of the sun. I’m sorry, Mr. Christianson, sir. I jus’ don’t have what ya’ll want in the amounts ya’ll be needin’. My pappy looked so feeble standing there in front of those white folks that I all but felt sorry for him. The farm’s been givin’ me all kinds a’ trouble, not producin’ what she ought ta’ on account of the dry spell we’ve been havin’.

Dwayne Deakins hung his lanky body out of the truck’s side window. See, I told ya them negro farmers ain’t worth wastin’ our time on, Jethro, he sneered at Mr. Christianson. He don’t have what we need, and I don’t reckon he’s got anythin’ we want—‘cept maybe that fine-ass negress wife o’ his, of course. He hocked loudly and spat out a lumpy gobbet of phlegm that landed square between Pappy’s feet.

My heart jumped right up into my throat. My pappy was a proud and fearsome man, and Momma’s black eyes and bruisin’ were testimony to his quick and fiery temper, but he just stood there stock-still, his eyes not so much as flicking down to where Deakins’s spit sat cooking in the hot dirt.

I’m guessin’ you’re right, Christianson panted, his face a peculiar shade of crimson and glistening with a generous coating of sweat that gave him an unpleasant, greasy appearance. Looks like we’re wastin’ our time here. The negro is all washed up. With that, he lugged his obese body back into the truck and slammed the door behind him. I’m reckonin’ the next time we meet’ll be when your farm goes belly-up, and I buy y’all out, then, he told Pappy. Be nice to run off another negro family. He laughed loudly, and Deakins joined in, howling like it was just about the funniest thing he’d heard in his entire life.

Mr. Christianson fired up the truck, yanked the shift, and rolled away, the narrow tires kicking up a whole cloud of dust into my pappy’s face.

Pappy just stood there, red ’kerchief twisted in his hands, and watched until the truck was nothing more than a black, dusty dot in the distance. I watched my pappy staring after that truck, knowing full well that deep inside of him, that temper of his was boiling fit to burst; he’d be taking it out on the oxen when he got back to the plowing and most likely have some left over for Momma when he returned to our shack.

Hey, Albert! Yon fields are as barren as that useless nigger wife o’ yours! Uncle Henry shouted across the field, the cruel laugh that left his lips illustrated in thick clouds of dirty cigarette smoke. He’d been watching Pappy’s exchange with the white folks from a safe spot across the way—there was bad blood between Uncle Henry and Dwayne Deakins, and he knew it was in his best interests to maintain a respectful distance.

Uncle Henry, my pappy’s younger brother, had never been married and was twice as mean as Pappy ever was, even before he started drinking—I often thought that the whole Prohibition thing that Pappy often ranted and cussed about was designed to curb men like my Uncle Henry. Only, as far as I could make out, it just seemed to make ’em a whole lot meaner.

Pappy just raised a hand to his brother as if he were merely swatting away a troublesome mosquito that was buzzing about his ears for its morning meal. I knew that Uncle Henry’s words would often hurt; he seemed to know precisely where my pappy’s weakest spots were, and he’d play up to them like a devil. I think the whole thing had started off when they were nothing more than little kids, much as I imagined it would be if I’d had siblings—Daisy had never once said a mean thing to me, nor I to her—but somehow, it had just carried on into their adulthood and had grown ever meaner over the years.

For everything that Pappy had become, all the drinking, the hot temper, and the beatings he dished out on my poor momma, I knew him to be an intensely proud man who never once lost his faith that God would smile down on us again someday and that our once-bountiful fields would yield the plentiful crops we’d enjoyed many seasons before. I would listen to him praying every night before he retired to his bed that the cold, brutally harsh winters would ease some, the summers would bring at least a little rain, and that his wheat would grow strong and tall and once more provide the succulent grain and the nourishing hay that he could sell to the neighboring white farmers.

Ours had been by far the best farm this side of the river—the most fertile stretch of land on God’s green earth, so Pappy used to tell it. The wheat, cotton, and beets would grow quick, fat, and healthy, the pigs a head higher than those of any of the neighboring farms’ livestock. The Kane farm had once been the envy of the whole, entire district.

Once.

I keep tellin’ ya, ya should stick to beets ’n pigs! Uncle Henry shouted over, clearly annoyed that he’d not managed to raise up my pappy’s dander. Pappy chose to ignore him again and just carried on whipping at those oxen to carry on plowing.

Uncle Henry would help Pappy on the farm from time to time when things were busy. The rest of the time, he’d saunter over from his falling-down old place on the edge of our land to mooch a free meal or to say he needed to tinker with the still when in fact, he was helping himself to the liquor.

There was Dill, too, the occasional farmhand who managed to turn up like regular clockwork come sowing and harvest times. I liked Dill; he was a tall, skinny guy with the darkest, blackest skin I’d ever seen, which served to make the smile that lit up his face brighter and wider than it already was. He claimed to be descended from a fearsome tribe of Masai warriors back over in Africa; his ancestors were all over ten feet tall and drank cow’s blood to survive. He also told me that even though they were the tallest of the African tribes, the huts they built from straw and mud had the lowest doorways—so that should an enemy attack, the fearless Masai warriors could dispatch them with a swift blow to the head as they entered!

Dill would also tell me his exciting stories about the wild west of Texas whenever he took a break from tending the corn or feeding Pappy’s pigs, and each tale would always be taller than the last. I’ll never forget how Dill would make me laugh so hard with all of the goofy voices he’d make up for each one of the colorful characters he’d swear blind he’d met up with during his travels.

Uncle Henry would try to join in with Dill’s storytelling, especially when Pappy wasn’t around, but his stories were never so much fun, and the furthest he’d ever traveled was to New Orleans way back when. And there was just something in the way that Uncle Henry would look at me, with those dark, piggy little eyes of his, that had me hugging Daisy real tight to my chest.

All’s we need is some o’ that rain! Pappy’s voice carried over the dusty field as he finally replied to his brother’s taunts, piercing the still, humid air like a whippoorwill’s plaintive cry. Gonna pray for it again with Pastor Jesse tonight!

Prayin’ never did you no good up to now, Albert! Henry shouted back, his voice cracking with the effort—not quite nine in the morning, and he’d already been helping himself to the moonshine. Prayin’ fo’ this, prayin’ for that—gonna have to realize someday that God’s forgotten yo’ sorry ass over here! Henry guffawed loudly as if his older sibling’s misfortune was just about the funniest thing he’d clapped eyes upon.

Ho, Betty! Ho, Lucky! Pappy shouted, and the whip cracked down on the poor beasts’ spines, splitting the gray skin there. I’d swear to dear God and Baby Jesus that I heard them oxen moan out loud as they doubled their efforts beneath the harsh encouragement of Pappy’s whip. Their withered hooves dug furrows of their own in the dry earth, misshapen because they’d worn the same shoes, with spikes rattling loose, for practically as long as I could remember. The last time my pappy had been able to afford to buy new ones from Ole George, the blacksmith in town, had been near-on three years ago. Even back then, he’d turned all of his pockets inside out to cobble together enough change to put on Ole George’s counter to pay—he’d even dug out a handful of lint in his bitter desperation.

I guess when pretty much all you can afford for your family to eat is bread, churned butter, and beans, buying shoes for your oxen is a luxury one can ill afford. As was fuel for the battered old Ford truck that had lost its whip and luster across the years, its once-shiny maroon paint pitted and chipped from the myriad stones the vehicle’s thin wheels would kick up from the dirt roads. Pappy and Uncle Henry used to drive that wobbly old truck into town once a month to pick up barley and chicken feed from Sam’s so that they could make the extra-strong, flavorful whiskey that the white folks used to come from miles around to buy. I used to love watching that old truck bouncing slowly along the dirt tracks, thick, gray smoke belching from its tailpipe as it putt-putted along its weary way.

For most of the time, Pappy didn’t have the money to pay for gas for the truck, and it sat rotting in the yard, a useless hunk of rusting metal used as a perch for the rag-tag handful of scrawny hens that clucked and bobbed their heads in the vain hopes of finding a little spilled seed around the still behind the barn that mostly spat out a foul-stinking liquor brewed up from beets and what little the wheat fields managed to cough up.

From where I sat, atop the crisp, prickling hay bales, I could barely see my pappy, as he was shrouded in a thick cloud of fine dust; I only knew it was him for sure behind the plow and not Dill because I knew the deep, angry baritone of his voice so very well.

He was planting wheat again, even though last year’s crop had withered and died before it had even reached as high as my waist; he was nothing if not stubborn, my pappy. We grew a little corn and cotton, too, and had an acre of beets that he used to feed the pigs, but it was the swine that brought in what little money we had—and even that seemed to be drying up as of late. The land was tired, Pappy would say, having been farmed for way too long, and all of its goodness had been eaten up by decades of greedy crops.

Our farm reminded me of Meemaw before she went up to visit Jesus in heaven: withered, wilted, exhausted, the very life sucked from it like a thirsty cow slurping up the last few drops of scummy water from a sun-baked creek.

Come and get it, honey! Momma’s voice echoed across the fields, her shrill words startling a bunch of crows who took off, cawing and squawking like Old Nick was after ’em.

Easy, girls! Pappy brought the oxen to a halt, his dust shroud settling slowly around his feet. Whoa, now.

Looks like I came at jus’ the right time! Uncle Henry shouted over to Pappy with that stupid grin across his face; he always managed to call by at just the right time.

I looked across the fields at Momma, who stood in front of our little wooden shack, hands on hips, the faded, ankle-length, floral dress she always wore sticking to her skinny, sweat-dampened body, her dark, olive skin glistening in the harsh Mississippi sunshine. My belly rumbled at the thought of eating. I’d been hungry for breakfast all morning— although I wasn’t really in the mood for salted grits again—and my mind skipped to happy thoughts of fresh-cooked ham and eggs. Then, I was forced to remind my hungry stomach that it was a Tuesday and that Momma only cooked us ham and eggs before church on a Sunday morning. Today, it would most likely be freshly baked, unleavened bread and maybe grits or some of that pig’s foot stew we had left over from the weekend.

I jumped from the hay bales and scampered toward home, that rickety old shack that my great-grandpappy had built with his own bare hands back in the day when Great Gran’maw had been heavy and fit to drop with Meemaw.

The shack was constructed from thick cypress trunks and had a tin roof that had been patched up more times than Missy Daisy. The shack had been added to across the years to accommodate the growing Kane family, although most of the tiny annexes had rotted back into the dirt now. We still had Meemaw’s old room, although Pappy had left it in storage—someplace to store the beets and corn when winter came, he’d said—having given up on Momma filling it with any more children after she got really sick with something that made her bleed from between her legs back when I was four years of age.

Opal May! Momma called me, Come wash up. Now!

Coming, Momma! I shouted back, already breathless from running so fast.

Uncle Henry looked over at me, and even with the width of Pappy’s worn-out old field between us, I could see the glint in his eye as he watched my thin cotton dress ride up above my knees as I ran. I held Daisy as tight as I could as my bare feet pounded the sun- basked ground, determined to get to the sanctuary of Momma’s skirts before Uncle Henry could catch up with me.

Pappy followed on behind, leaving poor ol’ Betty and Lucky just standing there in the middle of the field. I guess his head was still filled with the unpleasant, one-sided altercation with fat Mr. Christianson. He trudged wearily across the field, kicking up dust with those holey old boots of his, not even caring to acknowledge Uncle Henry, who walked a little way in front of him, heading toward the smell of the breakfast Momma was cooking up for Pappy and me that wafted over the fields from the shack.

There’s one thing my momma was always good at, and that was making even the most meager food we had to eat at times—pig ’n scratchings, as Meemaw used to call it— smell like I’d imagine a gourmet dinner at a fancy restaurant would smell. Whatever she’d cooked up that morning had my mouth watering good an’ proper, even before I’d gotten all the way to the shack.

You wash your hands up now, Opal May, Momma reminded me as I galloped full-pelt through the bowed, wooden door. There’s some fresh water in the pail.

I turned tail and went back outside, almost knocking Uncle Henry over in my hurry. Whoa there, little missy! Uncle Henry laughed as we collided. He gripped my

shoulders, holding me at arm’s