Coming of Age in Mississippi (49 page)

“They know didn’t nobody do it but them goddamn white crackers,” Adline said. “They need to blow Woodville and Centreville off the map and kill all of them bastards.”

“Essie Mae ought to see if she can get Martin Luther King or CORE or one of them organizations to go in there and help the Negroes,” said Junior.

“What Essie Mae need to do,” Adline said bitterly, “is try and get some of these organizations to take us back to Africa or somewhere. This government ain’t no fuckin’ good and ain’t meant to protect us black folks. That’s what she need to do while she is running around here trying to get the Negroes to vote. I’m goin’ to save my money and get out of this fuckin’ country.”

“That’s five Negroes been killed up there in three months,” Junior said. “Them three killed in the car in Woodville in December, and some man in Liberty, Mississippi, last month. They say his head was almost shot off, too, just like Clift’s.”

Junior sat there on the sofa for almost an hour, without anyone saying much more. Finally he said, “I better go, I gotta go to work early tomorrow.” After he left and Adline was getting into bed, I noticed tears in her eyes. She and Junior had never reacted to all the other killings in Woodville or
Centreville. At least it had seemed that way to me. Now they were very concerned, for the killings were getting closer. All night I lay awake thinking about Clift, his beautiful young wife, Ruby, and their four children. I remembered how close I had felt to them all when I went with Daddy and Emma to visit them, and how much fun we’d had together. I had accepted Clift as one of my blood uncles.

Next morning, I realized that I hadn’t shed one tear for Clift’s death. I had cried so much for other people who had been killed—even people who were strangers to me. But now it was as though something had happened to me so that I couldn’t cry. I just felt funny all over. I lay in bed and pretended I was asleep until Adline went to work about eight o’clock. As soon as she left, I got up. I felt so tired when I stepped out of bed, I could hardly move. I took a hot bath and went back to bed, setting the alarm clock for ten-thirty—I didn’t have to be at work until eleven. Soon I was sleeping. When the alarm went off at ten-thirty, I tried to get up and couldn’t move. There was what seemed like a heavy weight on my heart. I tried to breathe and couldn’t. It seemed as if heavy weights also pressed against my diaphragm and kept it from moving. I felt like I had suddenly become paralyzed from my neck to my waist.

For almost three hours, I lay there unable to move. Then tears started running down my face. Slowly I began to breathe again. Slowly my heart began to beat. The more the tears came, the more I could breathe. Again I thought of Clift’s death, his wife and children, and the tears wouldn’t stop coming. I was glad—glad I was crying. Just a few minutes ago I’d thought I was going to die.

It was about three before I was able to get up and call the restaurant. Since we had no phone, I used a friend’s phone across the street. Joe, the cook, answered.

“Joe, this is Anne,” I said.

“What’s wrong? Are you sick, honey?” he asked.

“Yes, let me speak to Waite,” I said.

“Yes, Anne,” Waite said when he came to the phone.

“I am sick, Waite,” I said, “and I can’t come in …” He cut me off. “If you are sick why didn’t you call me earlier this morning?” he asked, almost yelling. “At least we could have gotten someone to work in your place. We got swamped in the dining room this morning.”

“My uncle was killed in Mississippi, Waite. Now if I don’t feel like coming in tomorrow I’ll call you.” Just as I was hanging up the phone, I blacked out. When I was conscious again, my friend was holding a wet towel to my forehead.

“You want me to get a doctor?” she asked.

“No, I’m all right,” I said, “it’s just that we had a death in the family.”

But when I went back to the apartment, I started feeling tired again. I was afraid that if I got in bed again, this time I might not come out of it. I decided I’d better see a doctor after all.

I went to a doctor on Claiborne Avenue, one that Winnie went to all the time. He told me after checking my heart and blood pressure that I had a terrible strain on me, and that I was overexerting myself. He thought I had probably fainted because of anemia or overexertion. He gave me a prescription for iron tablets and tranquilizers and told me to stay in bed for a few days.

I stopped at a drugstore to have the prescription filled, and I bought some envelopes and writing paper. I was going to write Emma even though, after the Woolworth’s sit-in, she had asked me not to write them. I was not sure I should write now, but I felt the need to express my feelings or at least let them know that I knew about Clift’s death and that I cared.

On the bus back to the apartment I got that faint feeling again. I opened the window and the cool March wind made me feel much better. With the wind blowing into my face, I sat there trying to think of what I would write to Emma. This was the first time that someone had died in the family. I didn’t know what to say. Everything seemed so inadequate. And perhaps
in a sense I had caused Clift’s death because I was the only one from that area who had actively participated in the Movement. In fact, every time anyone was beaten or killed in Wilkinson County, I had guilt feelings about it.

Back at the apartment, it took me about two hours to finish the letter to Emma. I read it, and reread it:

Finally I put it in the mail, and as soon as I had done so, I was sorry. I hadn’t put my name on the envelope. However, I was thinking that after Clift’s death the whites working at the post office in Woodville might open or censor all the mail to and from his immediate family. Because of this, I had not written Ruby directly, but had written Emma instead. Mama once told me that after I began to demonstrate in Jackson, all of the mail that she received at the post office in Centreville had been opened.

I went back to Maple Hill on Thursday and broke dishes all day. My mind wasn’t on the work. I knew that I would be nervous until I received a letter from Emma. Two weeks passed and she still hadn’t written. Another week and no letter. I was going out of my mind. Finally, I gave up hope of receiving one. I didn’t know if the whites had received my letter or what had happened. I wanted to write Emma again, but decided not to. I was afraid that a second letter might cause trouble, even if the other one hadn’t.

I worked about a month in the restaurant after my uncle’s death and continued my voter registration work for CORE on weekends. During this time, Adline and I also moved to a larger and much nicer apartment. Then in mid-April I began to get restless again. The grass was beginning to get green, the trees were budding, sap was rising, and everyone seemed
happy and pleasant. I had never been able to enjoy myself and feel relaxed like most people during this time of the year. Adline had bought all kinds of beautiful spring skirts and blouses. I hated to see people so content, especially Negroes. It made me mad every time I saw one smile. And it seemed as though every Negro in New Orleans was smiling but me.

I was down in the French Quarters at Erika’s apartment for a party one weekend. A lot of the people there were students from Tulane who were members of CORE. When I noticed that even the Movement people were getting spring fever and talking about getting out of New Orleans, I knew that I couldn’t remain there long myself. I also knew that I was more than likely headed back to Mississippi, where the Negroes weren’t laughing all the time. Where they knew, as I knew, the price you pay daily for being black. Where I felt I belonged. The weekend after the party, I quit my job at the restaurant and started canvassing full-time for CORE. But even that didn’t help. I just had to get out of New Orleans.

When I came home one night from canvassing, I found that Emma had finally written me. I sat on the bed and read her letter over and over again.

I sat there with tears in my eyes and again read, “I am sorry that this is all I know, but I hope that you all will be able to help uncover it.” Then I got mad because I felt so helpless. They were expecting me to do something and I was all too
aware of how little Bob Moses or I, or anyone could do. As for myself, I couldn’t even go back to Woodville or Centreville again.

The second week in May, I received a letter from the registrar at Tougaloo College. My credits had at last been cleared from Natchez. I was asked to come back to Tougaloo the last week in May to take part in the graduation exercises and to receive my diploma. As I looked at the letter, I realized that the last week of May was only one week off. I had to buy a white dress and black shoes for the graduation exercises. And I couldn’t really afford either. “All the time and money you put into college,” I thought, “and then you gotta put out more time and money to get that little piece of paper.”

Since I had quit my job and had only enough money to pay rent until the first of June, I decided that I wasn’t going to spend a dime on graduation. I went through my old college clothes and found an old white dress I had worn as a junior in college. I bleached it up and it looked almost like new. Then I found some old black shoes that Adline had packed away in the closet. They were good enough to use for two days. I polished them and was surprised at how good they looked. Now I was ready to participate in the exercises. I had just bus fare enough to get to Mississippi. I didn’t know how I would get back. In fact, I don’t think I really wanted to come back. However, I hated to run out on Adline. We had just moved into that apartment, we owed at least one hundred dollars on the furniture, and she couldn’t take care of those bills alone.

As I packed my suitcase on Tuesday night, Adline stood looking at me with tears in her eyes. I knew she was feeling bad because here I was graduating from college and no one in my family really cared. As I put the old white dress and her old shoes into the suitcase, she walked out of the apartment. She was like me. She didn’t like people to see her cry or know her emotions when they were too deep to talk about.