Free Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield Page B

beside my grandmother, I asked her to tell me about life during her young years. I knew very little. She had dropped out of school at a young age to work in the cotton fields, so her brothers and sisters would have an opportunity to pursue their education. I admired this, and because of that, the years passed so quickly she never returned to school. Unable to read and write and being elderly now didn’t hamper her lifestyle or spirit at all. She claims it has helped keep her stress level down throughout the years. I could only imagine what illiteracy was like considering the fierce competition in the city and the educational credentials required to reach particular advancement levels within corporate America. I listened to and learned amazing details of her journey.
    At an age when most women prepared to raise families, she found her marriage crumbling. She and her husband soon parted ways. Granny was left alone with six children, uneducated, and determined to find a way to support them. Cotton fields became her savior. At home there was often a shortage of material items but never love. When the children needed clean undergarments they were hand washed the night before and remained damp in the morning. The children would slip into their damp garments the next morning and proceed toward the school grounds. Granny Martha never received a diploma, but she strove to ensure her children received their opportunities. The older children helped her with the younger ones.
    There were times when work was available in the next town; the next towns in either direction were sixteen miles. Granny Martha had no car to help her reach her destination, but that didn’t stop her.
    â€œI had the best car around,” she told me as she patted her two feet. I glanced at her, shocked. It was unbelievable that she had walked to the towns of Prescott and Arkadelphia many times. She continued describing how people she knew driving to the same towns drove past her without once stopping to offer her a ride—quite a contrast to the friendly appearance I experienced driving that same route now. Her walks to town would start before the sun rose and end as it settled in its bed.
    â€œDo you think they ever thought about stopping, Granny?” I eagerly asked.
    â€œNo,” she declared sans any resentment. “They thought they were better than me, but I knew different. I had the Lord on my side,” she continued. “That is the only friend I need.”
    I nodded in agreement. Tears welled in my eyes, as I felt guilty about the anger bubbling in me.
    â€œIt would take me all day, honey, to walk up there and back, but I made it every time. Yes, ma’am, I made it. Do you want to know something?” she asked trying to conceal a little smirk.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œI’ve outlived most of those folks,” she explained in her Southern accent. I smiled back at her listening attentively as the tales continued.
    Sometimes she would carry my uncle to town because he was too young to go to school and she needed to work.
    In the cotton fields, she would carry loads of cotton on her back and drag him around on a sack next to her while she worked, making any money she could. As the day continued I could do nothing but stare in amazement. This little ninety-pound woman was a powerhouse, and I had almost missed out on learning so much about her. I felt proud to call her granny, but I realized my feeling went much deeper than that. Granny Martha became a symbol of strength that African American females have always been known for since the beginning of time.
    Swannee Rivers

2

IT TAKES A
VILLAGE OF
MOTHERS
    N ext to God we are indebted to women,
first for life itself, and then for making
it worth living.
    Mary McLeod Bethune

My Womb’s Butterfly
    J ust don’t give up trying to do what you really want to do. Where there’s love and inspiration, I don’t think you can go wrong.
    Ella