Living in the south

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Beth470
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Living in the south

Post by Beth470 » 15 May 2018, 09:35

The southern states were a place of much hate for blacks. But they were treated like slaves even though they were free. Being free was to be equal to others.
As a young girl at the time living with my parents things seems to be happy, but as a child, you don't have the worries grown ups do. I remember when we stayed in a small colony of about ten or twelve little shotgun houses as they call them with only three rooms. The settlement was the quarters. Thinking back now I really can't remember where we slept. Whether we slept on the floor or in a bed.
It was two adults and four children's at the time. Before we had moved in this little settlement my mother had two other children, one died at a year old, he was older than I, so I only knew what I was told. The girl was the seventh child named after my mother's mother, she lived three days. I remember she had something they called the trash. I remember my mom swobbing her mouth with a white rag wrapped around the end of a spoon. She died and my dad got an old fruit crate wrap her up and buried her. Living in the quarters seems to be a joyful place to stay surrounded by kind people's.

Being so young in the 50's there was this cafe at the end facing the settlement that was called a junk joint ran by a black lady. She would let me come down there to help her out. I never stayed until the party started. I wasn't big enough to do much, but she would make me feel like I was a big help to her because she paid me. Back then a little was a lot.
Now, a little isn't enough, it's tales more and some. We lived where the trains came through and at the end of the train was the little red caboose would be a man standing at back us children's would be standing waiting for the caboose to come by. This man would be standing there with a bucket filled with candy pitching it out to us. That was fun scrambling trying to pick us as much candy as we could. I remember the time my mother would send to the store or someone's house to get some butter or buttermilk.
I guess back in the days it was safer walking alone. There was this one time I went to the store what ever I went, for I don't remember, but anyway when I left the store I had to walk by the railroad cars was empty accepted for one.
There was this man standing in the door of one of the box cars.

I stopped and looked for a second there was this black man standing there in the with his body part in his hand rubbing it as he was looking at me. I turned and ran back to the store to afraid to keep going home. When I got to the store I told them about the man. So the owner's daughter walked me passed the box car and watched until I got home.
I guess a white girl didn't have nothing to fear from a black man, but the man had to fear them because they knew if they violated a white woman they would be hung on a tree somewhere. There was so much hate for black men's than and there's still some today. But things are a lot better. When I would go to theses white folks' house to get butter or milk they would sit me in a chair table. That something blacks did was to sit at their table. Because back then when the blacks worked in their fields they would have tables on the outside for them to eat. But sitting at the table this white lady would give me a glass of milk and a slice of cake. Talking about good it was good to me.

I remember a time we were staying in a house behind the house of the owner who dad worked for and I went to their house to get some butter and she gave me some milk and cake. I ate it and went back to the house.
My mom was outside brushing the yard, she looked at me like she knew I had been eating something.
She just knew I had gone out there begging for something to eat. She started beating me with that brush, broom which was made with a bunch of tree limbs tied together. The lady heard me hollering she came to where we were wanting to know why I was getting a beating. My mother told her that it was because I had been begging for food.
The lady told her that I didn't ask for nothing that she gave it to me. Every person's house that I went to would always give me something before I left their house. But my whole life changed when we left the south and moved to a northern state it was nothing like the south. There were houses so close together with only a walk way between the houses and everything was paved no dirt roads at all. They even had trolley cars in the middle of busy roads for people to ride where ever they needed to go. This was home now and I had to get comfortable with it.



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Tehilah27
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Post by Tehilah27 » 23 May 2018, 05:08

The innocence of children, happy with candy and cake without realizing the deep rooted problems. It is always a good thing to have happy childhood memories, to be a little removed from the poverty, anger and racism the adults had to contend with. I like your story, could do with a little editing though

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Beth470
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Post by Beth470 » 23 May 2018, 23:02

Thanks for reading it, hopefully my next story, will be edited better.

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Beth470
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Post by Beth470 » 23 May 2018, 23:08

Beth470 wrote:
15 May 2018, 09:35
The southern states were a place of much hate for blacks. They were treated like slaves even though they were free.
As a young girl at the time living with my parents things seems to be happy, but as a child, you don't have the worries grown ups do. I remember when we stayed in a small colony of about ten or twelve little shotgun houses as they call them with only three rooms. The settlement was the quarters. Thinking back now I really can't remember where we slept. Whether we slept on the floor or in a bed.
It was two adults and four children's at the time. Before we had moved in this little settlement my mother had two other children, one died at a year old, he was older than I, so I only knew what I was told. The girl was the seventh child named after my mother's mother, she lived three days. I remember she had something they called the trash. I remember my mom swobbing her mouth with a white rag wrapped around the end of a spoon. She died and my dad got an old fruit crate wrap her up and buried her. Living in the quarters seems to be a joyful place to stay surrounded by kind people's.

Being so young in the 50's there was this cafe at the end facing the settlement that was called a junk joint ran by a black lady. She would let me come down there to help her out. I never stayed until the party started. I wasn't big enough to do much, but she would make me feel like I was a big help to her because she paid me. Back then a little was a lot.
Now, a little isn't enough, it's tales more and some. We lived where the trains came through and at the end of the train was the little red caboose would be a man standing at back us children's would be standing waiting for the caboose to come by. This man would be standing there with a bucket filled with candy pitching it out to us. That was fun scrambling trying to pick us as much candy as we could. I remember the time my mother would send to the store or someone's house to get some butter or buttermilk.
I guess back in the days it was safer walking alone. There was this one time I went to the store what ever I went, for I don't remember, but anyway when I left the store I had to walk by the railroad cars was empty accepted for one.
There was this man standing in the door of one of the box cars.

I stopped and looked for a second there was this black man standing there in the with his body part in his hand rubbing it as he was looking at me. I turned and ran back to the store to afraid to keep going home. When I got to the store I told them about the man. So the owner's daughter walked me passed the box car and watched until I got home.
I guess a white girl didn't have nothing to fear from a black man, but the man had to fear them because they knew if they violated a white woman they would be hung on a tree somewhere. There was so much hate for black men's than and there's still some today. But things are a lot better. When I would go to theses white folks' house to get butter or milk they would sit me in a chair table. That something blacks did was to sit at their table. Because back then when the blacks worked in their fields they would have tables on the outside for them to eat. But sitting at the table this white lady would give me a glass of milk and a slice of cake. Talking about good it was good to me.

I remember a time we were staying in a house behind the house of the owner who dad worked for and I went to their house to get some butter and she gave me some milk and cake. I ate it and went back to the house.
My mom was outside brushing the yard, she looked at me like she knew I had been eating something.
She just knew I had gone out there begging for something to eat. She started beating me with that brush, broom which was made with a bunch of tree limbs tied together. The lady heard me hollering she came to where we were wanting to know why I was getting a beating. My mother told her that it was because I had been begging for food.
The lady told her that I didn't ask for nothing that she gave it to me. Every person's house that I went to would always give me something before I left their house. But my whole life changed when we left the south and moved to a northern state it was nothing like the south. There were houses so close together with only a walk way between the houses and everything was paved no dirt roads at all. They even had trolley cars in the middle of busy roads for people to ride where ever they needed to go. This was home now and I had to get comfortable with it.



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DATo
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Post by DATo » 24 May 2018, 05:23

This is a very interesting description of life in the South for a black child. I think you painted a very vivid picture for readers to see and vicariously experience what you did as a little girl. I think this entire story would make a nice opening chapter to a novel.

From reading this as well your past stories I think you have enough experience of life to write a pretty good novel about this time in your past. You could always add fictional things to perhaps make the story more interesting but there is no substitute for personal experience when attempting to project feelings and details and your story (above) does this very well.
“I just got out of the hospital. I was in a speed reading accident. I hit a book mark and flew across the room.”
― Steven Wright

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SereneCharles
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Post by SereneCharles » 25 May 2018, 20:44

I may not totally understand the narrator's gloomy childhood, but I can still relate. Thanks for the unveiling!
Writing is so much fun. So is reading. :techie-studyingbrown:

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