Freedom's Path

My mother grew up in Stuttgart, Arkansas in the 1950’s and 60’s.  She always tells me stories of how life was back them.  I don’t think she knows how much I listen, how many times I have cried at the thought of having to live in fear and knowing I am hated for something that I have no control over, and she’s such a good woman.  My grandmother raised all the kids by herself.  She cleaned floors for a living and never learned how to read or write.  It’s funny that now in her apartment there are books, a calendar that has been on the same year of nineteen -ninety something and the same month of February since as long as I can remember.  But as she always told me, “I may not be able to read these books, but I’ll look at them like I can.”  Her walls are filled with pictures of her grand kids that she is so proud of, and yet they never come to see her.  Pictures that are very old, from elementary, junior high and high school.  She’s getting old, she can’t hear very well anymore but God willing she’ll go fishing every day until it is her time to rest.  She’ll catch more fish than she’ll ever eat, clean them, and put them in her deep freezer.  Her breakfast is a plate of greens, homemade corn bread, catfish and coffee every single day since grass was green.  She’s so adorable, so strong and so underappreciated.

The problem with my generation is that we don’t know our history.  

Those who do think they know don’t respect it.

Those who know, truly know, should educate those who don’t.

If my generation doesn’t know, where will the generation behind us get their direction from?  We are on a road that may lead to, fifty years from now, people questioning if slavery actually happened, if the Civil Rights Movement was just a dream.  

Because if we really knew and respected our past, life as we know it would not be the way it is. 

White Park---Black Park

In the 60’s my mother and a group of classmates wanted to try to integrate the “White Park.”  So they decided to go get in “their” pool.  The white park had a big pool, jungle gyms, slides, swings, and all the fun family attractions.  The “Black Park” on the other side of the tracks has basketball courts.  My mother can’t even swim to this day, but she went with her friends that day.  They all jumped in the pool, the feeling of that sacred water on their skin in the heat of an Arkansas summer must have been a little touch of Heaven.  Not knowing if you are about to change history, and not even caring because you are trying to make a dent of difference in this world you are living in.  They splashed their arms and kicked their legs in the clear water...it was so beautiful.  The pool cleared of people in a matter of seconds.  Where are they all going?  On such a hot day, why wouldn’t they want to share the water with them?  But all they heard were gasping sounds and all they saw were people running; parents determined to save their children.  Save them?  From a group of black teenagers who just want to have, what they have. Unacceptable.  Parents demanding the police be called, they were breaking the law, children screaming and crying because, “What are ‘they’ doing in ‘our’ pool?”  The struggle came to a speedy end with the group of solders’ being chased out by the white kids, their parents and the people that worked at the pool with bats and chains.  Water never felt so good.

My mother marched and protested and participated in Sit Ins and I have the nerve to complain about not having what I want.  I wonder if I was alive back then what would I have done.  I realize that in my lifetime I have fought for nothing like the causes she fought for.  

No fights like my ancestors who fought to end

            Slavery

            Segregation

                                                           Oppression

            Depression

                                    Inequality        

            Job Rights           

                        Voting Rights

                                                Women’s Rights

            Right to be considered a whole man instead of a fraction of one

            All of our human rights!

Like staggering steps we had to take to just be a part of “All men created equal…”

All these rights they had to work, suffer, and die for are given to me.

What would I have done?

Do we still not see?

Do we not appreciate what our parents and their parents and their parents parents’ had to fight for?

People willing to give their lives and not for themselves because they knew change would take time, but for us.  For their grand children and their great grand children who barely even recognize their existence.

I asked my mom why she was beaten and risked her life in the 60’s.  She always says that she did it for me and my brothers.  She did it so that I could go to any school and ride any bus, sit in any seat, and drink from whatever fountain I chose.  She did it so I could have a choice.  She didn’t have a choice, not in her eyes.  She went to the black high school and graduated with about 40 other African American students.  She succeeded.  She made a way for my brothers and me.  Shame on me for ever talking back, giving attitude, not appreciating, or showing my mother any disrespect.  Ella Beatrice Thomas did what Jesus would have done; she was prepared to lay down her life for me, as her mother was prepared to do for her.  Her life experiences have made me a stronger person.  Because I know the stories, and I love hearing them every time we go visit family, because every time she tells the stories it’s like a part of her is living the events all over again.  

I don’t yet know if there is a true struggle for my generation that can compare to theirs.  It seems that going to college, staying out of jail, higher education, supporting our children and voting are some of this generations hills to climb.  I hope that one day my mother’s generation will know that we do appreciate all they did, it demonstrated unquestionable strength, courage and unconditional love.

Every time I pass the old “white park” and sit in front of the pool that is now closed, my mind wonders to that day, to all the days that she just walked past and thought that this life wasn’t meant for her. I cry, I hurt and I am thankful for her courage.  I hope she sees how much difference she made by just getting in the water- as Jesus did.

Momma I see what you went through and I carry those pains on my back with me every day of my life.  Know that I live to make you proud and I have always looked up to you.  I will continue fighting because you showed me the way.  The light is shining on me now and I am walking towards it.

Life is freedom.