Part I
Even as a child I had a rebellious streak unlike anyone else in my family.
I didn’t realize it of course until I had the back of my hands popped with a ruler about 5 times from Mrs. Hatfield when I was in the 5th grade.
“You have to learn that you cannot talk to your teacher this way.” Her eyes were slit and narrowed, her pointy chin was pulled upward while she kept a tight thin lip. “You are just rebellious that’s what you are. It’s getting out of hand to have to discipline you every week like this. I’ll be having a talk with your mother today!”
The fear that washed over me in that moment was unlike anything I’d felt before. “No no, please don’t tell my mama Missus Hatfield. I don’ try and be rebellious, I’ll change.” I’d take any amount of red splotches mixed with bruises on the backs of my hands over her meeting with my folks. My fear was propelled by the thought that once Mama found out, Papa would find out. That would result in a beatin’ for sure.
Mrs. Hatfield was the kind of teacher who was caring and usually gentle, but had zero tolerance for unruly behavior from her students. Thankfully, she softened her grip on my hands although she kept a firm lip. “I see you disobeying me one more time and I’ll go straight to them, you hear me? Not one more time.” She had a seriousness in her eyes I hadn’t seen before.
I quietly whispered “yes ma’am” and gave a quick prayer to the Lord above. “Thank you for keeping her quiet Lord. I dunno what I would do havin’ Papa mad at me again this week.”
Mrs. Hatfield never had trouble out of me again.
I did ask her the following week what rebellious meant and she gave a curt laugh. I thought she may have even cut her eyes to the side in exasperation with me, but I stayed still and anxiously awaited her answer.
“It means when you won’t listen to someone in a place over you. Someone who has authority. It’s like having fire in your veins and a wildness that’s hard to tame. But it isn’t good, Lily. Ladies must learn to respect those who are older than us or in a place of authority. You want to be seen as a gentle and kind spirit don’t you?” I nodded, still unsure if I wanted anything to do with this spirit she was talking about. “Good, because that is how ladies should be. Quiet and only talking when spoken to. You understand?”
“Yes.” I nodded to her slowly, not because I didn’t understand but because I didn’t like it. I wasn’t good at being quiet and I wasn’t good at listening. Unless Papa brought out the belt of course, and then I could be as quiet as a mouse.
“A fire in your veins and a wildness that’s hard to tame…”
This was a more appealing description than it probably should’ve been to my 11 year-old heart. I had it, I knew that. I had the rebellion in my veins.
Although I enjoyed school and I loved Mrs. Hatfield, it was the following year that I had to quit due to the increasing demands at home. Mama had Leah, May, Eliza, Thomas and William to tend to and needed me with her. Papa had me working the tobacco fields and taking care of the farm animals with my big brother Joe every morning at dawn. There wasn’t any time to go to school, though I can’t say I missed that one mile walk in the snow with my siblings lagging behind me too much.
Leah, May, Eliza and Thomas still went to Holly Hill Schoolyard but Leah was the big girl in charge now. If my duties at home weren’t so hard, I’d almost be relieved I didn’t have to tote them around like I used to. But after a few months, I had a slow realization I’d take Thomas fast on my heels with his whiney voice any day over farm work.
“Good day’s work’s good for ya” Papa would say in his gruff voice, his eyes scrutinizing every tobacco leaf I pulled that first day. “Women’s work ain’t just sitting and makin’ quilts all the time. You need to learn how to pull your weight ‘round here.”
Little did he know, I didn’t make quilts nor did I know how to at that time. But I did take care of all my sisters, help every morning with the farm animals while Papa was out on his tractor- not noticing how Pearl the Cow was always trying to kick me as I milked her- and still had to make supper with Mama every night. He didn’t notice how I would sweat heavily under the heat of being in the fields all day, leaned over or crawling on the ground.
Sometimes I would pray for lunch time just so I could get a tired, faint smile from Mama who was always worried about me being out there too long. She and Papa didn’t agree on my age being a factor with starting field work, but Papa wouldn’t have it.
He needed help and that’s all there was to it.
Sometimes though, when Papa would tell me how to do something the exact way he wanted it done, I felt the rebellion in my veins. He would look at me like I was a field mouse, an unwelcome distraction from his real work, and never had a pleasant tone with me my entire life.
He would sometimes leave Joe and I in the fields after lunch and wouldn’t return until the night. We would all be huddled together in our beds listening to Mama and Papa in the kitchen downstairs when he came scrambling in. Mama would never raise her voice, but we could tell when she was crying. The yelling was always from Papa and always started when Mama said “you’ve been out with the bottle again, haven’t you?”
I didn’t know what that meant until I had a frank discussion with my pals down by the creek bed. The African American family that lived somewhere on the back side of Holly Hill mountain had three boys that always splashed in the creek bed with me and my siblings. We weren’t allowed to talk to anyone of color but no one knew we were there. It was one of our rare play times when we escaped the prison of the Craver household and no one could find us for a good hour.
We would always have to come back with kiln so it looked like we were still working.
Our friends in the creek bed let us know they weren’t allowed to talk to us either. We called each other names based on our skin color, like “whitey” and “blackie” because none of us had gone to school with anyone like the other. We sure enjoyed splashing each other though. And laughing. We rarely did that at home and always looked forward to the times when we saw them.
It was Emmett that let me know his Papa had “taken to the bottle” for years. He told me all about how he would drink and turn mean, scaring everyone into hiding until he finally ran off one day. “Hadn’t been ‘round for years now.” He said it very matter of fact. He was the oldest and his eyes twinkled as though he was happy about it.
I thought about that for awhile.
How wonderful it would be if Papa would leave and wouldn’t return. Mama might be sad for awhile but we would all get along just fine without him.
One day in the summer, a visit to our friends in the creek bed resulted in a conversation that upended my world for months. It was Eugene that said it, the youngest of the three. “I’ll be, Lily, but you just don’ look like tha rest of ya. Why you lookin’ so different?”
It really started to bother me. I blushed at the thought while I waded in the creek bed and splashed some mud up on his back. “No more different than you.” I liked Eugene. He was my favorite. Although he was shy and contemplative, he was fiercely protective over his siblings and mine.
But it stayed with me all day. I’d wondered for years why my hair was darker than all the rest of my siblings. And Mama was pregnant again so I wondered if the next one would have my dark features?
But Edward was born with blonde curly hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Mama said all babies had blue eyes, but she was starting to pick up on the fact I knew I looked different.
Months passed before I gathered the courage up to ask her, but I did one afternoon while we were steaming turnips in the kitchen. “Mama?” I felt my hands start to shake, but she didn’t seem to catch on to my nervousness at all.
“Yeah hun” she said absentmindedly, sewing a patch on Joe’s worn field pants that were already too short for him anyway.
“Could you tell me why I’m different?”
I didn’t turn to face her. Just kept stirring the turnips.
She paused and I knew I had her attention. “What do you mean different?”
I suddenly felt shy and awkward. Like maybe I shouldn’t continue and just drop it before I asked something I wasn’t supposed to. But I pressed on, because it kept me up at night and well, I really needed to sleep these days with Papa working us so long in the evenings.
“I just mean I don’t have the same look as the rest of ya. I got this brown hair and my eyes aren’t like any of my sisters and I heard maybe I didn’ come from here.” Really I was thinking about that rebellion in my veins too but I decided not to mention that.
I needed to see if I had different folks somewhere else like I always seemed to feel deep down in my heart.
This is Part I of a Part V Series. PART II
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