Paddaway
Delivered by
Deborah Wheeler January 10, 2010
At the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship, New Bern, NC
We’re
in the dead of winter with a dull tans, browns, and grays the dominate
color in the landscape. There
is of course the Carolina blue of our sky on clear days and evergreen
needles and leaves on plants. There is the white of narcissus and the reds
and pinks of camellia.
These
colors are all occurring against the austerity of winter.
When
I was growing up in Eastern NC, the Greyhound bus passed our house at
10:20 AM, going west, and again at 4:00 PM, headed east back to New Bern.
My uncle drove that bus, and I noticed it going by if I was outside the
house. My father told me you could flag down the bus and ride to any place
between our house and Raleigh.
I
had never been to Raleigh but I had been to Kinston, which was about ten
miles from my house. It was in Kinston at the Sears and Roebuck Store that
I first saw signs like the ones Sydney Barnwell spoke about last week in
his talk. Sears-Roebuck had water fountains and over one of them was a
label that said “Colored”. I
asked my mother about it and she said colored people had their own water
fountain and bathroom.
Segregation
was deeply rooted in our community in the fifties and sixties when I was
growing up. I rarely had the opportunity to talk to any person of color.
Between
my birth and my fifteenth birthday, there were only three
African-Americans I knew by name.
One
was Mr. McCoy.
He
lived in a small house on Highway 55 in the direction of Kinston. His
house was next to that of my second grade teacher, Mrs. Jones. That may be
how I became aware of Mr. McCoy. He drove a pick-up truck and sometimes
sold fresh eggs.
The
second person was a young girl named Minnie. She lived in Green County
near my cousin Shirley Dean. I spent a week or two each year with Shirley
each year on school holidays. Minnie played Hopscotch with us out on the
sandy yard between the two houses.
The
third person was a young man called Paddaway.
Several
of my relatives tenant-farmed the land that belonged to my grandmother.
All the families worked together to harvest the tobacco in July and
August.
My
Uncle Willie had no children to help with the labor. One
summer, he hired Paddaway as a laborer to help with the harvest. I was
thirteen, my brothers were ten and twelve. We worked in the fields along
with cousins, aunts and uncle and Paddaway.
As
you know it is hot in Eastern NC in August and July.
The
tobacco fields were laid out in long rows. Wider truck rows ran between
each group of eight tobacco rows so a tractor or mule could get through.
Breaking
the leaves off the plant was called cropping tobacco. One particular day
when I was thirteen, the job fell to my brother Danny, my cousin Dorsey,
Paddaway and me.
My
father was driving a tractor to truck the tobacco between the field and
the barn. My mother along with other extended family members were at the
barn, loping the tobacco to sticks to be hung in barns like those depicted
in Steve Greer’ paintings.
The
four of us in the field harvested eight rows at a time, each walking
between two rows, bending down to get the leaves from the bottom of plant.
We took the armloads of tobacco to the truck. The work started early in
the morning and lasted all day.
In
that heat and hard work, any distraction was a gift from heaven. Singing
was like that. Paddaway’s voice in particular was smooth and beautiful.
The music helped keep us going.
When
we stopped for a water break, one jar was given to Paddaway while the rest
of us had to share a jar. My brother thought having his own jar was a
special privilege.
The
summer ended, the tobacco fields were lined with stripped stalks and
Paddaway moved on. We never saw him again.
But
at least I knew his name.
Which
was more than I knew about the other people I saw walking on the road or
standing in their yards as I rode the school bus to Fort Barnwell. I knew
the family name for every house we passed, provided the people who lived
there were white.
I
moved to Newport News, Virginia, near the end of 1963 and integration of
the schools was just beginning.
Since
then a great deal has changed. In 1985, when my grandmother died, several
black women attended her funeral out of respect for my aunt. They worked
with her in the school cafeteria. In many ways segregation has ended.
As
Sydney said last week, sometimes the signs come down but the behavior
stays the same. It has often been observed that Sunday mornings are the
when segregation is most visible. Mary Barnwell and I talked about this
after the service last week, the existence of white churches and black
churches.
Mary
told me it bothered her that white people do not go to black churches. The
point was well made. UU’s talk about attracting people of color, but do
we visit Black churches?
Social
inequity injures all who live in such a system, not just the visibly
oppressed people, but everyone.
My
life is infinitely better because of the civil rights movement. My
community and country are better for it.
I
participate in the MLK events to honor that. I hope many of you will also.
There
is still room for change and improvement. Our Fellowship, our Eastern
Cluster and our TJD district all have events geared toward race relations.
In
February the Fellowship is offering an RE discussion group Mark
Morrison-Reed's latest book, "In Between: Memoir of an Integration
Baby." Mark is the Keynote speaker for the March 20 Cluster meeting.
The TJD district is holding an antiracism conference February 5-7, in
Richmond, VA..
To
conclude , the guest at my table today would be Paddaway, the young man I
worked with in the tobacco fields in 1960. I knew him as a handsome young
man with a beautiful singing voice. His generous spirit encouraged me
through days of tedious work. Now he would be about seventy and I hope he
has had a good life.
In
honor of his generous spirit, I encourage all of you to reach out to
others.
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