I chuckle. “Mrs. Sisson, I graduated from there with my master’s degree. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”
We laugh and recall hard times. “While girls were out having a good time, I was studying because I wanted to finish and help my parents.” When she finished school, she got a job as a teacher and gave her parents money to help them out. “I was the child they could depend on.” (She was the middle child of five, the only girl.) “It’s funny. When I was a little girl, my momma had to tell me I was a little girl. I was a tomboy. I used to swim in the river with my brothers.”
“You weren’t afraid of snakes or anything?”
“No.” She laughs. “My brothers weren’t gonna let anything or anyone bother me.”
Her mother told her to stop playing with the boys when she was 12 years old, made her wear dresses, and she said, “Brought me Shirley Temple dresses.” That’s when she realized she wanted to be famous. She loved getting dressed up, was voted best dressed throughout high school.
I wanted to be a movie star and I wanted to open up me a school for teaching fashion. I had so many favorite movie stars—Judy Garland and Elizabeth Taylor. It would have been different for a black woman. I couldn’t go to the school I wanted to go to because we didn’t have the money. I wanted to go to a modeling school, anywhere there was a modeling school. I wanted to be like them; they were foxy and they were neat and they wore pretty clothes, and I wanted to be like them. I saw [only] the Whites on television. There weren’t many Blacks in the movies. [I liked] Eartha Kitt because she was black and she was a beauty star.
Momma worked for the white people, and they had some nieces would wear dresses just one time. Then they would give them to Momma for me. I was the best-dressed girl [every year] in high school. Momma got me out of a tomboy early, about 12 years old, and put me on the right track. They [dresses] were pretty; white people bought them for their children and Momma brought them for me. Many black people couldn’t buy ’em. They had ruffles around them. They were way out and full dresses. I had blue and pink dresses; they had different colors and the pink one was my favorite. The bow didn’t tie behind; that’s why I liked it. [No bows.] I wanted to be grown. I used to run from the boys, though. Momma told me they were bad.
Mrs. Sisson is delightful, and we laugh during our time together. However, she is self-conscious, quiet, and still when I take her photos, not the diva I expected. “For someone who wanted to be a model, you are getting shy on me. This is your moment to strike a pose,” I joke. I want her to relax and I know she has deeper things to talk about than movies or modeling. “Mrs. Sisson, were times hard for your family during the Civil Rights Movement?”
“Yes.” Then she shakes her head while reflecting. That’s all she does, just shakes her head. After a moment or two she says that she was an educator for Greenwood School District for 35 years. “Blacks knew what they wanted, we wanted the same salaries. I know we got paid less. I don’t know what they [Whites] were paid, but I know we were paid less.”
And titles were not used before the black teachers’ names. That bothered her. Whites not respecting the Blacks and using their titles—whether Mrs. or Dr.—bothered all of the Jewels.
Mrs. Sisson shares that the principal still called her the “N” word in 1980.
I’m shocked. “Wait, you mean to tell me that he called you that in 1980?”
Yes, she confirms, and informs me that integration came in 1970, but there were still problems in 1980.
When asked if it was hard to teach white students, she replies, “There weren’t that many [white students], maybe four or five. Most Whites left the school districts then. They left the schools when Blacks integrated. It was expected.”
It was seven teachers and we went downtown one evening after school and we marched. Wasn’t nothin’ but 180 teachers in the school system, but there were seven that marched. I was marching because the superintendent wouldn’t put the title before our name, like Mrs. Sisson. When he got around the white people, he would call me Viola, the nigger girl. We marched for that—one the reasons.
I marched to get equal rights. I didn’t like the water fountain when you go in the store to buy somethin’—colored over there, white over here. I didn’t like that.
When we walked in a store as a group of girls and there was a group of white girls, they would push us aside and wait on them first. You were standin’ there first and the salesman walk around and get someone else first. You be last, and you were there first. Ooh wee. And I’d get mad. Momma told me just be peaceful and don’t go around in town actin’ ugly. She was afraid I would get hurt. She always said, “Let God fix it.”
MRS. CEOLA L. CAUSEY, 74
DREW
BORN MAY 1940
MARRIED 49 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
11 CHILDREN
13 GRANDCHILDREN
5 GREAT-GRANDS
Mrs. Causey is a quiet woman, not talkative. I can tell she’s lived a hard life by the lack of energy in her eyes. She looks tired. Of all the stories about Jewels working in the cotton fields, she is the only one who talks about a fear I can really relate to.
We was livin’ out on the farm, pickin’ cotton, choppin’ cotton. The white childrens, they would start school August just like they do now, but we, by us having to go the fields to pick cotton, we would start in September, instead of August.
We used to pick cotton, it would be so hot out there. I was ’fraid of the worms in the field and I would always get in trouble ’cause I couldn’t do what I was supposed to do for watchin’ for the worms. When we pick cotton, we put these sacks over our shoulders and pull and pick cotton, and I looked and worms would be crawling up my sack, coming up to my shoulders, then here I go screamin’ and hollerin’. Momma would get on me, whip me sometimes, “Girl, you gotta pick cotton.” I said, “But I’m just afraid of these worms.” And I really was. I’d do okay until I see a worm, then here I go, standin’, lookin’ ’cross the field. And one day, I like reach up to scratch my head and came down with a worm in my hand, and ooh, that was the frighteniest thing I had ever went through, but I was just afraid of ’em. But I could pick okay.
All we went through, to miss out on school to work in the fields.
When her voice trails off, I wonder what she’s thinking about. “If I were to ask you about a happy memory, what would you tell me about?”
She is quiet. She doesn’t say anything. “I can’t really think of one.” Then she says, “But the only thing that’s been a blessing to me is how my children, after they finished school and got their jobs, they would start giving me money. I guess they thought back to what I didn’t have back in those years, and that was really a blessing to me. They help me real good. They have all done for me.” She smiles and then tells me about Milton, her son, who gave her money for her birthday and for Christmas.
“Tell me about Milton.”
She is quiet again.
We went over there and he [Milton] was layin’ on the floor. His girlfriend’s two grandsons found him and put a sheet under his head, folded and rolled it up. When I went in there and laid my hand on his shoulder, I said, “Milton?” He tried to turn his head, but he couldn’t. And then his lips moved, he was tryin’ to say somethin’ but he couldn’t. They came and got him. Life flighted him to Jackson, to the hospital. The doctor said he had a stroke, but I have a cousin that’s a doctor and she thinks it was an aneurysm.
I’m a firm believer as long as you’re breathin’, God can do somethin’ for you. So I got down there to the hospital. When we went in that night. We were sittin’ and waitin’ to go in to see him; they would let us go in one at a time. I said, “Let’s pray.” We start prayin’ and I said, “God is gonna save Milton.” My grandson was, like, I don’t believe that. He wasn’t actually sayin’ it but the expression on his face said it.
But anyway, he [Milton] didn’t make it. It was very sad and the thing that really bothered me most was that I wasn’t really sure if he was really save
d. And that’s the really saddest part about it. And I still, every night, when I go in my room to get in the bed, I always say my prayers, sit up in the bed, and read a Scripture. And every night when I go and sit in that bed, I always think about Milton. Every night.
“We put these sacks over our shoulders and pull and pick cotton, and I looked and worms would be crawling up my sack.”
MRS. OLLIE L. MACK, 76
YAZOO CITY
BORN MARCH 1939
MARRIED 23 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
6 CHILDREN
7 GRANDCHILDREN
7 GREAT-GRANDS
3 GREAT-GREAT-GRANDS
Rev. Benjamin Hall in Yazoo City tells me, “I have two church mothers who agree to be interviewed.” As I drive three and a half hours to Yazoo City, I cannot believe I agreed to do this on a day when I have to drive back and teach an 8 a.m. class. I know I’m going to be exhausted when I get home.
I walk inside the church and two women are seated inside a hall that I can tell the church uses for wedding receptions or dinners. Mrs. Ollie Mack is seated with her cousin, Mrs. Bettie Clark. They came into the interview together. The space is large with tiled floors and an adjoining kitchen. The echo a tiled floor causes is a nightmare for audio, which I will use for more than transcripts. I want to make multimedia videos so people can hear the women’s voices because nothing is more powerful than hearing them.
Collecting audio for this project has been a challenge. Some of the women have noisy homes. Air conditioners or fans hum, children talk the background, grandchildren toddle noisily around, microwaves beep because family members are heating up food, but mainly, loud television sets blare. In one Jewel interview after another, I have to constantly address audio problems. I worry about sound quality. I’ve spent a lot of money on equipment, but when I can’t get good settings, I feel frustrated.
I already know I am not going to be happy with the echo in this room, but there is nowhere else in the church for me to interview. I move the microphone closer to them.
Mrs. Bettie Clark is on the right side of the table. She has warm eyes. Mrs. Mack is at the head of the table on the left side, cutting her eyes at me, perhaps judging me. She doesn’t look thrilled to be here. “What do you mean by an interview?” is the first thing she says. “What kinds of questions? I don’t understand.”
I am nervous and intimidated. “I just want to ask you some questions about your life. Perhaps you’ll share a story or two. Like, do your grandchildren ask you to tell them a story over and over again?”
She shakes her head no.
“Is there a childhood memory that takes you back to a time?”
She talks about wanting to get out of the cotton fields and get married. Her husband was older than her and her daddy had a fit, but she was over 18 and could do what she wanted. We talk for about 40 minutes. She is an avid sports fan; the Cowboys are her favorite team. I don’t dare tell her that my favorite team is the Steelers because the Cowboys and Steelers are rivals. I don’t want to have that conversation with her, but I am trying to find a way to get Mrs. Mack to share her thoughts. She answers my questions, but I want her to warm up. “What do you want your legacy to be?”
I want the young peoples to think of me as the mother of this church, King Solomon M.B. Church, and my family mother. I want to be a good mother for them and a good mother for the young folks here. That’s what they call me, Mother Mack. That’s what they call me. I’ve been at this church for almost 50 years. I got married—my husband was already here—and I joined. My children done grew up in this church. And I had no dream I was gonna be a church mother. Rev. Hall called me from the back of the church during church service, to the front of the church to be a mother. I still didn’t want to be a [church] mother, but I prayed about it and I accepted. To me, it’s a good thing, you know?
What you really do, you talk to the young peoples and you get the communion and the baptizing; you’re responsible for that. I work with him [Rev. Hall]. You know when he have counseling, I work with him. I be there with him, that’s what I mostly do. You see, I worked and was working on Sundays. I’d just stopped working and I got a chance to come to church. Just started. Thought I was lookin’ good, had my clothes, and he called me ’bout the next one or two Sundays and said, “You can’t sit back there no more. You gonna have to come to the front. We appointed you to be a mother.” I said, “Lord, have mercy. White every Sunday? I can’t have it.” That just knocked me off my feet. I had to pray about it. That was the main thing, wearing white all the time. But I prayed about it, accepted it, and now I’m proud to be a mother. White dresses while on the motherboard mean purity.
Gram Ree—Gram’s mother, who first moved from South Carolina and later brought Gram to the North—was a church mother in her Baptist church in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. I didn’t realize it as a child; I was raised Presbyterian. I never asked Gram Ree why she would wear all white to church sometimes. So I’m glad Mrs. Mack tells me, but I feel regret that I never asked my own great-grandmother about her church life. Mrs. Mack doesn’t want to be photographed, but she lets me beam the camera on her and cuts her eyes at me while I do. I always take the photo last because it allows for us to develop some sort of relationship. I know if they do not talk to me first, they may get nervous and refuse to sit for a photo. They trust me a little after we talk.
When I am finished clicking, Mrs. Ollie gets up. She walks down the hall to the church’s glass door. I hear her heels click on the tile. Her ride is here. As she’s leaving, I run after her to ask one more question. I feel like Columbo, the famous TV police detective from the 1970s, played by Peter Falk. He always had one last question. “Mrs. Ollie Mack?”
She stops walking.
“I’m sorry to stop you, but I have one last question.”
“Yes?”
“Where did you get your name? Ollie is unusual.”
She sighs. “Two white women named me.”
I ask if she will go back into the gathering room and let me record her answer. She is clearly irritated but agrees. I put the recorder back on and again ask her how she got her name.
“Two white women named me.”
“Were they family friends?”
“Child, no, didn’t you see Roots?” She huffs, implying I’m ignorant to ask that question.
I am embarrassed. “Yes, I’ve seen it, but it’s been a long time. I don’t remember some parts.”
She sucks her teeth and says, “The white peoples named the children. These two white women told my mother to name me after them. Two white ladies give me that name. One name was Ollie, the other name was Louise. They thought I should have been named after them. My parents probably thought there was nothin’ they could say. I’m proud of my name, I don’t think nothing about it now. If my mother had something else picked out, she didn’t say nothing. They was afraid of the white peoples, and whatever the white peoples said, they had no other choice, they had to go along with them. That’s how that come about. Is that all?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
When she finishes, she walks back down the hall. I can hear her heels clicking against the tile.
DR. BETTIE L. CLARK, 72
YAZOO CITY
BORN OCTOBER 1942
MARRIED 20 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
REMARRIED 26 YEARS WHEN WIDOWED
5 CHILDREN
9 GRANDCHILDREN
2 GREAT-GRANDS
Dr. Clark is Mrs. Ollie Mack’s cousin. She is quiet during my interview with Mrs. Mack and smiles when things are funny. After Mrs. Mack’s exit, I learn that Mrs. Clark was born on Norway Plantation in Yazoo County, where she picked cotton. She has been a professional cake decorator since 1986, and she started college when she was 66 years old. Her words stayed with me long afterward: “It’s not how far you go, it’s what you do with what you’ve got.”
I was about 9 years old when I started workin’ in the field. I stopped w
hen I had finished the twelfth grade. Leaving the field was all I would ever think about. I used to say, “Lord, if you ever get me out of this field, don’t let me come back.”
The summer when I graduated, I went to Ohio to be with my momma’s people. I had broke my teeth before I left for Ohio. My momma and them still had some crops—they were sharecroppers. She told me that if she put the teeth back and buy my senior portraits and stuff, then I would need to help them to finish the crops out. So I agreed. I had to pick cotton. It wasn’t a lot to fix [the teeth], but I had to pay her back. I understand ’cause I was taking what little they had. The cotton, they weren’t going to get paid for it until the end of the crop time, like November or early December.
I wanted to be a nurse, I really did. I had the opportunity, but I didn’t have clothes and stuff to go to college—and I wasn’t going to have to pay for it [college]. But it was a long ways from home and my momma and them didn’t have money to get me up there at Valley State. It was a program through the employment office and they sent me a letter that I could go to school as a nurse, a LPN. No charges. All I had to do was go, but they didn’t buy you no clothes or pay your expenses to get up there and back home. And I missed that opportunity.
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