Christmas 2016

I believe in God not because my parents told me, not because the Church told me, but because I’ve experienced His goodness and mercy for myself
 Amish proverb

Tom cursed the McCleods with every curse he had ever heard. They had sold him like livestock, traded him for a slave they needed more.

He had been born on their farm. His daddy was born on their farm. His daddy had died of a fever at the farm when Tom was 12. All he knew was their farm. All the hard work he had done his whole life counted for nothing.

And all that Bible reading they did was for white people. It didn’t mean nothing to a slave. Tom had thought of himself as a part of the family. How could he have been so wrong!

The image of Mistress McCleod’s face pale and drawn from her labor, her baby mewing weakly with hunger tugged at his heart. Tom knew why he had been sold. The child would have surely died without the woman and her milk.

Babies dying was a part of life in these parts. Tom’s own mother had died in childbirth along with her baby. But he also knew that no man would allow that if he had a way to save them.

There had been no meanness in James’s decision. But knowing that was bitter comfort. Why must he be sold? Why couldn’t they have found another way? Why couldn’t a white woman have shared her milk? Was he no more than an animal to be traded when the need arose? Tom had known his skin meant that he would never be a real part of the family, but he had never thought of himself as property.

 Tom felt pain and humiliation at the brace around his neck. He had never imagined that he would find himself in its embrace. Although Tom was a slave, he had never been chained, never been treated as if he weren’t a human being, never been harnessed like an animal. He could not stop the tears that seeped from his eyes and ran down his face. He trembled at what was happening to him. Life had changed in a moment. Yesterday he had been working in the field as he had all his life. Today he was in chains, walking to an unknown future.

“Forgot you was a nigger, did you?” the slave trader taunted him. “You ain’t nothing but a nigger now and you better not forget it. I expect to get a pretty price for you. You’re a strong young buck even with your womanish tears. You’ll soon have that whipped out of you. I’ll sell you high. You gonna make a fine field hand. You’ll work harder than that yeoman farmer ever made you work. He probably spoiled you and made you forget what you is.”

 His anger apparent, the trader landed a fist into Tom’s stomach bringing him to his knees. “I ain’t gonna let you forget again.”

Then the trader smiled. “I got the better deal off’n that farmer. That baby almost white. What’s a farmer around here going to do with that, and that woman weren't gonna be sold easy with that high yeller baby. Nobody in these parts is gonna want that. If’n she hadn’t come so cheap, I wouldn’t have taken her neither. That mistress just wanted her husband’s woman and child off the place. She practically give her and that baby to me. You need to remember, boy. You ain’t nothing but a piece of property no matter what that farmer made you think. He sold you when he needed to, didn’t he? I’d give you a good whippin’ if’n it wouldn’t cut your price. ”

The trader’s words hit Tom worst than the fist in his gut. The trader was right. In the end, he had been sold. He may have worked in the fields side by side with James, but in the end, he was a slave. They cared about him the same way they did for their mule that pulled the plow. What did it matter that James had not been able to look him in the eye as the trade was made, or after. What if James had felt shame. He had sold Tom anyway. Because he could.

Tom could feel the taste of his anger in the acid at the back of his throat. But then his anger turned back to fear. His heart was pounding in his chest and each breath came short and tight. What happened now? He had never been owned by anyone but James, and he knew that James had been an easy master They worked side by side. James gave him ample food and the clothes to keep him warm.

Tom had never even been hit by anyone but his daddy. He’d certainly never been whipped. James didn’t even own a whip. Tom knew from other slaves passing through how badly a slave could be treated. He had seen men with scars from the whip that turned his stomach. He’d seen one man missing an ear. Another had been branded in the face. He had been foolishly glad that such could never happen to him. He thought so no more.

 ******

Tom’s salvation didn’t feel like it when it came. They had traveled all day and it was dusk dark. He never even saw the snake that bit him. He just felt a fire in his leg crumbling him to the ground. The pain was so intense that he began to vomit the little that was in his stomach.

The trader began cursing. “Damn it to hell. If you ain’t the stupidest nigger I ever seen. You done stepped on a copperhead.” While Tom was writhing in pain, the trader leaned down and cursed again, “ and damn if’n it didn’t bite you more than once. Only decent trade I’ve made this trip and all gone to hell.” The trader started to wrap a rope tightly above Tom’s knee and then took his knife to each of the bites. “Damn if I’m gonna suck your leg, no matter how much it costs me.” he muttered under his breath. Tom lost consciousness to the sound of the trader’s profanity.

Tom awoke to searing pain throughout his body. The tourniquet was gone and all the way up his leg were big puffy red welts like huge scarlet calluses. He was alone. Tom’s neck brace and shackles had been removed and Tom knew he had been left to die.

He tried to stand but the pain was too great. He crawled his way out of the brush in the hope of seeing someone on the trail. All was silent and still. Tom sobbed for his losses, for his daddy, for the family that wasn’t his after all, for the end of his life alone and forgotten in the woods. In his desperation, he gave up a final plea to the Jesus of the McCleods to save him.

 ******

 Tom was shivering, seeking warmth in the quilt that covered him; and then he was burning up and throwing it off. His body ached all over.

 “I fear for him,” came a voice from far away. “His leg is oozing green and none of our poultices have worked.”

The face of the trader appeared before Tom, laughing, cracking his whip, snapping it on his leg. As the trader used the whip to bite the skin of his leg, he screamed at Tom, telling him the whip was his family. Tom heard a sizzle as the trader began to laugh. He looked down to see his leg on fire. The flames were all around and burning trees were beginning to fall on him. He moaned and felt a cloth on his forehead before darkness overwhelmed him again.

“It will have to come off.” Doc told them. “I can’t save it and he’ll die if we don’t.”

Tom felt strong arms holding him down and listened to the terror of his own voice. They were cutting off his leg. His screams filled the room. The agony was unbearable. Once again, it was unconsciousness that gave him relief.

 ********

Doc knew the Mennonites lived simply and had little money. He knew how much it took for them to ask for his help. He knew how dangerous it could be if others discovered the man in their care. Memories of his recently lost wife made his decision for him. He would help. He would not betray these kind people.

“Hide him. He won’t be worth much without a leg, but they might hang you anyway for helping a runaway.”

 “But we found him dying by the side of the trail,” the woman replied.

 “Don’t matter,” Doc said. “Keep him hid. He ain’t yours and that means you ain’t got no right to him, no papers. He ain’t going anywhere any time soon so make it a place he won’t be seen if someone comes. Doc knew that this was unlikely but possible. “And when he’s better, send him away.”

 “Where would he go, and how would he live?

These people were like his wife. They made no distinction between a black man and a white.

“Then you’ll need to find a way to hide him all the time, and keep the wound clean. You don’t want the infection to return.”

 Unlike most practicing doctors, Doc knew how to fight infection by washing the wound and using clean tools. It was a new concept he gained from his medical training up North.

 “Any good hickory will do to support him. Once his wound is healed, make sure you find another place for him to hide. One he can get to quickly. You mustn’t neglect to do this. It’s a matter of life and death for you, for this man, and possibly for me as well.”

 Doc sighed. He knew he had done all he could. It gave him pleasure to know how pleased Rachael would have been with what he had done. If only she were at home to tell.

He left knowing he would tell no one of this visit and praying that no one would discover what he or they had done.

 ******

Tom awoke to the pain in his leg. A woman waited beside him with a cup in her hand. “Thou must drink now, and soon I will bring thee some broth.”

 “My ankle hurt so bad.” Tom told her. “ A snake bit me.”

 “I’m sorry thou art in pain,” she said gently. “Thy leg had to be removed or Thou would have died.”

“But it hurt. It hurt something terrible.”

 “It is hard to understand. Perhaps Thy body is remembering the pain from before. I believe the pain will cease with time. We will pray for God’s mercy.”

 Tom let her put the cup to his mouth and swallowed as much as he could. It was warm and tasty, both sweet and spicy.

 “It is ginger tea with honey. It will help thee.”

 “Thank you, missus” he said and drifted off to sleep once more.

 ******

 The Mennonite family moved Tom to their cellar where they saw to his needs with the morning and evening chores. At night, there was always someone with him. Sometimes the woman who had given him the broth, or her husband, sometimes their son or daughter. Tom marveled that the woman and her daughter were allowed to sit with him, feeding him and helping him to sit up. He knew of no white man who would permit any of his female relatives to be alone with a slave of more than seven or eight. Whoever came to be by his side would sing hymns as they sat with him. On occasion, mother and daughter, or father and son, would sing in this wonderful harmony. Tom could not imagine any angels singing better. But only one or two would stay with him at a time. Someone had to be on watch.

 Slowly Tom gained strength. During the day he would practice with the hickory stick until he could go back and forth across the cellar floor. At night, his spirit was restored by harmonious song. He knew what he must do. When the man of the house came for his turn to sit with Tom, Tom told him that he was ready to go.

 “But where would thou go?” he asked him.

 “I go North. Y’all been so good to me, but I get you in trouble. I only be free in de North.”

Even as Tom said it, he knew that he didn’t have a chance. Those who made it were in border states, or Virginia. To make it from the Carolinas would take a miracle. “Y’all treat me good. Y’all’s the best I ever knowed. But you could hang for me being here. Not gonna do dat.”

 “But thou are part of our family” the man solemnly told him. “The Lord sent thee to us. Thou will always be at home with us, and with our community. I have already talked to the other families. Thou will be protected as anyone in our community would be. We are all the same in God’s sight. We will all protect thee. Thou need never leave us. Thou will be as a free man among us. The will of God is greater than the will of man.”

 Tom wept.



 Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, there God is dwelling too. 
 William Blake

 Addy put one foot in front of the other. She could manage no more. She held by her side a girl who had still not shared her name. The girl’s mother had died giving birth to the girl's brother. He had been given to another woman in milk. The girl had been sold. She now clung to Addy for what comfort Addy could give her. Her small legs often stumbled and she cried silently, the tears almost forgotten as they trailed down her cheeks. Addy held her whenever she could, but her eyes were ever on her son, Pete. She could tell that he, too, was so tired and hungry that he could barely walk; but unlike Addy, whose stride matched those of the other women, Pete was a boy following men. He had to work that much harder to keep up. If it weren’t for the old man slowing the pace, he could not have done it.

The slave trader ahead was cursing his fate. “What a sorry load this is. Got me a sickly old man, a sniffling gal, and a scrawny boy to sell. They ain’t none but the young buck and maybe the mulatto woman that’ll bring anything. Paid too much for the boy, too. Wouldn’t have taken him at all if it hadn’t been for that crazy farmer insisting they go together. Fool. Did he think they’d stay together? Be lucky to get anything for the boy, or the little girl.” But he knew that even little girls grew up to have babies. He continued to mutter over his fate, even though he had no listener but the slaves in his possession. Of course, he didn’t count them.

 ******

 There was a fair crowd. Most of them were yeoman farmers with a few gentlemen scattered about. It was a small auction. Most gentlemen would go to Charleston for their needs. Few slaves of great worth were offered in this small upstate town. The two groups made no contact with each other. The farmers knew that they would only get what the gentlemen did not want.

 Addy stood without moving; her eyes never left Pete. Men came and looked at her teeth like she was an animal. They felt of her breasts as they would a woman. Through it all, she never even flinched. She kept her eyes on her son and he kept his on her. Addy could see how much it hurt him to see her touched in this way but he knew better than to say a word or make any gesture that would betray his feelings. Both understood how helpless they were.

Addy was drawing more attention than any of the others and the trader felt his spirits rising. He would make a good profit on this one. Pete attracted attention, too; but it was his looks only. It was because he looked so white. No gentleman seemed much interested in Pete after one had asked if he had been trained as a house servant. The trader had to admit he had not. None of the gentlemen had any interest in him after that. The trader had no qualms about lying but this was on his regular route and he could not afford the bad feelings. After that it was mostly farmers, but Pete was small for his age and did not look strong. A farmer would need a slave that could help right away with the hard work of the fields.

 Addy and Pete continued their unwavering gaze with each other as if they could keep a connection where none was possible. Both realized there was no chance of remaining together.

Addy thought bitterly of how Pete could be headed West with James and his family. She fought the tears of her disappointment. She would not let these people see her cry. Addy held her head high. They might treat her like an animal but she knew who she was. She knew who her son was. She could only hope that she could burn it into his soul with her eyes because she knew what trials awaited him to tear him down, to make him believe that he was less.

Even in her disappointment, she was grateful to the McCleods for the time she had with her son, for the opportunity to give him the strength that he would surely need now. Addy knew that it was her own mother’s love that had seen her through. She had spent every day giving that same love to her son.

 A man turned Pete’s head, right and left, made a disgusted grunt, and walked away. Pete’s eyes returned to his mother. He would not waste a moment away from her face. Pete knew these were their last moments and sought to send his love to her in a wordless good-bye. He knew he would forever see her face no matter what the future held.

 *****

Doc was drawn immediately to the woman standing regally among the despondent slaves. The others held their heads down, hopelessly resigned to a future they could not control. The young girl was weeping openly. Doc noticed the slight turn of the woman’s head. What was she looking at? And then he saw the boy. Their eyes were locked so intensely. The boy was obviously her son. It was also obvious that his father had been a white man, her master, of course. Neither cried. Neither slumped. They did not look to either side, their eyes a locked embrace.

The bidding began with the woman. The farmers were silent as the gentlemen began to bid. As her price increased, her head remained turned to her son. It was as if the bidding did not concern her, even though her life would be determined by the outcome.

Doc knew that he would buy her. She was the woman he needed to keep his house. But it was so much more than that. He could not let this proud woman be subject to more humiliation and abuse. He placed his bid fifty dollars higher than the last bid even though it was more than he intended or could afford.

The man who bid against Doc knew the Doc. He knew his situation. He thought he knew what attracted Doc to this slave. He smiled and tipped his hat to Doc and bid no more. When her price had been set and the bidding was over, the woman looked away from her son and took in Doc’s face and appearance.

 For the first time, Addy thought she might cry. It was immediately obvious to her that this man would be kind, even if he used her as her first master had done. She knew her fate could have been so much worse. But as much as her relief was, her guilt and fear for her son was greater. She knew Pete was likely to be overworked and hungry whoever he was sold to. When the sale was made and the money exchanged, Doc only nodded at her and turned his attention back to the auction.

“So he will be buying another,” she thought to herself and looked to the others to see who he would choose. Addy’s gaze went back to her son, but with no hope. She would not torment herself. She feared Pete would not even get a bidder in this place and would continue down South, his prospects worse the further he went.

The bidding continued and her new owner made no more bids. Near the end, Pete came to the block. A mean looking farmer made a very low bid, and Addy could see from the trader’s face, that he would accept it. The pain in the pit of her stomach drew a gasp from her, her hand coming to her mouth too late.

Doc looked down at Addy. He had only meant to allow her to see what happened to her son, but the anguish of her face made him know what he needed to do. He couldn’t really afford it, but he knew he had to do it anyway. Again, Rachel’s smile came before him and he ached for her as he had since the day he died. Doc made his bid twenty dollars more than the farmer, and the gavel came down.

“No one who lights a lamp conceals it with a vessel or sets it under a bed; rather, he places it on a lampstand so that those who enter may see the light.j17For there is nothing hidden that will not become visible, and nothing secret that will not be known and come to light.18Take care, then, how you hear. To anyone who has, more will be given, and from the one who has not, even what he seems to have will be taken away.”

Kerry has had strange men come up to him and spill their guts. Once in the parking lot of an automotive store, a man shared really heartfelt struggles to Kerry as Kerry was trying to find out about some auto part, and Kerry was a complete stranger of about five minutes acquaintance. We tell him he had his light on, and it's true.

Light is used so many times in the New Testament as a metaphor for God's love and understanding. This part of the parable is pretty obvious. If you have God's love in your heart, you are going to share it, not hide it.

Most people of my background have heard that the next part regards you sins and how everyone will know when you get to judgement day. But that doesn't really fit with this series of metaphor. The translation in Mark 4:22 comes closer to paralleling the theme of the first metaphor. For there is nothing hidden except to be made visible; nothing is secret except to come to light. When we are living God's love, it shows. When we are living in hate and intolerance and selfishness, it shows. Who we are on the inside will eventually become known to those around us. We may pretend for a while; but, in the long run, our inner life will show in our outer life. I saw this as so evident in the year I spent working in an assisted living facility. If you are the kind of person who is kind and fun loving in life, it will show even in dementia. If you were rude and self-centered, that will also be your personality when your mind is no longer functioning normally (the exception being dementia due to Alzheimer's which can totally affect your personality depending on where it spreads in the brain. My talkative mother became almost completely silent).

The last metaphor is perhaps the hardest and seems not to fit with the idea of light and understanding found in the previous two. Take care how you hear. More will be given to the one that has and the one with the least gets it taken away. I have found with the negatives present in the gospel that it is the nature of life or spirituality that makes it so. I see the same in this passage. It is similar to the story of the two wolves inside us. Which one wins? The one you feed. If a person has God's love in their hearts, the more you have, the more you seek. If there is little love, as in another parable of Jesus, there is less gratitude. If that understanding is not fed and supported, even the small amount of love you have will be swallowed by other priorities and desires. If our light is to be brighter, we must be listeners; we must be seekers; we must be adding to what we know by shining our light and feeding it. Lamps require oil to be replenished. We must feed what we want to continue. Food can be song, words, or actions. What makes our life brighter and brings to others a brighter life is the food of light.

This food came to me from the Bible. I am also fed by song, especially what I have been blessed to hear in traditional black churches. I have been fed by Roger Lovette and Deb Richardson-Moore in messages from the pulpit. I have been fed by the poems of Wendall Berry and Jane Kenyon and so many others. I have been fed by taking care how I hear.

For this I am grateful and put the light I have on a lampstand.

Whose life matters?

A question in the democratic debate was put to each candidate: Which is correct? Black Lives Matter or All Lives Matter. What a shame that those three word sentences are in contrast. I realize that BLM is a movement, one I support wholeheartedly. I know too many young black men who have been treated unfairly in a systematic way. I know that in the South (which is where I have lived all my life) "colored people" made less money and lived in poverty and if they moved next door to you, the value of your home went down. I know that even the poorest white person felt superior to a black person. I know that my daddy once told me that I could date anyone I wanted as long as he was white. (He didn't even know back then to say a boy.) And my daddy was a really good man. It was the system that made him say that. A culture that was not questioned.

For a while, we made progress. Martin Luther King, Jr. is a hero. He fought injustice as a Christian, without violence. He brought black and white together in a way no one had before. But like the ending of slavery, those in power found another way of enslavement. After Reconstruction, it was intimidation and prison where a black man could be arrested for not having a job and then sent out to work for free in a new kind of slavery, one in which his life was not even valued because he could be so easily replaced. Today it is still intimidation and prison. When people saw the way black people were treated in Alabama, they were appalled and cried for justice. Today when young black men and women are killed, too many blame the victim. We have developed a lack of compassion for blacks, for Syrians, for Mexicans, for anyone that is not "like us."

I have long said that Fox News has changed this country. They have taken our worst fears and prejudice and made them acceptable. They have appealed to the selfish side of our humanity and fed it voraciously. What we need is a propaganda organ that can counter that with feeding our compassionate self. So far, the mainstream church has failed and no secular instrument has filled the gap. Instead, too many churches have embraced Fox News and its agenda. The snake is beautiful and tells us what we want to hear. It makes up persecution where it doesn't exist so we can pretend to be suffering as Jesus did. Only the Bible says Jesus suffered for others... for prostitutes and tax collectors, for meth users and immigrants. The Bible, Old Testament and New, has always been very clear about the "stranger in your land" and how they should be treated.

There is no such program as "welfare". There are welfare programs such as WIC which is for women, infants and children. There is SNAP which provides food only to the poor and disabled. There is a small income for orphans and the disabled. There is Medicaid and Medicare that provides for medical treatment for poor children, the disabled, and the old. Poor adults are not covered in the state of South Carolina no matter what their means or condition. How can a Christian that reads the Bible be against any of these. It would be different if the church was meeting all these needs, but they are not. Look at the church budget of most churches and see how much goes to salaries and buildings and programs that benefit only church members and how much goes to alleviate the suffering of others. Where the money goes is where the heart is.

I do believe that all lives matter, but our country has not. Black lives have not mattered. Poor lives have not mattered. Native American lives have not mattered. Mentally ill lives have not mattered. And recently, Muslim and Middle East (except for Israel) lives have not mattered. If we say that All Lives Matter, then we need to act as if all lives matter.

Salvaging old Christmas stories... some with dates known, some not

Christmas 2008

I am alone. The blanket of loneliness that weighs me down has more substance than the feeble cloak that covers my body. I live among the lonely in a group that seldom speaks and never touches.

I am a leper.

No one may touch me. I stand ten feet from the nearest person and shout my shame. My clothes are torn and I must cover my mouth with my cloak as I speak. No one looks at me. Not even the merciful, who lay a small coin or a loaf of bread in the dirt for me to recover after they leave, would think to look me in the eye, to say a word of kindness.

I am invisible to them. I have become invisible to myself. 

I am a leper. More than that, I am a Samaritan living among Jews. My isolation is complete.

We share our meager meals. Even a Jewish leper recognizes the bond of leprosy and the need to share the always inadequate sustenance that keeps us alive. Alive for what is a question that we never speak aloud. Our punishment is great and public enough without bringing on the humiliation of a suicide to our already shamed families. That I am a Samaritan separates me even more, but I am still a man. All that we have left among our pitiful company is our link of manhood. We are not women.

It was not always this way. I was once part of a family. My father owned his own land and had three sons and a daughter. I am the middle son. I was the middle son.

My sister died in childbirth. After three times producing only dead children, she died herself. Her husband seemed relieved, freed from her to find another who could give him sons. She was the first one of my family to be lost to me. I mourned her, remembering how she cared for me and spoiled me before leaving to be a wife. She was 12 and I was eight when she left. I never saw her again. They lived in the next town but she was never able to visit. She had one pregnancy after another until she died.  Her husband remarried after her death. I suppose I should be thankful that he did not divorce her. We never saw him after her funeral.

My oldest brother was next, killed by bandits as he took our crop to a better market. My father was never the same. It was his suggestion that we might make more money if we took our goods to the next town.  He spent most of the next year at the synagogue, where he died one day in the midst of his prayers. They brought him back to my pregnant mother, who began an early labor and soon joined her daughter, son, and husband. 

Men are not supposed to love their mothers as I did, and mothers are not allowed much affection towards their sons once they are weaned. But my mother would touch me as she set my food on the table, a seemingly incidental touch, and never often enough to catch my father’s notice, but her touch was like a fire of love. I could sense her watching me and feel her love in everything I did.

 I loved my mother fiercely.

And when she died, I cursed God in my heart.

I was so angry. Why had he taken my family from me? I was 20 years old, much too old to need my parents. I was a man. And yet, their deaths filled me with such grief and anger that I could barely breathe. My brother and I said kaddish over my father. My brother openly cried, although he, too, was a man of 18. I did not cry. I said the prayers from a heart of stone. 

It was then that my flesh began to decay. It was not long before I was discovered and banned from society. I accepted my shame. I knew the cause of it. I had cursed God and he had cursed me.

Of all my family, only my youngest brother still lives, and he is lost to me forever.

My aloneness hurts all the more for the memory of him and how he begged me to stay. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I would not look into his face to see my leprosy in his eyes. I could not bear how much he loved me. He wanted to help me, to provide for me, to love me in spite of the obvious punishment God had inflicted upon me. I could not bear such love.

My thoughts bring me to my feet and I lose all the comfort my stillness has given me. Movement brings the itch. Movement brings the pain. I know that I am lucky in my feeling. Most of my fellow lepers feel nothing in their putrid flesh. Thomas awoke this morning with another finger gnawed to the stub by the nighttime creatures that seem to know in which pile of rags to seek their prey. I always awaken when they come to me, jerking awake at their first timid nibble. My pain is a blessing and an irony. That my leprosy is different from the others matters less than the fact that I am a Samaritan.

 Leprosy is a life sentence. The only cleansings are deep in our shared history, and those who were cleansed were forgiven my God. No such hope exists for me or my brotherhood of lepers. We will die lepers. All of us.

I am hungry. Pain gnaws at my stomach and my head aches as I walk. I am weak and dizzy. I should rejoin the others. My companions have been to the synagogue where they are still allowed to worship in their isolated space, as long as they arrive before all the others and leave without any contact with their unblemished Jewish peers. I am not allowed. My temple of worship is at Mount Gerizan, close to my home, to my brother whom I will never see again. Why can I not stop myself from thinking of him? It has been ten years since I left him and still the thought of him haunts me. When will I stop missing him?

I try to quicken my steps, to distance myself from this inner longing that is more painful than my leprosy or my hunger, but I am too weak. My steps are slow. I can only put one foot in front of the other and try to ignore the itching of my feet as they encounter the small stones on the path. Soon the sun will hover over my head and I will sweat. At that point, my whole body will burn. I should be thankful for the morning coolness. I will try.

*     *    *    *    *

“Jesus is here!” they shout. “We heard of him in the synagogue. He will be walking through the town.”

Even in the outskirts in which we live, where Jews and Samaritans coexist but never mingle except in the community of lepers, we have all heard of Jesus, the rabbi who speaks to the poor and enrages the rich. We have heard of his generosity and kindness. He has fed thousands some have said. He has cured the lame and the blind, and even raised the dead. I cannot believe these last rumors, but the thought of bread and of seeing this famous rabbi moves our feet to the edge of town. Here, if we keep our distance, we may shout of our distress. Perhaps he will pity us with bread.

We can see the dust of many feet in the distance. He is coming. No one else would travel with such a crowd. It may be that we will never actually see his face. Probably he will walk in the center of the crowd and will never notice us or hear our cries.

The men will walk together with the women behind, or so I think until they come closer. To my surprise, there are women scattered among the men. This rabbi is truly different. No wonder he makes people angry… to let women walk among the men. This is amazing. Truly, this is a man who might acknowledge a colony of lepers, who might offer food to our hungry assembly. My belly turns with the hope of food. 

We creep as close to the road as we dare, covering our mouths and beginning our litany of begging with our heads bowed. Sneaking my eyes upward, I can see many on the edge of the crowd look with disgust and move away from us. 

And then we see him. I don’t know how I know that this is Jesus. I cannot say what it is that makes him so different from the others. Certainly it is not his dress or his looks. And then, I know.

It is his eyes. He looks at us. At us, not on the ground before us, as even the most merciful do. He looks at us. He sees us. His dark eyes look long and steadily at each one of us.

When his eyes come to me, I am filled with a burning desire to go to him, to kneel before him and beg for his mercy. I feel that he would touch me and that I would feel the same fire I felt at my mother’s touch. 

Suddenly, I have a vision of my brother’s birth. My father has put him into my arms. I look into his dark eyes. I carefully touch his wet hair. I marvel at his tiny fingers and breathe in the newness of his smell. I am overcome with love.  The vision is so real that I cry out with my longing for my brother.

Jesus speaks. “Go. Show yourself to the priests.”

As one, we turn and head towards the town and the synagogue. It makes no sense and yet we never question that it is what we will do. Our hunger is forgotten. We only move to do as he says. 

One by one, there are shouts of joy among my companions. Thomas raises his arms and begins to praise God. I cannot believe what I am seeing. He is raising two perfectly formed hands above his head. He has been healed!

That is when I realize the absence of my own pain. I do not itch. I do not hurt. I sit and examine my feet. They are perfectly normal. I slowly examine every inch of my body. My leprosy has gone. I, too, have been healed. 

I cannot move. I am overcome by what has happened to me.  I am filled with such joy that my heart is racing; my breath comes shallow and fast. I think I may faint.

The others leave me, leaping for joy, running towards the priests who will announce to the world that they are cleansed. As they go, I realize that they are running to rejoin a society that will still not accept me. I have no reason to join them.

This does not sadden me. My heart is so full of gratitude that there is no room for anything else.

Where is the man who has given me my life back? I feel not only cleansed, but forgiven. I have cursed God and yet he has had mercy on me and sent this prophet to make me whole again.

The crowd has moved on. I must run to catch them. Every step is a joy. I am free. I can run. I feel as if I can fly.

I see him. I call his name. I fling myself in the dirt before his feet and shout my thankfulness.

I feel his eyes upon me as he speaks.

“Where are the others?”  he asks. I know he does not speak to me but to his followers. “Were not ten healed?  Only one comes back to thank me, and he is a foreigner.”

His words do not wound me. His reprimand is not for me. I do not feel the hatred that usually accompanies that word, “foreigner”. It is his followers that bow their heads in shame.

“Rise and go,” he says to me. “Your faith has made you well.”

Tears of joy spring to my eyes as I raise them to encounter his. I know where I am to go. To my brother. I go to my brother.

Good News to Roofers - sometime in the 90's

Hey! I got this story to tell that you just won’t believe. You see, it happened like this. There was this girl, Maria. She was Puerto Rican, but she was living in this foster home, with like this old lady and about a dozen other kids. Some temporary, some, like Maria, more or less permanent. And you know the old lady, she just couldn’t have done it all without Maria anyway. Like she was OLD, and Maria really did most the looking after the kids. She was out of school a lot, cause she was the one always had to take care of the sick ones, you know, but anyway the school didn’t care much. They knew she was a foster kid, and she was almost sixteen, and you know, once you’re sixteen then you so close to seventeen that you can probably quit and before they can get you to court you are seventeen, so why bother, right?
Anyway, this chick, Maria, she was cleaning out the bathtub one day when this angel, yeah, that’s right, an angel starts glowing in the corner where the shower head is, and let me tell you, that Ajaz hit the tile pretty quick, and Maria, she just about died of fright. I mean here she is just cleaning the tub like everyday business, and here appears this angel… in the bathtub! I mean it’s not like she was in church or saying a rosary or nothing.

Well, then, what really blew her away is what he said, or she said. You know it’s funny about angels, they don’t look like men or women, or so Maria said. I think she was just too scared to notice anything trivial like that. I mean, really, an angel in the bathtub. And it wasn’t even clean yet! Anyway, this angel says to her that she is like the luckiest girl alive. Now you have to admit that that was just downright funny – a Puerto Rican teenager living in a foster home with no future I can see being the luckiest girl alive. Well, Maria, she was just so flabbergasted that she didn’t say a word.

So that angel, she or he, said it again and then told her why. Said she was going to have a baby. Well, you know Maria was already taking care of too many kids and she didn’t exactly see having another one as a stroke of good luck. So that opened her mouth and she told that angel right off that hey, you got the wrong girl this time. “ I ain’t even done it yet. Not once. I ain’t hardly been kissed and there ain’t no way I got any baby coming!”

Well, that angel just looked at her and told her it was going to be a holy baby and that God was going to give it too her. Well, she said, a funny thing happened then. “ I got to thinking about all those babies I’ve took care of and how they come in so bad looking, and crying and afraid for you to touch ‘em. And how it takes so long to get them to smile and cuddle and you know, feel safe again, you know. Ant I thought, a holy baby, that must be the kind that feels safe right away, one that would let you love it and would love you back without being any afraid, and I thought how wonderful that must be and that I would like to be a part of that.”

So Maria, she just tells that angel, “Si. I will have that baby. You let God go ahead and give it to me.”

And that was like it. Wasn’t too long, Maria, she started feeling bad! She be throwin up in the morning, throwing up in the afternoon. She didn’t never hardly get to school any more. And her old lady foster mom, she quit taking temporaries all together. With Maria so sick all the time, she said they just was too much trouble for the money. And then she like notices that Maria is getting fat, and she puts tow plus two together and tells Maria, you gotta go girl. They not gonna pay me for two with you. So Maria, she’s like wondering what she’s going to do. She sort of had this boyfriend, Hosea, and he had promised her he would marry her one day and take care of her, but like she told the angel, they had hardly dated and he was like twenty four and mostly he just felt sorry for her cause his mom had left him in a foster home when he was 10, but he knew it wasn’t his. That would be like statutory rape for him, and she didn’t like blame him or nothing but then one day he just showed up at the trailer and tells her they got to talk.

Well, she’s got a pretty good idea what it’s going to be like when he says the strangest thing happened to me or maybe it was a dream he says.  I just can’t figure it out. I heard about the baby, you know, and I just figure you been with somebody and I’m like not happy, but I thought I could just let you do it, you know. And I’m sitting on the sofa kinda listening to the radio, you know, and this, I don’t know, space creature or something all glowing something starts talking to me about you. Said your baby come from God and I shouldn’t worry about you. Just marry you and take care of you and this baby. And then it was just sorta gone and I didn’t know if I’d been asleep or awake or what so I just came right over. And I got this job offer in Texas and I thought, maybe the old lady would sign for us to get married and let’s go. What do you think> And Maria said, you know, I don’t see why she wouldn’t. Let’s offer her twenty dollars. She’s already told me I got to go.

So that’s just what they did. It didn’t take hardly a day to sign the papers, go to the courthouse, get married, pack up Hosea’s pickup and be gone. They mostly slept in the back of the pickup at rest areas until they got run off. And Hosea picked up a few odd jobs along the way so that by the time they crossed the Texas border, Maria was big as a balloon and Hosea said they couldn’t get 100 miles before she had to go to the bathroom, and then, right after they crossed into Texas, she started getting the backache and feeling pretty wretched and throwing up every ten miles, and Joseph, he finally figured out that maybe this baby was ready to come. Well, they didn’t have much money and no insurance so it was an emergency room they needed, but by this time Maria, she was moaning and crying and telling him to quit speeding over those bumps. Well, good grief, they were on this long desert-looking highway and no bumps or emergency room in sight when they see this exit with a Motel 6 and Joseph’s thinking well maybe we can get a room and call the ambulance or something but then he sees the no vacancy sign and wonders what to do. He went in to ask anyway cause by this time Maria’s not speaking any language he’s ever heard and he thinks maybe she’s gonna die and the clerk says he’s sorry but they got no rooms and no hospital nearby. He comes out and looks at Maria, and by this time she’s all squenched up in the front seat grunting and he kind of panics and says. “Listen, my grandmother lives in this trailer park down the road. Maybe she can help.”

Well, Hosea tears out of that parking lot praying some kind of hard that they make it and sure enough that grandmother comes out to the pickup just in time to catch that baby boy and holler for Hosea to go in the bathroom and bring her some clean towels and her scissors from her sewing basket by the TV. They deliver that baby right there in the pickup then took him into the trailer. That grandmother said she’d lived seventy-seven years without birthing a baby but now that she’d done it she wouldn’t mind doing it again. “That’s the sweetest baby and momma I ever seen.” Hosea said he agreed. Maria, she didn’t say nothing. Tell the truth, I think that girl was tired, but she told me even then she’d decided that angel was right, and maybe she was the luckiest girl alive.

Well, what Maria and Hosea and the old grandmother didn’t know was that on the other side of this near ghost town in Texas, some roofers were working on this roof. They had started back earlier than usual because they wanted to finish and get home to the baseball game on TV. So they got back on the roof pretty quick after lunch and I tell you it was just hot as blue blazes under that Texas sun. They all kind of laughed about it later and said they thought the heat maybe was getting to them cause they had this kind of ringing sound in their ears but soon enough they all come to realize that it was more of a singing sound. But it warn’t like any singing they had ever heard before. It sounded so good it was almost like you could see it and smell it too. And they looked up into that blaring sun and thought the world had sure enough come to an end. At first, it seemed as though the sun had exploded into a million pieces, but then they realized that all those pieces was a separate creature of light that just seemed to be radiating some kind of good feeling. 

But I tell you now that it was a lucky thing that they weren’t working on a particularly steep roof cause there would have been some broken bones. I still don’t see how at least one of those roofers didn’t just pitch hisself right off that roof. Well, it finally occurred to them that those angels, for I reckon that’s what they had to be, was telling them not to be afraid that they had some good news for them. Well, I tell you that was like telling them not to spit. Being afraid just came sort of natural at a time like that. I mean how many angels you think have been sent to a bunch of roofers to bring them some good news.

Then those angels started talking about this baby born over at Sandy’s trailer park that was going to save the world. Go on over there and you will find this baby wrapped in some old beach towels in an old cedar dog bed on the floor of the first trailer you see. And just as quick as that, those angels were gone and there wasn’t but that one hot sun shining in the sky and those roofers was shimmying down that roof lickety split and saying we got to go see this. So they piled into the bed of one of the pickups and went to find this baby that was good news to roofers.

Well, you know what they found, Maria and Hosea and Jesus, that’s what they called the baby. That’s what Hosea’s angel or vision or whatever had said for him to be called so you know, after all that had happened, they warn’t going to name him nothing else. And those roofers were just pleased as punch. I think some of them still thought it might have been the heat got to em until they went and saw that baby just where the angels had said he would be.

Now ain’t that some story to tell. What kind of God sends a holy baby to some poor Puerto Rican foster kid and her semi-skilled blue collar husband, and then sends the good news to a bunch of roofers working outside in the hot sun to try to make payments on their truck and double-wide and still make their child support. I mean, who do you know would believe a story like that!


Christmas 2012

No one had touched her for years. She could not imagine now that anyone would touch her before she was dead. The dead are also unclean but must be touched and the ritual cleansing performed. It was necessary. It was not necessary for anyone to touch her now. Therefore, she would not be touched again until it was.

More importantly, she was forbidden to touch. A person might choose to touch her and subject himself to her uncleanness; and in her past, many had… mostly for money or prestige. The money had been given, but as no one had been able to cure her, the ones who desired the prestige of being the one to have conquered this strange case became fewer and fewer. Eventually, they had all given up, as had she.

In her childhood, she had touched and been touched, loved and been loved. But those days were so long ago that it was hard to remember. Some memories were clear and gave her both comfort and pain… the feel of her small hand enclosed in her mother’s as they walked through the streets, her father’s rough cheek that he turned her way for the quick peck he allowed her to place there, the arm-in- arm walks with her friend, Rebekah, as they giggled about so many things. These memories still had the power to make her smile. Sometimes, they still had the power to make her cry.

But these days, she spent most of her life watching others live.  Unlike the leper, she needed no bell. She had lived here all the days of her life. Everyone knew her. Everyone knew she was unclean. Everyone avoided her touch by keeping a safe distance away from wherever she was.

She thought perhaps her watchfulness made them uncomfortable. It would be easier for her to keep her head down. It would be easier if she could become invisible. Except that she must be avoided. She must not be touched. She must never touch. 

In the beginning, she kept her head up in fear. She was afraid she would accidentally touch someone as she walked through the town. It was a real danger as the streets could be crowded. This was not the case for long. She was allowed very few opportunities to go anywhere once her problem manifest itself. She was isolated in her home as any woman would be when her time was upon her. Her father would spend most of his time at work or the synagogue, carrying a mat to sleep on and eating with friends, friends who once came to her house when their wives or daughters were unclean. 

Later, when both her mother and father were buried in the same tomb outside the town, she had no choice in her need to go to town for the most basic necessities. Then, the rabbi had come to her and made arrangements to take payment from her, not directly, but by having her place her shekels in a bowl. He would arrange the purchase and return it in the same way with no actual contact taking place between them. Both the bowl and the coins would be cleansed before being used. He promised to do this once a month. By then, of course, there was nowhere she could go where the people did not know. No one who would get close enough to risk her uncleanness.

She was the only child of her parents but it had not concerned them. She was engaged at five to a distant cousin whose family was poor but devout and who would benefit from the land she would bring him. He was only eight so their marriage was far enough in the future so as not to have much effect on her daily life, and as he would come to live with her family, an unusual but not unheard of occurrence when a couple did not have a son, she did not expect her life to change much. Her parents were affectionate with her and were satisfied that her husband would perform the duties of a son to her father.

Rebekah and she would often speculate as all girls do on what it would be like to be married. Rebekah, whose house was smaller, would tell her with increasing giggles of the sounds she sometimes heard. Both knew whom their husbands would be although they had only formally met at the engagement ceremonies held so long ago. Sometimes they would try to peer through the mechitzah at the boys in the synagogue and wonder which one was the chosen husband. 

Trying to see one’s husband was not nearly as serious a business as examining their bodies for signs of impending womanhood. Rebekah was first. She started her bleeding at eleven. In fact, Rebekah was married before her own bleeding had begun. At the time, she was disappointed. Had she known how it would change her life, she would have delayed it forever.

She was fourteen when her bleeding finally began. It was exciting and only a little scary. Her stomach hurt and it was so strange to feel the blood seeping out of her body. But her mother assured her that it happened to all women the same and that now she was one of them.

 “We will go to the synagogue on the fifteenth day and offer two turtle doves. Your father will be proud. He’ll probably have you married in six months so he can finally have the son you have promised him and that I was not able to give him.” It was a small joke with too much truth in it, but they smiled and hugged each other. How she longed for such a hug now.

Her bleeding did not stop. It would trickle for a day or two, then start again. Sometimes she would go over a week with only a tiny amount of blood. But of course, any amount of blood made her unclean and she must wait seven days from the last sign of blood before being able to make her sacrifice. 

At first, her mother assured her that while it was unusual, some girls had trouble with their first periods and that they would soon become regular. But even as her mother spoke her comforting words, she could hear the worry in her voice. It had been such a long time.  

Finally, it became apparent that they would have to make a space in their home where only she could be. Her father could not continue his absences from their home for so long.  It was fortunate for them that they were landowners and wealthier than most. There were many who could not afford a separate place of uncleanness in their house.

When her father returned, he barely looked at her, but when he did, it was with concern, not reproach. His obvious love was harder for her to bear than if he had been angry. It hurt so much to disappoint him. She knew how much he longed for her husband to become his son, for his grandchildren to fill his house. He had never considered divorce to her mother who had only produced the one child, and that a girl. Even now, he was affectionate with her mother and their eyes often met with a secret message that needed no words. Would her husband ever look at her in that way? Would she even be able to be his wife? Her frustration with her body was overwhelming, and she sometimes she thought she had enough anger for all of them.

Her anger flared and receded. She vacillated between wanting to scream, “Why me?’ to sinking into a depression of asking, “What did I do wrong?”

She could pray at home, but no longer could she go to the synagogue, and she had only been to the temple once. Her parents had made the trip when she was twelve. She could easily remember the sights of that trip… the busy streets and noise, but mostly of the temple. How very beautiful it was! She had never seen anything like it, nor had she since. She could and did pray at home, but often she longed for the community of women as they sat behind the veil of the mechitzah. It was that she missed more than the beautiful artwork of their synagogue. It was the loneliness that was hardest to bear.

Twice in her life, she had been allowed to offer her two turtle doves. Twice she had been holy enough to pray in their synagogue. Each time she had prayed with such hope that she had finally been cured. Each time, she had been so grateful.

The last time had been a mere three years ago after having been treated by the Essene healer who had studied under Theodore of Alexandria. He had treated her with fragrant roots in her ears and her nostrils. She had found it very difficult to breathe as he prayed over her, but kept as still as possible. Anything she had to do to be healed was worth it, and this treatment was not the worst she had received. The worst was the days of sickness following a brew that she was almost not able to drink. It had not even given her a day free of her bleeding.

Her father waited patiently nearby on the day the Essene healer had come bringing such hope. Her mother was not witness. She had drowned the previous spring. Some people were cruel and said that she had thrown herself into the sea because of the punishment Yahweh had sent to her through her daughter. The rabbi, though, had been kind to them both. All who knew her had noticed the way her mother’s mind had begun to wander and her body with it. The shame was that she could not go looking for her mother when she wandered but had to make her way carefully to her father’s shop and call to him from outside that her mother was again lost. That last time, her mother left in the middle of the night and was found the next morning. 

It was not her fault, and it was. She had done her best, but she had slept soundly that night, something she rarely did…. And so she had not heard her mother leave. How many hours had she spent reliving that night her mother left? Why had she been so tired? No matter how hard she tried to remember, she could not. She had simply gone to bed and slept through the night without awakening, without hearing her mother leave.

She did remember how sorry she was that her mother was gone when the famous healer agreed to see her. She was also sorry that her father spent so much money for his fee. They had so little left. But if she could be cured, then she could marry. It was late, but other women had conceived and had children at her age. The cousin had long ago broken their engagement, but even with the loss of most of their wealth, there could still be a husband found. Her father could have the son and the grandchildren he longed for.

But it was not to be. She went exactly ten days with no bleeding whatsoever. She gladly went to the priest and made her sacrifice. On the third day, her bleeding began again.

And her father began to fade. His health followed his wealth, and she watched helplessly as he aged quickly. Within six months, he had joined her mother and she was truly and completely alone. The two people who were willing to risk uncleanness to touch her were gone. The last touch of her life was the day her father had reached for her hand with such love and tenderness that she had come to his side and held it. She sat with him quietly until he was able to sleep.  Within hours, he died.

After that, with no life of her own, she watched other people live their lives. She watched the children play that would never be hers. She watched from afar the women bartering in the market, picking and choosing, as she could never do. She watched the families making their way to worship, an act she was forbidden. 

She watched, and sometimes she wept, but mostly she watched and longed for what she could never have.

* * *

A woman who had had a hemorrhage for twelve years, and had endured much at the hands of many physicians, and had spent all that she had and was not helped at all, but rather had grown worse— after hearing about Jesus, she came up in the crowd behind Him and touched His cloak. For she thought, “If I just touch His garments, I will get well.” Immediately the flow of her blood was dried up; and she felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. Immediately Jesus, perceiving in Himself that the power proceeding from Him had gone forth, turned around in the crowd and said, “Who touched My garments?” And His disciples said to Him, “You see the crowd pressing in on You, and You say, ‘Who touched Me?’” And He looked around to see the woman who had done this. But the woman fearing and trembling, aware of what had happened to her, came and fell down before Him and told Him the whole truth. And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace and be healed of your affliction.”

Mark 5: 25-34 (New American Standard)

* * *

As our Mema lie on her bed in that beautiful, sacred place where our GanGan left us, she had a granddaughter on either side, holding her hand.

In my daddy’s last days, we sat in the sun and I held his hand; and in those last terrible hours, I sat by his bed and massaged his hand as my friend, Vivienne, had taught me several summers before.

Yesterday, our three boxers climbed into my lap and cuddled there off and on for most of the evening.

As the night wore on, Maura joined them, her head leaning against me, my hand occasionally caressing her hair.

The power of touch….

* * *

On this Earth, we do not have the capacity to heal as Jesus did. We see through a glass darkly. But we are told in the stories of the Bible how Jesus touched people to heal them. Unlike so many of those stories, in this story, the woman has the courage to touch Him.

We are all in need of healing. We are broken by many things in this world. My prayer for this Christmas is to have the faith to touch and be touched, the courage to accept the power of God’s healing in my life and in the lives of those I love.

* * *

“Sometimes I need
only to stand
wherever I am
to be blessed.”
― Mary Oliver

Christmas Story - 2015
i apologize in advance for use of the n word. in recent years, i've tried to be as historically accurate as i can. on reading many primary resources, i've found no one using the word slave in speech, only in sale posters. this is part of a book meant for juveniles that i started when i was teaching south carolina history, knowing that i remember most of my history from reading historical fiction. this will probably never reach those children, but parts of the story have bounced around in my head for years. this seemed right for this year. life is complicated and there is so much hatred being voiced right now, especially against people of color. there are limits to what even the best of us can do. i choose to meet these challenges with faith. the ending is yet to come.



peace on earth, good will towards all.

People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.

James A. Baldwin

Doc Hendricks was a good doctor. He’d gone North to the Penn Medical School, a rare thing in those times.  He never bled a patient in his practice unless it was demanded of him by the family. People said that when he did bleed a patient, he never took more than a cup and always took a sample home to look at through his microscope. Most places in South Carolina didn’t have a doctor, much less one who had gone to medical school and used a microscope. Old ways were generally thought best in the South, but fewer people died in Doc’s care and that counted for a lot.

 What they couldn’t understand was that he brought home a Yankee wife, and a Quaker at that. There was a community of Quakers in North Carolina and a family of Mennonites from Virginia up in the mountains, but she was the first Quaker most had ever seen. She never wore any jewelry and the plainest clothes of any lady around. But lady she was. Gentle and kind to all, proper in her speech, except for saying Thee for you, and a manner that made her accepted in spite of being a Yankee and a Quaker. She was also pretty enough even in her plain clothes to make Doc’s choice clear in that respect. 

Mrs. Rachel Hendricks, the Yankee Quaker, only lived for two years in South Carolina before she died giving birth to their first child. Some said that wasn’t very good advertising for a new doc, but everyone knew that birthing was a midwife’s job, and many women died giving birth. Not that the doc had tried to do it on his own. He’d sent for the Perry’s gal Lily when the time had come. She was the best midwife in the Upcountry. People sent for her from Georgia and North Carolina and let her ride in a buggy. She was that good. But there’s not much to be done when the baby is big and the woman is small. At the end, Lily had told him to try the knife, and he done it. The baby lived a day; the mama didn’t last an hour.

That set the ladies to showing out for the doc. It wasn’t right that a man of his standing should stay a widower, and there were plenty who were willing to end his widowhood for him. Doc Hendricks was born a gentleman. His family had a plantation since the Revolution and was one of the few Upcountry families to be patriots instead of loyalists during that war. Most of the rich loyalists left for the Caribbean or went back to England. Doc’s problem was that his daddy had two wives and ten children, four of them boys. The girls could be married off or live their life out on the homeplace. But there just wasn’t enough land to split between four sons. 

That was the reason Doc, who had been born John but was always called Jack until he became Doc, was sent to train as a doctor. Most doctors were older men with little training and few and far between, but his daddy wanted to give him better than that. His brothers, Amos and Greenberry, had become lawyers. Everybody figured at least one of them would become a politician, but so far, neither had shown much interest. People in the piedmont and alpine region of South Carolina didn’t really tend much to politics as a rule. They weren’t anti-government so much as apathetic so long as the government didn’t bother them. About a third of them didn’t even take part in the Revolution on either side. Just didn’t figure it mattered that much to a farmer who the government was. Most were family farmers and had enough just to keep their family fed. Of course, gentlemen were educated, at least a little, and were expected to be able to talk politics at the dinner table. Anything beyond that wasn’t really necessary.

Another thing Doc’s Yankee wife had done was to forbid any house slaves. People said it had to do with her being a Quaker and thought it strange. Doc had grown up with his own slave and his family home had six or more serving in the Big House, depending on the number of the people living there at the time. Doc hadn’t taken his boy with him up North. Already, there had been trouble with abolitionists and runaways. And with his wife objecting, things just stayed that way. 

That wouldn’t have been possible had he been a farmer. His daddy had over 30 slaves. But Doc, along with Amos and Greenberry, just had a house that didn’t really require that much tending, and Doc was generally too busy to do much entertaining. His brothers had no problems with having house slaves, but Doc’s wife would not hear of it. So they got by with hiring the old maid sister of a white farmer to do the cooking and cleaning, and Doc had to manage his own horses. People said it weren’t natural, but that’s what come of bringing in a Yankee and a Quaker to South Carolina. But most figured she couldn’t help her ways, and she never tried to convert others as so many in the North were wont to do. That probably helped.

Most people figured he’d fire the old maid and get him a female slave after his wife died, but it’d been a couple of years and the old maid was still there. Most of the women contending to be the next Mrs. Hendricks figured that she’d go as soon as they got in the door and there’d be a nigger woman in her place right away.

Some people thought Doc was a smart widower. Various ladies were always bringing him some of their best cooking (or their cook’s best cooking) and he was always perfectly polite. But when he did make it to a ball or supper, he always managed to dance with most of the ladies, but never the same one twice. He also tried to avoid being seated next to the same woman twice in a row. At first, people just thought he was grieving for his first wife, but some took offense and thought he should marry one of the excess sisters of the few genteel families in the area. But some thought he knew that any sons he had would be landless and would have to have a career like he had to do. Of course, most wondered what he did about his manly needs, and again wondered why he didn’t buy him a nigger woman. Not that those kind of things were talked about, but it was understood that it was something men did, both single and some married. Any children born of those unions would be slaves according to the law and wouldn’t expect anything from their father.

But all that had changed. The woman who had kept Doc’s house for the last two years had unexpectedly had an offer of marriage and had gladly taken it. She and her new husband were moving West. Doc had tried and failed to find a replacement and he couldn’t make it on his own. As the only doc for miles and miles, he had so much traveling that he couldn’t cope without help. It was either a marriage of convenience or a slave. Either would break his Rachel’s heart, but he knew without question that she would prefer a marriage of convenience for him. He just couldn’t bring himself to do that. She would want him to learn to love another, but she had left a hole too deep to be filled. He had a heard there was an itinerant slave trader who had stopped for the night in Enoree. With a heavy heart, Doc was going to see him.

*  *  *

Addy was sixteen when the new master first raped her. He probably didn’t think of it as rape because he was gentle, and because he owned her, or at least his wife did. He hadn’t expected her to be a virgin. That surprised him.

Addy had belonged to Miss Sadie since they were both three. At three, her only responsibility was to be Miss Sadie’s playmate. Later, she would learn to fetch and carry, dress her and do her hair. A slave-master relationship could never really be a friendship, but it probably came as close as it could. No one knew Miss Sadie better than Addy. In some ways, they were closer than sisters, almost like twins. But Addy’s mother reminded her every chance she had to never forget her place. Addy could be family to Miss Sadie, but Miss Sadie would never be family to Addy. Miss Sadie owned her, just like her horse. 

Addy’s mother didn’t get much time with her. Addy slept in the Big House from the time she was three and accompanied Miss Sadie on most family trips. But during the few times they were together, her mother always made sure she knew what the boundaries were. The family expected it of her. It would be easy for a young child to be confused.

Miss Sadie married early when she and Addy were both 15. He was a great match, the only son of a Virginia planter on the much larger, adjacent plantation to Miss Sadie’s.  The wedding supper had included over 100 people. Addy, of course, accompanied Miss Sadie to her new home. Addy had been almost as happy as Miss Sadie with the marriage because of the boost to her own status. As a lightly colored personal servant, her status as a slave was already at the top; but the increase in land and Miss Sadie now being the Mistress of her own plantation put her even higher. The Good Book, which she could not read but which she’d heard all her life, said, “Pride cometh before a fall.” That was certainly true for Addy.

The new master never touched her until Miss Sadie became pregnant.  For some reason, quality white folks didn’t think pregnant women should have relations. At least Miss Sadie didn’t. She banned him from her bed almost as soon as she knew. The new master lasted about a month before he came into their dark bedroom and put his hand over Addy’s mouth and led her into his adjoining room.

Addy was terrified of what he was doing. The experience itself was frightening and hurtful, but her greatest fear was that Miss Sadie would awaken and find them out. She knew Miss Sadie well enough to know how angry she would be. She also knew that the only safe recipient of that rage would be her. The master sought her out every night for a week and then demanded that she come to him on her own.

It wasn’t long before she was pregnant, too. The master seemed to have no problem continuing to have relations with a pregnant slave. Addy lived in terror of the birth of her baby. Miss Sadie had been naturally curious about the father of Addy’s child. Addy told her he wasn’t a slave Miss Sadie knew. That was the truth. Addy knew Miss Sadie assumed it was someone belonging to another family that had visited. It would have to have been someone’s man servant.

Come spring, Miss Sadie had a baby girl who looked just like her mama. “We’ll have a boy next time and he’ll look just like you,” she promised her husband. By the time Addy had her son, the master had returned to Miss Sadie’s bed and his visits had mercifully stopped. Addy went to the slave quarters to give birth. Her heart broke at the sight of her son. She touched his soft curls and whispered over and over, “My poor, poor baby.” Her son could have passed. He looked just like his daddy. There was no way Miss Sadie would not know as soon as she saw him.

One of the old grannies took care of Addy’s baby during the day, and a field hand nursed him. Addy’s own milk was given to Miss Sadie’s baby. After two months had passed, Miss Sadie insisted on seeing Addy’s baby. Addy turned her face to stone as she watched the horror on Miss Sadie’s face as she looked on the image of her husband. Miss Sadie didn’t scream or cry and Addy watched with some admiration as she gained control over her face. “ What a lovely boy, Addy. I’m sure that you want to spend more time with him. Tell Polly from the kitchen that she can serve me from now on. You can go to the kitchen.” That was the last Addy saw of Miss Sadie.

It was another two months before she was sold downriver. Addy and her baby were sold cheap to the first trader that came through. The arrangement was made and Addy sent for. She left the kitchen, went to the quarters to retrieve her son and never entered the house again. There were no goodbyes. Father and son never met.

Addy’s son still had no name. His mama only called him “You poor baby” and lived in fear for his life. Being sold down river could mean anything, but none of it good. She was not likely to become another personal servant with her almost white baby, and she hadn’t learned enough of cooking in her two months to hope to get a place in the kitchen. She could not prepare the special foods a gentleman farmer would expect. Her best hope, and she prayed every step she walked away from the only home she’d ever known, was to be able to live at the same place as her son. As a baby, they would be sold together the first time. But she knew as he grew older, his value would increase and he could easily be sold away. She had not been able to say goodbye to her own mother before she left. She did not want to have that happen to her. She also knew that the odds of her spending 16 years with her own child would be much less likely in the Deep South than it was in Virginia.

By the time they crossed the border into North Carolina, there were ten in their group: four men, two boys, one girl, another woman, and Addy and her baby. There was something wrong with the other woman. She would often stare into space while licking her lips. She would stay that way for a minute, and then it would pass and she came back as if nothing had happened. Addy tried to hide this from the slave trader as she and the girl and Addy were tied loosely together as they walked. The men and boys were chained by their ankles. The girl cried for her mama most of the day. She was around eight. Addy tried to shield her from the trader as well, but occasionally, he would come back and slap the girl and tell her to shut up. At night, the girl would cuddle up to Addy when she was nursing her son. They were all so hungry that her milk was only half what it was, but she still gave some of her share to the child. Addy knew this child needed to be healthier to make the trip and hope for a decent place. She held both children close to her as she slept, knowing she couldn’t really protect either one.

They were almost to the South Carolina border when Addy was sold. A yeoman farmer rode up to their group on an old mule. “I heard you got a woman and baby in your stock,” he greeted them.

“ I got two women and a gal, too.”

“Is the woman in milk?” he asked.

“She is,” the trader replied greedily. He knew he had gotten Addy cheap because of her child and should sell her for a good profit.

“ I ain’t got any money but I was hoping for a trade. Your nigger for mine.”

“ Now how am I going to make any money just swapping these niggers around.”

“I’m talking about a strong boy, only about twenty something. His daddy belonged to my daddy.”

“What’s wrong with him?

“Ain’t nothing wrong with him. My son was born two days ago and my wife ain’t got no milk. I’m afraid I’m going to lose him. He’s already thrown up the cow’s milk we tried.  He’s at the house if you want to come look at him.”

A deal was made and Addy and her son became the property of the James McCleod. Addy put the hungry baby to her breast and watched as he struggled to eat. Within five minutes, he had his fill and was sleeping soundly. The farmer nodded, his eyes filled with tears as he gently took his son and went to place him by his still mostly unconscious wife.

The farmer’s son lived, as did his mama; and Addy got her wish to stay together with her son. It was hard going for several years. The farmer had to do the farming that two men had done before and the children were too young to help and still needed tending. Addy had heard the wife crying when she was well enough for her husband to tell her of the trade. She never mentioned it, but Addy saw her wipe tears from her eyes often in those first months as she looked out on the fields where her husband was working. Seemed like she didn’t care for the trade.

Mrs. McLeod insisted that Addy name her son. 

“You should give him a good Bible name, like Peter,” she told Addy. “He was the rock the church was built on. Every child should have a good strong name.”

Everybody worked hard. The wife, when she recovered, was as busy as Addy from dawn to dusk. Both boys were put to weeding and whatever else they could do as soon as they were able. Addy and her son were slaves and ate and slept separate from the family, but they worked together. They also insisted that Addy and her child participated in the family Bible reading and prayer. Addy had done the same with Miss Sadie, but it was different with the McCleods. Miss Sadie’s family had Bible reading only on Sundays. The farmer and his wife read out of the Bible and prayed every night, and they prayed for Addy and her son the same as they did for other family and friends. They didn’t just read, either. They would often discuss what they had read. 

One night they talked about how in the Bible, people had slaves just like they did, but Paul said they should treat them as fellow Christians. They wanted Addy and her son to believe like they did. Miss Sadie’s family would certainly never have said that.  James never once tried to have relations with Addy either. 

“ Wonder where Tom is now,” his wife would sometimes say.

“It couldn’t be helped,” James would always reply and she would nod.

***

Peter became Pete, and Addy and Pete spent 10 years in North Carolina before being sold again. Addy had hoped with all her heart that they could live their lives out with the McCleod’s, but it wasn’t to be. They were sold in 1858. That was the year James McCleod’s wife died giving birth to their fourth child. The baby was born dead, too. James decided to take his children and head West. North Carolina had become a sad place.

Pete was a sturdy lad, if a bit small, and Jame’s first son, Joel, adored Pete. When Joel asked his pap if they could keep Pete with them, Addy had shivered. It wasn’t lost on James. 

“We’ll think on it, Son.”

Two days later, when the children were asleep, Addy approached James. She had searched her heart and knew what she needed to do but her heart was thumping so hard in her chest she could hardly breathe. “ You should take Pete, Master James. You know what a good worker he is.” Her words broke her heart. All she had ever wanted was to be with her son, but she knew the chances of their remaining together this time were too small to risk. He would have a better life with James and his family.

“I’m thinking we might go all the way to California. It ain’t a slave state.”

Her voice came out a whisper. “Pete could pass. You could say he was Joel’s cousin.”

Nothing was said for a long time.

“I know. And I prayed on it.”

He paused again. “I need the money to make it out West and a new start with my children, but I’m praying God will find a way to keep y’all together.”

Addy knew she had lost.

So Addy and her son found themselves property of another itinerant slave trade.  Together Addy and her son crossed into South Carolina, Pete in chains and Addy with her hand holding another child. She was so bitter. What good were James’s prayers going to do them? They were once again at the mercy of a slave trader.

the race issue.....

i was born in 1955. i grew up in a segregated society and didn't attend school with other black children until i was 12... and then it was a handful under the "free choice" option. free to any parents willing to take their children usually across town to a school where they knew they would face bullying. not much of a choice if you ask me, but there were those brave enough to do it.

i loved it. we had bomb threats almost every day and we got to stay outside for hours. ( i wasn't much of a student if it didn't involve reading fiction). the girls in my pe class were mostly great athletes so we got along fine (in my very naive opinion) because they were both good competitors and good for the team. also, they were kind of dangerous feeling in a exotic way, one was known to carry a knife for protection and had the most fluent use of profanity i'd ever heard... of which i had only heard the rare excrement discretion... and the one night my 11 year old neighbor and i asking each other what fuck meant... actually he asked me. i had never heard the word. i told him i didn't know but it must mean something really bad. so it was kind of exotic and adventuresome to hear profanity used with such elegance. i was really quite impressed.

i didn't fear these girls, outnumbered as they were because i knew that they were on white turf, and i had no contact with the boys. don't even remember if there were any... maybe not.

which is strange because i didn't grow up hating black people or calling them names, but i did grow up fearing them, especially the terrifying black male. it was nothing that was ever spoken. it was just in the air i breathed. besides nightmares about frankenstein  and giants, my fearful dreams were of accidentally finding myself in the black part of downtown... oddly enough a place now on the swamp rabbit trail across from the peace center where condos are sold for more than i could ever afford.

and women were safer than men. why? because we had contact with them. a woman came to our house to help my mother with the cleaning and the ironing. none of them were ever dangerous looking. in fact, one of my first memories of childhood was when i was sick with a virus and our young, black cleaning lady spent time by my bed rubbing my tummy and talking low and kind... something my frantic, adhd mother never did in my memory. (she just wouldn't think of being still that long).

and my mother was always for the poor and downtrodden. when this same woman had a baby of her own, we went to nicholtown to take her vegetable soup and cornbread. i was afraid then. it was poverty such as i had never seen. she lived in a one room house with a small kitchen in the corner. the bed took up most of the room and the baby was lying on the bed. i didn't know you could have a baby without a crib. and i was also terrified of all the blackness around me. it was irrational and real and it is one of my strongest memories of childhood, of which i actually have very few.

my parents and my family are good people. there is not a one who has mistreated a person of color to my knowledge. most of them have people of color that they love.... but this does not make us without prejudice. those imprints from our childhoods and our place as the majority (and favored) race are within us. all we can do is recognize them when they appear and either fight against them or act in opposition to them. it must be intentional. and of course, the more often this is done, the more natural it becomes.

i really find it confusing when people my age say that the whole white advantage thing is over and the people they know get along fine. my best friend happens to be a person of color but i would never deny my heritage of racism. i grew up where "colored people" were second class citizens who lived in poverty and worked for lower wages than any white person would. things have improved but are by no means gone.

my high school, wade hampton, was integrated by busing but there were still conflicts all the time. we were blessed by one very fine black student named clyde mayes. he was a star football and basketball player who went on to play basketball for furman and professionally... but mostly he was just such a great leader and managed to control the reasonable anger that his fellow black students brought to the table. it is so strange to me now that i feared black people when they had so much more reason to fear me. i was never subject to the fear of violence because of the color of my skin.

racist violence toward black people are a huge part of our history in south carolina. our own governor, ben tillman, encouraged it openly. the last governor to accept any form of black rights after reconstruction was wade hampton, but his supporters in the red shirts were famous for lynchings and violence towards blacks. it wasn't until the civil rights movement and southern opposition to it begin to hurt our tourism trade that there was any acceptance of the rights of "negros" in this state. and to its credit, except for the orangeburg massacre, it was mostly non-violent. the use of slavery in this state was always about economics and when economics was a stake, we conveniently changed our ways... in government. you can't change years and years of prejudice in people.

south carolina has always been a one party state. and generally the party of the one percent. we have been excellent at using social issues to make the 99% vote against their economic interest. democrats ruled this state as the party of the elite until ben tillman became the "populist" of sc... but he was the representive of poor white farmers and textile workers, and unlike the rest of the populist movement, had no interest in improving the plight of black people. a few progressives followed, mainly led my church going women, but when the civil rights movement hit, democrats became republicans after thurmonds brief flirtation with the dixiecrats.

yes we did elect a president of color. (not sc of course) and the backlash of blatant racism raised its ugly head. people began to be much more open about their prejudice, having gone into hiding after the civil rights movement. that a person like donald trump could be the frontrunner of the republican party really about says it all. the way the tea party has taken over the republicans with their proud enthusiasm over ignorance is another sign.

yes, all lives matter... but middle class white people's lives have always mattered. now it's time for black matters to matter, for native american lives to matter, for immigrants lives to matter (whether they are legal or not) for poor white children's lives to matter, for incarcerated men and women and children's lives to matter.

race and poverty are intrinsically linked. so many people refuse to recognize their racist background because they have a black friend or friends that they love and get along with. that is not enough. it doesn't change the structure of our society that classifies people on the basis of skin color with white being the preferred color. i have been treated differently (for the better) because the color of my skin as well as by my middle class standing. this advantage is a given in this country. we cannot change it without being intentional. it will be a slow process. it's like weight management. it takes a long time to put it on and a long time to get it off. but it doesn't happen automatically. it must be intentional.

we have spent a long time in this country giving white people the best of our resources. it is time we learned to share and it will not happen quickly. but it must be intentional. it will not happen without hard work by a lot of people.

rummaging through my life i found these poems from an ED 47 class i took in january 1999

Things lost:
car keys, house keys, school keys
thoughts,
telephone numbers, addresses
dreams,
that little slip of paper I just had in my hand,
friends,
pens, pencils, magic markers,
hair,
combs, brushes, hair clips, rubber bands,
time



Wings flap out of sight
Swallowed by the dying sun
Tiny mouths await


Night falls
Gently like rain
The land whispers secrets
Of creatures seldom seen by man
Unknown


Family
kind, cruel
fussing, hugging, living
a place that belongs to you
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