“Yes, sir, I am.”
“He special to you?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Well, I’ve known him for years. We went through law school together, traveled on that group project through Europe and Africa together. He’s been a good friend.”
Papa was silent a moment, then, still gazing out at the forest, said, “Any more than that?”
Now I hesitated. “Sir?”
Eyes still on the forest, unexpectedly Papa said, “I don’t want you marrying white.”
“Sir?”
“You know what I mean, and why.”
I was silent.
Papa now looked at me. With his eyes on me, I started to protest. “Papa, what makes you think—”
Papa stopped me. “You think I ain’t seen how y’all been looking at each other? My own papa was half white, looked white, and he always said, ‘You have daughters, don’t ever let them go with a white man.’”
I looked away.
“Years ago, there could be no thinking about marriage. Now we’re in this new world and some folks do marry white, like your Cousin Bud, but it ain’t something I want for you. I don’t want you with a white man, Cassie. I don’t want you marrying white. Now, you know ’bout your grandpa. You’ve heard the story often enough. I’ve told you and your grandmama’s told you too. Now, my white grandpa was a decent enough man for his times. He treated my papa and my papa’s sister almost the same as his white children. He took care of them, made his white sons share their books with them and teach them each day whatever they learned in school. He even treated my papa’s mama all right too, I suppose, but that didn’t take away from the fact that she was his slave and first time they were together as man and woman was because she had to do whatever he said because he was her master. Both my papa and his sister were born out of that union, born their daddy’s slaves, and as much as my papa loved his daddy, he hated what his mother had to do for that man not because she wanted to, but because she had to. It wore at my papa all his life, and he always taught my brothers and me, ‘You ever have daughters, don’t y’all let them debase themselves at the feet of a white man.’”
Now Papa was silent, and I said quietly without looking at him, “I haven’t debased myself, Papa.”
Papa said nothing to that, and we both looked out at the forest without another word.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Mama was now contributing to the registration drive. Although she didn’t teach a class at Great Faith, she taught people what was needed to register when she made her teaching rounds in the community. She also expressed an interest in registering to vote herself. She knew the 285 sections of the Mississippi constitution as well as I did, but Papa had never studied the constitution and had no interest in doing so. “I’m not about to waste my time studying on rules these white men have set down, then march up to another white man who’s going to judge me as to whether or not I’ve got the same way of thinking about them as he has.”
“But, Papa,” I said, “for now, that’s about the only way to get to vote down here.”
“Then I won’t be voting. Besides, even if I could vote, who’d I vote for? More white folks?”
“Maybe,” Mama said, “one day we’ll get some white people running for office who’ll think twice about their politics and do what’s good for colored folks as well as whites because they’ll want our vote. We don’t like how they’re doing us, we’ll help vote them out.”
“And maybe one day,” I added, “there’ll even be some colored folks running for office and we can vote for them.”
Papa laughed. “Well, maybe then I’ll see about trying to vote. ’Til then, they just gonna have to do without me.” He sounded like Uncle Hammer, and both Mama and I told him so, but we understood. A lot of people felt the same.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
I told Mama and Papa I needed to return to Boston for a few days to take care of some casework. I told Morris the same, but Morris knew I was going to see about Guy and I didn’t deny it. Probably Mama and Papa knew that too, but they said nothing. Each day I had called the Boston office to check on Guy. He was still in the hospital. There had been some swelling on the brain, but the swelling had gone down and the prognosis was that he would fully recover and that there would be no brain damage. As soon as I arrived in Boston, I went to see him. His mother was at the hospital when I arrived and she did not leave. When I went again, he was alone, but there was an awkwardness between us. He didn’t have much to say. I didn’t know how he was feeling toward me. I didn’t know how I was feeling toward him either.
I was in Boston less than a week, but while I was there, Morris was arrested. He had taken Mrs. Batie and the Steptoes back to the county registrar. As before, white people had gathered in front of the courthouse and were waiting when he, Mrs. Batie, and the Steptoes came out. The sheriff was waiting too. As the white folks jeered at Morris, Mrs. Batie, and the Steptoes, the crowd became animated and the sheriff stepped forward and arrested Morris. He handcuffed him and took him to jail, saying Morris was “inciting folks toward riot.” I returned to Mississippi and got Morris out on bail. Although paying bail was discouraged, many in the movement did pay bail for expedience. As head of the Spokane registration drive, Morris was needed, not in jail, but to continue the drive. He still had to appear before a judge, and most likely he would have to serve more jail time. He would be standing before a white judge, and we all understood what that meant.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
Mama decided to take the test. On the next trip to the registrar’s office, Papa drove her to Strawberry and I went with them. Morris drove his car with a group, and Deacon Sanders also drove a group. Once more we walked the long flight of stairs to the courthouse doors and once more no one’s answers suited the registrar’s interpretation of the articles. No one passed the test, not even Mama, and we all knew if anyone, black or white, was qualified to pass that literacy test, it was Mama, and she was clearly upset about it. “So, what happens if folks keep failing the test according to the registrar?” Mama demanded to know on our way back.
“Well, there are already lawsuits against county registrars. We’ll probably do the same here. Over in Pike County and a couple other counties, the registrars have allowed a few colored people to pass the test, mainly doctors, college professors, and leading Negro business people, so they can point out in a lawsuit how qualified the people they let pass are, not like all the other colored people who are attempting to register. Course now, only a handful of colored people voting won’t change anything and these white people know that. Thing is, here in Spokane County no one has passed.”