The Summer I Became An Adult

My parents were Nixon Republicans. They may have been the only Massachusetts residents who had voted for Nixon instead of Kennedy in 1960. 

            Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating. But that’s how it felt to me. 

            They thought Lyndon Johnson was a wimp for setting up anti-poverty programs. “Those people need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps,” my father said.

            “But Dad, how’s that possible, when they don’t have bootstraps to begin with?” I asked. 

            “You’re becoming a communist!” he declared, as he threw down his newspaper and headed to the garage to putter around. Fiddling around with his tools was the way he got rid of tension. Either that, or he’d drink himself silly. I preferred the former to the latter. 

            I picked up the crushed newspaper.

            “U.S. Embassy Invaded in Saigon: Death Toll Unknown.”

            These headlines are unsettling. I’m in college now and will be facing the draft soon. Have to keep my grades up or I’ll be Vietnam bound. Pronto. My student deferral will be kaput.  Like my best friend Jason, who flunked out last year. His parents tried to get him into the National Guard so he wouldn’t have to be drafted. Hell, I told him to go to Canada, but he didn’t act fast enough. Next thing he knew, he was on his way to basic training at Fort Hood, Texas. Texas. Freaking Texas. Not a great place for a Massachusetts guy to go. Now he’s in the infantry in Vietnam. I wrote him a letter once. I should write him again. Guess he’s becoming a man.

            But this summer, I’m going to try something different. I signed up to go to Mississippi to work with an anti-poverty project. Yup. With the wimps. The ones my dad thinks should read stories about Horatio Alger and pursue the American Dream. What does that even mean, anyway?

            We’re leaving on a bus next week. Destination: Tunica, Mississippi. The organizers say it will be hotter than hell down there. Mosquitoes as big as swallows, they say. Cockroaches the size of newborn puppies. Snakes the size of…Did I say snakes?  All we have around here are those little, nuisance garter snakes. Wiggly, nasty snakes. Just the thought of them gives me the creeps. 

            But it’s my summer job. These people got a grant from the Johnson Administration to do anti-poverty work. We’re going to make repairs to dilapidated housing and install plumbing, stuff like that. We’re bringing tools and supplies. 

            We’re not supposed to get into politics, like talking about civil rights and voting. I don’t know how we can avoid it, but group leaders say it will get us into trouble. I’ll do my best. It won’t be easy. 

****

            Time to board the bus. Just a big old Greyhound, but it will be our home for the two-day drive to Tunica, Mississippi. We can only bring one small bag with us—small necessities, a few changes of clothes, stuff like that. We’re staying at a church, sleeping on cots, Local church ladies will feed us. Hope they’re not planning on just dishing out grits and cornbread. I’m a growing boy!

            The organizers assign seats. They count everyone; we’re ready to roll. 

            “We count everyone and assign seats so that we know if you’re missing every time we stop,” the head guy explains. “We don’t want to lose anyone.”

            “We don’t want to get lost, either,” says the young woman seated next to me.

            Everyone chuckles.

            “This is serious business,” the head guy, who says his name is Chuck, emphasizes. “We’ll be going through some seriously rural areas. No pay phones. Not much in the way of communicating if you get lost. Just don’t get separated from us. That’s an order.”

            “Yes, sir!” the two people seated in the front row say in unison.

            “Don’t try to be funny!” Chuck says. “This isn’t comedy. We’re not watching ‘Laugh In’ or ‘The Smothers Brothers’ here.”

            Chuck ambles up to the front of the bus and plops into his chair.

            “Hi, I’m Ellie,” the girl next to me says. “What’s your name?”

            I blush a little. “I’m Jimmy,” I reply. “Where are you from?”

            “I live in Chelsea,” she says. “I go to Emerson College. I’m studying journalism and communications. I hope to write about this experience for the school newspaper.”

            “That’s cool. I go to Boston University. College of Arts and Sciences. I’m majoring in psychology, but mostly the first two years are general courses. Next year I’ll start specific psychology classes.”

            “Do you want to become a shrink? I mean a psychiatrist?”

            “No. Maybe a counseling psychologist or social worker. Don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll have a better idea after this trip.”

            “Yeah. This trip could be a turning point in our lives, couldn’t it?”

            Interesting concept. 

****

            After two-and-a-half grueling, hot, humid days on the bus, we arrive in Tunica. The humidity is so thick, I an cut through it with my hands. Such thick, acrid, heavy air fills my lungs, I almost can’t breathe. My head feels woozy and my legs wobble. My whole body feels rubbery, like a Slinky toy. 

            I look over at Ella, and she appears to be having the same experience. She leans against the body of the bus as she steadies herself.  “Wow,” she says. “I knew this place was humid, but I didn’t expect this.”

            “Neither did I,” I say across the parking lot. She winks back at me. 

            We grab our bags and walk ever so slowly to the church, where we’re greeted not only by the church “ladies,” but also by a string of cots lined up side by side, sporting pillows and linens. 

            “Good evening, everyone,” Chuck says. “This will be our home for the next week or so. It will be a lot easier for all of us if we could arrange ourselves the same way we were on the bus. Do you think you can manage that?”

            Everyone nods. I think they cant’t speak due to the oppressive nature of the air. At least, that’s why I cann’t manage to get a syllable out of my mouth. 

            Chuck explains where the rest rooms were located and how the shower rooms were in the basement. “We probably won’t have enough hot water for everyone to show at the same time,” he explained. So have a little courtesy for your fellow travelers.”

            Box fans creak as they weakly attempt to make a difference in the temperature. Their efforts are not exactly in vain but also not successful, as their screechy song croon out of tune for all to hear. We anticipate a long night of attempted slumber on unfamiliar cots.

****

            With aches in joints and muscles I didn’t know I had, I woke from a less-than-refreshing sleep to the smell of eggs and bacon frying. I pull myself up on one elbow to see Ellie’s cot already empty. She may have gone downstairs for a shower, or she may already be at the breakfast table. I rub my eyes and gather my thoughts, trying to realize where I was. Oh, yeah, Mississippi. Church that feels like an oven. Check. Get up and get moving. 

            I direct my feet toward the breakfast smells. 

            “Good mornin’, sunshine,” an elderly Black lady greets me. “How do you like your eggs, hun?”

            “Err, how about scrambled, ma’am?”

            “Comin’ right up, darlin’. And bacon? You like bacon? We got some fine country bacon here. Now, you find a seat and I’ll bring it all over. Y’hear?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            Ellie laughs at this exchange under her breath. “You have a new girlfriend?” She asks. 

            “Maybe. Depends on her cooking.  You know the old cliché? The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?” 

            “I may have heard that once or twice, yes.”

            Here comes the plate of bacon and eggs, along with grits and cornbread. 

            “Now, you ever ate grits before?” our gracious cook asks?

            “No, ma’am.”

            “Well, you’ll like them the way I fixed them.”

            “I’m sure I will, ma’am.” 

            This breakfast looks fit for a king. For the moment, I am the king of Tunica, Mississippi.

****

            We gather outside the church, as Chuck gives us instructions. 

            “We’re headed over to this one neighborhood,” he explains. “You all may be shocked when you see what’s there. The people have no indoor plumbing. They use what they call ‘sugar ditch’ behind their shacks for—err—sanitation purposes. It’s a big trench that drops about twenty feet, and, let’s just say, it doesn’t smell too good. It’s the only place they have to use for a bathroom. They don’t even have outhouses there. 

            “That’s one of the things we’re trying to do for these folks. We’re trying to build outhouses. We’re not going to be here long enough to put in indoor plumbing, and we really don’t have the expertise that would take. But if we can at least construct a few outhouses, that may give them some privacy and work a little better than that ‘sugar ditch.’”

            Silence. No one in our group could fathom what that meant. How could people live this way? I could hear my father say, “Those people need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps! They shouldn’t be getting all these handouts!” If you have nowhere to relieve yourself except in a gully filled with human waste, where are your bootstraps?

            Chuck explains we’re going to be digging holes and constructing outhouse frames with precut, donated lumber. “We have patterns to follow, to make this easier,” he says. 

            We look at each other and shrug. “That’s why we came, after all,” says a guy from Hingham. “Let’s get rolling.”

            We walk in the stifling heat toward the shacks that back up against “sugar ditch.” We don’t need a map; the odor is strong enough that no one has to point out which way to go. The aroma is almost as oppressive as the humidity. I think I might vomit. Somehow that tasty breakfast might become my enemy. 

            We examine stacks of wood with shovels placed neatly next to them. Organized toolboxes strategically placed invite members of our group to use them. Chuck steps in and shows us where the outhouses will go. He uses a shovel to draw a square in the dirt, then chooses people to start digging within the square. He picks me as one of the excavators. 

            The people who live in these shacks come out on their rundown porches—if you can call them that—and watch what we’re doing. As we dig our four holes—two for men, two for women—their curiosity is obvious. They’re observing white people digging holes for them, instead of forcing Black people to do the work.  Some have arms crossed across their bodies, some are whistling or humming tunes. But the ones I’m watching are the children. They seem to be the most amused, as if they’ve never seen white people work this hard. The kids are skipping and hopping around as we dig. They are loving this activity, creeping over to peer into the holes, and laughing at us. We smile back through the sweat dripping down our faces. 

            Chuck comes over to evaluate our progress. “Lookin’ good, guys. We have an outhouse top almost done to put over a hole, and yours is the closest to being finished. I’m proud of you.”

            One little girl sheepishly tiptoes in my direction. 

            “’Scuse me, sir,” she asks. “Is this gonna be for us?”

            “Yes, my lady, it will be for your homes here,” I reply. 

            “Truly? You doin’ this for us?” 

            “Yes, honey. Two for the women, two for the men.”

            “So we won’t have to use that ole ditch anymore?”

            “That’s why.”

            “And I won’t have to show myself to those old nasty men when I have to use the—the—bathroom?”

            “Yes, honey. Won’t that be nice?”

            She squealed. “Oh, mister! This must be a dream! I been dreamin’ about this all my life!’

            “All your life? How old are you?

            “Seven.”

            “And when is your birthday?”

            “In three weeks.”

            “Well, you can call this your birthday present, then.”

            “Mister, I ain’t never had a present this good.” She reached up and hugged me. She wouldn’t let go.

            I blushed and couldn’t stop. I didn’t know what to say. 

            We are giving her bootstraps for her birthday. She didn’t know it, but I did. 

            I was nineteen that day. Close to my twentieth birthday. Digging that hole was graduation day. No mortarboard hat. No “Pomp and Circumstance.” That day, I became a man, with a little Black girl, hugging me and not letting go.