Remember this Titan

by Steve Sullivan

  Day after day I worked those fields. Somewhere in the beginning I got a silver dollar. That was a lot of cash for a nine year old. My heart almost jumped out of my chest. It was the first money I had ever made. I put it in my palm and gazed at it for a long time. I placed it in my pocket. I pulled it out and peered at it again. I rubbed my fingers across its shiny surface. Gosh I thought. I’m a workingman. It felt good. Two hours later I handed that silver dollar over to my mom. That felt even better.

  That cotton field was a great learning experience. I learned about hard work, respect, responsibility, generosity and kindness. I learned about things that mattered. Most of it came from Mary. She toiled all day and yet there was always a song in her throat. I guess that also meant there was one in her heart. The other workers were friendly enough but there was a distance. I understood why. I was white and they were black. In the south in 1936 that combination only worked on a piano. Then one day that changed.

  In a rush to get out of the house and down to the field I’d forgotten my water. And this day was no day to be without H2O. By daybreak it was hot. Torrid was in transit. I had been in the field an hour and started to wilt. I was feeling mighty bad but I’d gotten tough working those fields. I would suck it up. I prayed I’d make it.

  At the morning break the pickers assembled under a big oak tree. Sitting in a circle the bucket and dipper was brought out and passed around. When it came to me, all eyes watched my move. They knew that I had been told if you drank water from a black man’s cup your lips would fall off. I grabbed the dipper and took my turn.

  Almost instantly you could detect a transformation had taken place. I was no longer Bill Yoast: white man. I was just another human being trying to get through a lousy day. At the time I didn’t recognize the implication of my action; years later I did. The significance of an act rests in the eyes of the beholder.

  I survived that day and the miserable days that followed. I did notice that the harder I worked the better I got. Each time out I picked a little more cotton. I set a goal that I would pick a hundred pounds. I realized that was half of what Mary grabbed but for me it would be a record.

  When picking ended we took our bags to the scale. Every day I was disappointed. One afternoon Mary came up and asked how I’d done. The look on my face told her everything.

  “Here, Bill,” she said and then stuffed half her cotton into my bag. I hit the hundred pounds and never looked back. I became a picking machine. That act of generosity has never been forgotten.

  Mary had her own family to feed and yet that was less important than doing something nice for someone else.

  When you’re young, time has a way of creeping pretty slow. It doesn’t help if every day is punctuated with plight. If you’re poor, it seems you never get dealt a winning hand and joy can turn to grief on a dime.

  We had nothing so anything my sister and I got was a thrill. One day my mom had saved 2.00 for the down payment on a bike. She brought it home on a bus and for a moment I felt as good as anyone. Between my sister and me we logged five hundred miles the first hour. A month later two men showed up because my mom missed her payment. They wanted it back. Bobbie and I held hands and watched them load it on the truck. We couldn’t believe the only fun in our lives had just been repossessed. I’ll never forget it. Standing there were two kids with tears streaming down their faces and two guys who didn’t care.

  It was not long after I lost my wheels that I started hanging with an ugly crowd. The ringleader of the Tin Can Hollow bad boys was a delinquent by the name of Raymond Tefteller. Like Mary, he taught me a few things too. Under Raymond’s guidance I learned to lie, cheat, and steal. I became a troublemaker. We were everywhere and everywhere we went something nasty happened.

  One day we found ourselves outside of town at a water-hole. Tefteller knew a local sharecropper brought his cow there to drink. He had a plan. Sitting next to us was a pile of rocks. As the farmer stood at the pond Raymond started bombarding him. The man asked for Tefteller to stop. Raymond said he would if he was given a penny. In those days a penny could buy something. The man hesitated and took a couple more hits. He pleaded for my pal to stop. Another hit.

  If you’re wondering why a grown man would allow himself to be extorted by a kid, it had to do with color. He was black and we were white. In a racist society, if you’re on the visiting team, you keep a low profile. When a rock hit him in the head I had seen enough. I told Tefteller it was wrong. I yelled to stop. He threw again and I threw myself at him. After I pounded Raymond into submission I looked at the man.

  To this day I’ve not forgotten the look on his face. I’ve seen that look since then. It is a look of profound sadness. It is a look that asks “why me?” It’s a look that acknowledges you are held captive by injustice and there is no escape. I felt sorrow for that old man.

  For the next few days my conscience ached. I despised the feeling. I found my way back to the waterhole and there they were. I approached the sharecropper but I had nothing to say. I stood in silence near him and his cow. I finally got the courage to speak. I told him I was sorry but he didn’t seem to care. I told him if there was anything I could do to help, I would. There was no reply. As he walked away I walked with him. No words were spoken. About a quarter mile down the road he stopped and handed me the rope that went around his cow’s neck. I guess that was his way of saying I’d been forgiven. The next day I decided it was time to make some new friends.

  A week later Tefteller was involved in the burning down of a warehouse. I was nowhere around. Raymond was sent to reform school. Shortly thereafter he was beaten to death by one of his kind.

  I dodged a bullet. I’m thankful that Raymond Tefteller came into my life early on because it taught me one of the most valuable lessons I have learned. The people you associate with will have a dramatic impact on who you become.

  A month went by and my best buddy became a bad memory. One day I was walking down the street and passed the cutest girl I’d ever seen. I was too bashful to say anything. She walked by and I did an about face. I spit on my hands and groomed my hair. I ran my tongue across my teeth.

  I figured if I followed her to where she was going I might gather enough courage to ask her name. A half a mile away she walked into the Central Baptist Church. I decided it was time to take up religion. They were happy to have me. It was a turning point. In that church I was surrounded by people who focused on the right stuff. Acy Evans taught me about integrity, giving, sharing, and committing. Those years at the Central Baptist Church were some of the best I’ve had. I also learned that when you hang with good people they will lift you up.

  The years became a blur. Picking and learning. Learning and picking. Hanging around. We moved a lot and it was usually a day before the rent was due. At least six times a week I got to eat. I started to grow up. My pants got shorter and my shirt got tight.

  Somewhere around fourteen, I looked in the mirror to see what was up. I scrutinized the scrawny image that looked back. I was hoping to be proud of what I saw but wasn’t. Being a beanpole with one set of threads and holes in my shoes was not a smiling matter. I knew I came from the left side of the tracks and that was just one more reason to frown. I did have a couple of things going for me. My body worked and my brain did too. I took up sports. On the field I could run and jump with the best of them. And in the classroom, they knew my name.

  My sophomore year at Coffee High School I earned a letter. It was a moment of pride and joy. It was a big deal. That letter told me I’d made the cut. It said I was okay. The next day all the jocks had their award sewn to a sweater. Mine still remained in my hand. I wished I had a sweater. When I got my letter I thought I’d made it to the in-crowd. Now I was back on the outside looking in. I wasn’t the only one who knew it. One day I was asked into a teacher’s office. She had a grin that covered her face. On her desk sat a box. She opened it and my eyes almost popped out of my head. Mrs. McDonald had bought me a sweater.* As a result I learned that generosi
ty is a fuel that ignites relationships.

  I don’t know exactly when the light went on. One day I realized that sports and books were my way out. I developed a plan. Unfortunately it was short-circuited in my junior year. It was 1943 when I got the news. The letter read:

  Dear Billy Boy,

  We want you!

  Love, Uncle Sammy

  I was drafted into the Army Air Corps and I was excited. I wanted to serve my country but I also had another motive. I’d gotten tired of being voted worst-dressed guy on the block. My figure was perfect for a uniform and I knew it. God, I wanted that uniform.

  The world was at war and every night I sat by a friend’s radio and listened to the events. I’d heard about the courage of the pilots in the Army Air Corps. In the morning they were front-page news. I couldn’t wait to fly the airborne version of a boxcar. For all I knew I’d find my dad in the back chewing on a straw. I could see myself dropping bombs, talking trash, and strutting my stuff in Piccadilly.

  I didn’t make the cut. I was too young and didn’t have enough schooling. I was disappointed until I heard there was a special unit being formed called the Air Commandos. I volunteered. They sent me to Lakeland Air Force Base to be trained. It was tough. Guys were dropping out and everyone was complaining about the heat. I knew they had never been in a cotton field.

  A few months later we were ready to go. I was in the first group that was headed to Asia. A few days before we were to leave someone realized our contingent was too large for the assigned aircraft. Three needed to be cut. They went alphabetically. Weaver, Williams, and Yoast would be reassigned to the second attack group. I was upset because I wanted to mix it up. A short while later, group number one launched and was destroyed over Burma. The casualties were appalling. When President Truman got the news he put an end to the program. My commando days were over.

  While I was hanging around waiting for them to figure out what to do with me, I saw a poster for a fitness contest. I entered and set the Army record for sit-ups: 1700. I would have done 1701 but I had worn the skin off my lower back and decided to stop. A commanding officer witnessed my effort and reasoned I should become a physical training instructor. That was fine by me. My brain may not develop but my biceps would.

  I was shipped to Georgia to do my thing. Initially, I was a little intimidated. I don’t know if it was because my ears were still damp or the fact that it was the first time I’d been put in charge of anyone. I got over it. I knew how tough the enemy was. I knew my job was to make my guys even tougher. I accepted the challenge.

  What I noticed was that not only did my students get stronger but so did I. Responsibility has a way of putting hair on your chest. One day I looked in the mirror. I liked what I saw.

  A week later I was at the Dilly Twirl having a cone and showing my triceps. A beauty sitting at a nearby table seemed to being paying attention so I gave her a smile. She tossed one back. It wasn’t just any smile. That smile told me she liked the wiggle in my walk. I asked her name. She said Blanche.

  Physically, I was a man but emotionally I was somewhere else. At that moment in time, the only date I’d ever had came in a jar from Spain. My coach in high school didn’t help. Coach Braly told me girls and sports went together like a pepper and a malt. I stayed away.

  Now I knew better. I wanted a date. I’d have died for a date.

  SHORT STORY SHORTER

  We fell in love and got married. Blanche’s dad was a caretaker for the Whitney Plantation in Thomasville. We had full run of the place. On a number of occasions I came around the bend to find General Eisenhower and Admiral Halsey shooting quail and chewing the fat. One day Ike and Bull looked at me. A few days later I was shipped to the Lone Star state. I know it was a coincidence.

  Blanche came along. She got pregnant. I was sent away. She got lonely. I was still away. She delivered Susan Gail. I was far away. She said, “you’re not for me.” I said I understood.

  I would have been more hurt but the waters did not run that deep. We never really had time to get to know each other. There was too much going on. Love blooms through experiences, good and bad, and with Blanche I had few.

  Years went by. The war ended. I’d done what they asked me to do. I thought I did it well but there was no reason to put my picture on a Wheaties box. In 1946 I was told I could go home. It takes a short time in the military to understand you only do what people tell you. I wasn’t going to make a move without permission. I called D.C. and asked if I could go somewhere else. “Whatever,” came the reply. I enrolled in the Georgia Military College. It was a turning point in my life. I met people who were kind and thoughtful and smart. I saw them make a difference in other people’s lives. I knew they had in mine. An image appeared. It was a long dusty road filled with bumps but at the end I could see a sheepskin. I would become a teacher. That meant Mercer University.

  I enrolled and shifted into overdrive. I had one ambition: to be the best teacher I could become. I met a guy by the name of Ed Sanders. We shared a common vision. We both wanted to accomplish something. Ed was my kind of guy. He was a tenacious personality and by hanging with him I adopted some of his traits. One day I ran into him and he was all excited. He was so proud that he’d been hired to be a lifeguard. I was happy for Ed but concerned for whoever might need his help. Ed didn’t swim. I figured he’d find a way.

  We studied hard, played basketball, and ran track. Every now and then we had a Dr. Pepper. We joined the Sigma Nu fraternity. Ed told me getting a paddle broke over my butt would be fun. He lied. I didn’t hold it against him. Ed is still my friend. Why not? I learned friendship and furniture are much alike. If you invest in quality it won’t have to be replaced.

  I worked hard at Mercer University and I could feel my brain getting stronger. It felt awfully good. One day they gave me a diploma. The next day I was standing on the corner eating some peanuts wondering what to do. A Greyhound pulled up with a sign that said it was going east. I got on board. When the doors opened, I stepped out in Sparta, Georgia.

  I looked around. It looked okay. I had a nickel in my pocket but I wasn’t worried. I knew my million-dollar attitude would see me through. I’ve always been an optimist. I think much of it had to do with my mom. She told me over and over, “Son, we may not have much but there are people who have less.” I knew she was right. I’d seen the one room shack filled with ten and a Thanksgiving turkey that looked like a mouse. Those words have always been with me.

  I landed a job as teacher. My gosh. I was about to trade overalls for a white shirt and tie. My mom was proud. My dad didn’t know.

  It was time to get to work. I dove into my responsibilities as a teacher and coach. I loved working with kids and there was a lot of work to be done. On one side of the tracks, Mint Juleps bloomed and on the other side desperation. In Sparta, in 1950 if you didn’t look like a cream puff you got the short end of the stick, if you got any stick at all. For some reason it made me mad. I’m not sure why because I’d had a checkered history with racism. I followed the rules. I drank from the white man’s fountain and sat in the front of the bus.

  In looking back on it I think most of the kids I grew up with had a contaminated view of equality. If your skin was black you were a “nigger.” When I was young and dumb I didn’t pay much attention. Poverty was on my mind. As my brain got more wrinkles, I felt a lot different. I came to hate that word. For what it meant and for what it did.

  All my life I had known black people and I couldn’t remember one that had done me wrong. As a matter of fact, had it not been for Aunt Mary and some of her cousins I might still be in that field.

  The more I saw the madder I got. I started speaking up. I found myself losing friends. I found myself making friends. For every bigot that said goodbye, someone else said hello. I was a church-going guy and somewhere I’d heard, Seek Only the Respect of Those You Respect. If Mary thought I was okay, I’d be fine.

  A while later I fell in love again. Her name was Dorothy Beall. W
e got married. Dot wanted a child. She got pregnant and I was overjoyed. This daughter I would raise. No one would take her from me. I was right. But what I didn’t know was that God had a plan. He took her mom. Dorothy died on the delivery table.

  I can remember holding Bonnie Jean in my arms, looking in her eyes and loving who looked back. I knew it would be tough raising her by myself but I was ready. Shortly after the funeral Dot’s parents approached me. They didn’t think I could do their granddaughter right. They said they’d made arrangements to take her. I said no.

  I placated the pain with hard work and getting Bonnie Jean walking. I continued to teach and coach. I wasn’t happy with the racial climate but I had enough to keep me busy so I plowed ahead. I could feel my anger growing. It soon turned to gloom.

  A black baseball team had a game in the park where the class D teams played. The ball field was near the school gym. The showers in their bathhouse didn’t work. The solution was simple. I talked with their coach and told him they could use the showers in the high school. He was hesitant. I guess he knew a whole lot more about racism than I did. He understood the implication of that act. I didn’t. I convinced him it wasn’t a problem. He told me they didn’t need to shower. I now realize he was probably trying to protect me. I took a stand and they got clean. As they walked out of the locker room each ball player made a point of shaking my hand and thanking me. I was surprised because I thought it was no big deal. I was wrong.

  Next morning, the chairman of the school board was knocking on my door and she was mad. “Come with me,” she commanded. I obeyed. We went to the store and bought soap, detergent, and disinfectant. We went back and scrubbed the showers. For an hour I got to listen to her tirade. It was personal. Her son played on the high school team and the last thing he was going to do was shower where a nigger had used the soap.

  The next day I was counseled about being color-blind. I decided it was time to leave. I could hear Roswell, Georgia calling my name. I took my daughter and headed out. It was 1954 and I was back at work. I coached football and track. I raised my girl and enrolled in a master’s program.