Delta Fragments: The Recollections of a Sharecropper's Son

My Mother

My Mother So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. Langston Hughes, “Mother to Son” My mother was called Sister, Menthe, Mantha—everything, it seemed, except her real name of Samantha. I always thought that was a shame since she had such a beautiful name. My mother and I were close, and I loved her dearly, despite the near-death whippings she gave me. For a long period following her death in 1971, I seemed to lack the will to go on. Those familiar with Saint Augustine’s deep affection for his mother, Monica, will understand the bond and love between my mother, Samantha, and me. She wanted so much for me to grow into a responsible and successful man and imparted the wisdom and dispensed the punishments she believed were necessary to insure the desired outcome. Augustine referred to his mother as Saint Monica, but anyone who knew my mother would quickly recognize the inappropriateness of such a label. She was a decent woman who could be your best My Mother 22 friend or worst enemy. My sister, Edna, said our mother had a bad temper and that she used to carry an ice pick around in her bosom. She used the ice pick on at least one occasion—when she stabbed my stepfather after he threatened her with a shotgun. Edna also recalled that before I was born, Mama pulled a gun on a woman who lived next door to them on Fulton Street in Greenwood. This woman apparently had the gall to name her child after my father. Whether or not the child was my father’s, the act angered my mother, who saw it as meddling. The woman called my father over all the time to ask him to do little things around her house, all of this despite the fact that she was also married. On another occasion , Edna said, Mama threatened some women she believed were laughing at her. As my mother passed by, the women laughed loudly and said in a voice that Mama was sure to hear, “I’m tickled pink.” Mama responded, “You’re going to be tickled red after I ram my foot up your ass.” So, no, Samantha was no Saint Monica. Of course, neither am I a Saint Augustine. She was, however, a GodfearingChristian ,cheerful,andcompletelydevotedtoherbabyboy.WhileMonica was chiefly concerned with Augustine’s spiritual health and development, my mother seemed to be concerned about every facet of my life. She was perhaps overly protective. There was a litany of do’s and don’ts that accompanied me at every stage of my development. As a child, I couldn’t go to the swimming hole the black kids used, and as a result I never learned to swim. I wasn’t allowed to go out for the football team as many of my schoolmates were. When I studied in France, my mother warned me about drinking wine, though I believe she was finally persuaded by my point that all French people drank wine at dinner. When I went to graduate school in Chicago, I was warned about driving on the Dan Ryan Expressway, which she had heard was extremely dangerous. “But, Mama, you can’t get anywhere in Chicago without getting on the Dan Ryan,” I countered. She was equally as concerned with my health. Whenever I had the slightest malady, my mother made sure I saw the doctor. I remember such occasions with great fondness because afterwards she always got me something nice like a Popsicle or some ice cream. She absolutely would not take any chances with my health. One Saturday night when we were all gathered in town, I drank a soda without noticing that the lip of the bottle was slightly cracked. Whether I had swallowed a piece of glass or not, my mother wouldn’t take any chances. She rushed me to the doctor’s office, which was open on Saturday nights to treat cuts 23 My Mother and bruises and stabbings as well as minor injuries. Another time, my mother thought I had swallowed a fish bone; again, she made sure I received medical attention , which this time consisted of making me...