Lesson 23:No More Cotton Blues

When he couldn’t stand the pain any longer, Boone relented.
The awful tension between them subsided.
“Turner,” he said to my father as he got back on his horse,
“you just bought a one-way ticket to ruin for your whole goodfor-nothing
family. Mark my words.” Then Boone rode off.
My father didn’t speak to me for the rest of the day. I knew
when he got silent like that a storm was brewing up inside
him. My sister and I tried to stay out of his way. But that night
during supper, the rains came down heavy, and the lightning
struck. “How many times have I warned you against confronting
the manager,” he shouted. “Now you’ve started something
that is sure to end badly. Boone won’t forget that a black boy
stood up to him.”
My mother served up the rest of the sweet potatoes and
boiled greens. “Leave the boy alone,” she said. “He did what any
decent person would do seeing his sister in trouble. Besides, you
didn’t have to grab Boone’s arm. You only made matters worse.”
“Aaron better learn to control himself,” my father shot
back. “He’s too headstrong, Ruby, just like you.” An exasperated
look took over my father’s face. “Ruby, I’m tired of the way
you’re always telling Aaron how poor black folks shouldn’t have
to live this way. The truth is there’s no other way but this one.”
A match flared in the dim light of our cabin. My grandfather
lit the lantern and set it down beside the stove. “Stop bickering,
both of you,” he said in a quiet, but firm voice to my parents.
“Times are hard, but they’ve been worse, a whole lot worse.”
6