by Daniel Black
I closed the journal, lay on the bed listening to the rain song, and imagined the battle Ms. Swinton had to fight in order to feel accomplished as a teacher in Swamp Creek. Back when I was in school, we all had to stand and read aloud, whether we wanted to or not. If you couldn’t read well, you were jeered and mocked until you could.
Although I rejected the notion, I began to wonder what I would be like as a teacher in Swamp Creek.
“Stand, young man, and recite Langston Hughes’s ‘Mother to Son’ without error,” I could hear myself demanding sternly.
“But Dr. Tyson, I … um didn’t get a chance to learn all of it’cause I had to chase chickens and—”
“That is no excuse, young man! Your brain must be developed if you are to make something of yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” the child would probably say, resuming his seat, relieved.
Then I would pace the room and begin to teach about something else, perhaps the Underground Railroad.
“How did people git a train under de ground, Dr. Tyson?” a child might ask curiously.
“It wasn’t an actual railroad, children. It was a system of how to journey from the South to the North on foot in order that slave catchers wouldn’t find runaway slaves. People’s homes were stops along the ‘railroad’ so the runaways could rest and get food in order to continue their sojourn. It was a very difficult and a very dangerous passage. Some made it, while others did not.”
“Did you have to buy a ticket, Dr. Tyson?”
I would chuckle at the innocence of the question and respond with, “No, son, you didn’t need a ticket. What you needed was courage, strength, and God. Our people had to run from places like Swamp Creek, Arkansas, all the way to Canada sometimes.” I’d show them the distance on a map.
“Wow!” they would exclaim, realizing finally the strength of their own ancestors.
“It was far, yet we did it. That’s how you know who you are. You come from the strongest, the bravest, people who ever walked the earth. No one else has ever had to endure the trials and tribulations of the African.”
“Was the Underground Railroad right here in Swamp Creek, Dr. Tyson?”
“Yes, it was. Folks say the old Birch place was a hideaway for runaway slaves. Mr. Blue said Old Man Birch had a dungeon under his living room floor, but no one ever knew about it. He kept it covered with a big rug.”
“Really?” The children would beam with excitement.
“Mr. Blue said if anybody ever found out about the dungeon, they would have to die.”
“Why?” the children might ask simultaneously.
“Because the Underground Railroad was a secret. White folks didn’t want us to have our freedom and did everything they could to keep us enslaved. We ran away secretly so slave owners wouldn’t try to keep us as slaves for the rest of our lives. It’s called the Underground Railroad because it was supposed to be a secret.”
“What if somebody found out ‘bout Mr. Birch keepin’ slaves in dat dungeon?”
“By law, he would have to die. It was illegal for a person to harbor runaway slaves because they were seen as the property of the slave owner. It was a heavy risk, but many of our people took it.”
Suddenly I could see the pride on the children’s faces that their ancestors had done something morally just and divinely righteous.
“There was a woman named Harriet Tubman who was considered the conductor of the Underground Railroad.”
“I thought you said it wasn’t no real train,” someone would ask, confused.
“It wasn’t. She was called the conductor because she made trips back and forth hundreds of times, showing slaves where to run and who to trust along the way. She knew the route better than anyone else, and she spent her whole life helping her brothers and sisters to freedom.”
“What if somebody got sick and couldn’t run no more?”
“Sometimes Ms. Tubman would leave them, or they might die trying to run. It was not a pleasant journey, children, and many whites would rather Ms. Tubman have been dead because she was stealing precious property. She did what she had to in order to free her people. That’s why folks started calling her Moses.”
“Like de Moses in de Bible?”
“Yes, just like that one. She took hundreds of men and women north to freedom. She knew the railroad stops and she knew how to tell north from south in the pitch-dark. She knew which roots could be eaten and which could not, and she knew when to lay low in the woods like a rabbit without ever moving. She was an incredible woman with an incredible mission.”
“Can we go on de railroad, Dr. Tyson? Can we? Please?”
“I wish we could, but the railroad doesn’t exist anymore. Its only purpose was to provide hiding places for runaway slaves. When slavery was abolished, the railroad no longer had a purpose.”
“Can we go to the Birch place and see if there really is a dungeon under his living room floor?”
“I don’t know, children. The house was abandoned years ago. It’s surely about to cave in, and God only knows what creatures are crawling around inside.”
“We don’t care, Dr. Tyson. We ain’t scared! Please take us out dere and show us one o’ de stops on de Underground Railroad. Please, Dr. Tyson!”
We close our books and walk out the front door of the schoolhouse, determined to share a piece of the history that has us excited to the bone. We do not speak a word along the way, and we do not entertain fear someone will see us. For the first time in most of their lives, the children walk with a confidence unshakable. I begin to cry as I watch them transform into the ancestors we were studying only moments before. They don’t walk like poor country children anymore. They have been endowed with the power of self-love and self-beauty. Their Wal-Mart clothes and Fred’s shoes are laughable now as they march toward their past with a zeal almost contagious. People wave along the way, but this time, the children don’t acknowledge their gestures. In fact, they act completely oblivious. They have only one aim in mind, and that is to see if, in fact, the famous Underground Railroad came through Swamp Creek. I presume that if the children can actually see the dungeon, they will be convinced that their home is sacred, too. They need to verify that slaves ran to Swamp Creek to find safety. It will make their lives and the lives of all their people much more meaningful because then they can speak of themselves as significant contributors to American history.
We march until we get to the house. It has no remarkable features except that it looks dilapidated and fragile. The children stop in front of the shack, looking to me for further instructions.
“I do not want you to be disappointed if there is no dungeon, young people. Sometimes legends do not always prove to be true.”
The children remain silently hopeful. They have come seeking something greater than anything I could say to discourage the hunt.
“We must be very careful, for the house is old and not standing securely.”
Again they stare at me, through me, as though wanting nothing more than to move me out of the way of truth. Seeing my words have no power at that moment, I proceed to lead them onto the porch and into the dust-covered living room of Old Man Birch.
The house is bare, for the most part. An old chair and a battered rug covering the floor are all the room contains. The children step through the door carefully, tiptoeing on a hope that will prayerfully give them joy and meaning. They stare at the rug and wait for me to lift it.
“Children, again, do not be disappointed if we do not find a dungeon. It would not subtract from the reality of the Underground Railroad. The stops along the way might simply have been different from what people said.”
The children say nothing. Instead, they stare at the rug and wait.
I bend down and pull it back gently, revealing a trapdoor. The children’s eyes grow large. I take a deep breath and lift the wooden door as it squeaks in pain. Below is nothing but darkness and dampness. Some of the children hold each other’s hands in fear and excitement.
“Follow me,” I say boldly, descending the old staircase. The children follow. The dungeon is larger than any of us had imagined. It is only about five feet high, but it is wider than the entire living room. The children nudge one another with joy and pride as they begin to snicker about having found a lost treasure. Then suddenly, in the depths of the dungeon, a child begins to sing lightly, “Wade in de water, wade in de water, children, wade in de water; God’s gonna trouble de water.” Others join in. And in the darkness of the dungeon, the children begin to weep and moan as they feel the pain of their ancestors who once rested in this same place. Some of them cry out in agony while others squeeze themselves and rock comfortingly. I wonder whether I should abruptly interrupt the ritual and return the children to the world we once knew or if I should let the spirit have its way. I do the latter and watch the few strips of light sneak through the cracks in the living room floor and cast shadows on the children of those who came here years ago.
Another child begins, “People, get ready; there’s a train a-comin’! You don’t need no ticket; just get on board!”
And the children keep repeating, “Get on board! Get on board! You don’t need no ticket; just get on board!”
I’m crying and can’t help it and I’m feeling better than I ever have. “Glory hallelujah, just get on board!” they keep singing. The clapping and the hand waving take me back years and years before I was ever born, and I see my people picking cotton, sweating, and following mules in the field. I see women giving birth without epidurals and men being beaten until the setting of the sun.
The children keep singing, more wildly now than before, “You don’t need no ticket! Just get on board!” Some rise and dance what looks like an African victory dance as the spirits completely consume their physical form. It seems like hours before the excitement calms down to a whisper: “Get on board; get on board! You don’t need no ticket; just get on board!”
The children are trying desperately to tell me something, I am sure, to free me of some idea or ideology that has kept me bound. I lay hands on each child’s head, affirming the power of our journey, and we keep humming the melody as we ascend the old staircase and close the trapdoor behind us. When I raise my head again, the children look like little old people, miniature versions of their own parents and grandparents, who must have some connection to that dungeon in some way. The children smile at me in thanks for giving them a gift that I do not possess. We return the rug to its original place and prepare to leave when a little boy or a little girl or maybe both turn and say, “I love you, Dr. Tyson.” All the children follow suit, and I hug them, realizing the children see their own ancestors right before their eyes. I see them, too. The spirits touch their hearts as they mouth, “I love you, too,” in a way that weakens my knees and fills my heart with a compassion I never knew before. I stand still and cry as the spirit of my people overwhelms me. The children comfort me this time, telling me that all is well. They rub my head and pat my back as I regain enough composure to continue.
When we return to the schoolroom, they make 100 on their spelling tests and they want to read aloud—all of them—and they can do long division confidently. I post on the wall in big, bold letters:
“CHILDREN, GET READY! THERE’S A TRAIN A-COMIN’! YOU DON’T NEED NO TICKET; JUST GET ON BOARD!”
The children smile through teary eyes.
19
“Come in,” David said with his back toward the door.
“Mornin’, big brotha,” I said with an overly contrived country accent.
“Mornin’,” he returned enthusiastically. “Good to see you. I thought I might not see you again until Saturday. I’m glad you came, though. I have something important to speak with you about.”
“No drama, please! I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime,” I declared, shaking my head despairingly.
David laughed out loud. “This is not drama, but it is serious. Have a seat.”
The room was practically bare. David, or someone, had removed the books from the shelves and taken most of the living room furniture away. The house felt cold and empty. Goose bumps covered my arms as I wondered what David wanted to speak to me about.
“Coffee?” he offered from the kitchen.
“Yes, please. Black.”
“Coming right up,” he responded cheerfully.
I sat in a nearby chair. The pretty hardwood floor sparkled as the sun coming through the big east window reflected its brilliance. The hollowness of the room gave me the feeling of a damp, uninhabited cave.
“I’ve tried to clean out most stuff already, but it’s a bigger job than I imagined. I was up till two thirty last night scrubbing floors and packing boxes. Man, this is hard work!” David handed me a yellow and red pastel-colored cup of jet-black coffee.
“I know what you mean. I hate moving. Always have. I’d sooner throw things away than pack them.”
“Amen! But, of course, this is Momma’s stuff and she’ll raise up in that coffin Saturday if I don’t handle it right.”
The allusion seemed a bit strange, almost morbid, causing me to buck my eyes and furrow my brows.
“Oh, come on, T.L.! It’s OK to be light about this. Momma died and that’s the will of the Lord. That doesn’t mean we have to drag around heavy for the next two days.”
“You’re right. Unfortunately, I was raised thinking death and funerals are supposed to be solemn, heavy affairs. Thanks for the reminder,” I affirmed casually.
“Good,” David said, relieved.
I sipped my coffee and waited for him to continue. He simply stared in return.
“What?” I asked apprehensively.
“Oh, nothing,” he said lightly.
“Then why are you staring at me?”
“Because, for an instant, you looked like Momma.” David smiled above the rim of his cup.
“You think so?” I couldn’t even imagine it, but if he thought it I didn’t want to ruin his reverie.
“Yeah. It’s wild, huh?”
“Too wild for me.”
“Naw, nothing’s too wild for you. You couldn’t have gone as far as you have in life if you weren’t an incredibly strong person. I admire you.”
“You can’t admire me. You don’t know me yet.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t know the specifics of your life, but I know the kind of perseverance you must have manifested in order to move away from here and get not one but three college degrees. I ain’t brilliant, but I ain’t crazy, either.”
We both chuckled.
“OK. What can I say?”
“Nothing. Just let the truth be the truth.”
“Easy enough,” I said as our small talk began to lose its luster.
“I hope what I’m about to say to you is easy, too.”
“Please, Lord, let it be,” I mumbled more as a prayer than a response to David.
“I’ll say it directly: Momma left all her books to you. All three thousand or so of them.”
My mouth dropped. “Are you serious?”
“I’m very serious. It’s in her will. I packed most of them last night, but I ran out of boxes. I should have asked you what you wanted to do with them before I touched them, but I knew we’d at least have to move them; therefore, I started packing them up. What do you want to do with them?”
I set my cup on the floor and walked over to the big east window. David kept drinking coffee as though we were deciding whether to eat at McDonald’s or Wendy’s.
“Just say the word,” David said as he drank.
I turned from the window and said, “I don’t have the slightest idea! What in the world am I supposed to do with three thousand books?”
“Teach,” David said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, don’t start that again!”
“Fine. Take them with you back to New York then.”
“My studio in New York is half the size of this room or smaller. Even if all my walls were bookshelves, from top to bottom, I wouldn’t have enough
room for three thousand books.”
“I see. I wish I could help you with this one, but I can’t. Momma said the books were yours to do with as you determined.”
“But I don’t have anywhere to keep them!”
David peered at me with the that’s-your-problem expression. Then he asked, “Is there room in your dad’s house?”
“Are you insane? I can’t take the books there! That’s too much evidence of Ms. Swinton and Daddy’s—”
“Affair? It’s OK. Call it what it was.”
“Then you know why I wouldn’t think of leaving them there. That’s out of the question.”
“You’d better think of something, because we’re both leaving Saturday and these books can’t stay here. I’m hoping to rent the place out as soon as possible.”
I resumed my place in the chair and began to contemplate what I would do with three thousand books.
“It doesn’t make sense to store them anywhere. They wouldn’t be useful to anyone, and you know how she was about the utility of knowledge,” David said, attempting to help although he definitely was not.
“Yeah, I know,” I said, exasperated. “She would trouble my sleep every night if I did that. I wouldn’t do that anyway. Maybe I’ll donate them to the county library.”
“Bad idea.”
“Why?” I asked rather loudly.
“Because Momma wanted you to have them. You specifically.”
“OK, but if they could be more useful somewhere else—”
“They can’t. No one could use them like you can.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that Momma knew into whose hands to entrust these books. She also knew exactly what you’d do with them.”
