If you celebrate the dream today, work to make it a reality tomorrow

I consider my youth a privilege that many do not understand. The lessons I take away from the hard labor and tough times of my family have shaped me in ways that I am just now, as an adult, understanding. I grew up in a lovely little town on a working family farm in the deep south. Besides the twenty some family members who worked on the farm in the variety of duties: dairy, tobacco, feed and seed, and chicken care, we also had a large number of farm hands.  Most of the folks who worked as farm hands were from the same family- sisters, sons, daughters, and cousins of the Lemon family who had worked for the Eaddy family for as long as any Eaddy could remember. Helena Lemon worked in Eaddy’s house. Eaddy was my grandfather. Rumor had it that Helena, who had no idea how old she was, started her work on the farm as a nursemaid to my grandmother when my father was born in 1940. She never missed a day- in fact for years I thought she lived at my grandfather’s house. I thought of her as my grandmother. I loved Helena as I loved my own mother. She always had an afterschool snack waiting on us, she cooked us our favorite supper-even when my mother had requested something different, she wiped away my tears, she braided my hair, she bandaged my scrapes, and she would “switch” me with a branch bit harder than my Dad always proclaiming that she was “gonna make me act right.”  She never helped me with my homework-she couldn’t read, but she was wise. Helena was probably the wisest woman I’ve ever met. Most of my steadfast values come from the lessons and life of Helena Lemon.

One of my first most vivid memories of Helena was at one of our daily family summer lunches when I was about 9. During the summer, each day Helena would cook lunch for everyone- Eaddy, my aunts and uncles, all my cousins, and all the farm hands. Eaddy’s dining room table could fit 20 people and the kids’ table in the kitchen had few chairs but always had room for more children. One such day, I arrived early to lunch after playing in the creek and getting eggs out of the coop. Helena spent much time showing me how to make homemade biscuits. She patiently taught me to kneed the dough, place the flour on the counter and use the rolling pin, carefully cut out the round biscuits, and place them onto a butter rolled baking pan and place into the oven. It was hot in that kitchen but I stood over that oven waiting with much impatience as those delicious biscuits cooked to perfection. I was so proud that I had made the biscuits. I told everyone as they arrived to lunch. No one really commended me other than my mother.  This hurt my feelings because I thought I deserved a noble peace prize for “Best Biscuits Ever Made.”  As I walked discouragingly to the kids’ table with my plate, I glanced into the washroom, a little room off the kitchen that held the kitchen sink. This room was a cement room with screens and steps leading to the kitchen and steps leading down into the meat room. In there I saw Helena sitting alone on the steps eating the lunch she had prepared balancing her plate on her knees.  

I took my plate and went to sit with Helena. I remember not understanding how Helena, who felt so much like my family and had cooked this entire meal, albeit the biscuits, was eating all alone. I asked her to come inside and join us. She just shook her head. So, I took up a seat beside her on the steps. I then told her how upset I was that no one commended me on my biscuits. She just smiled as I continued to lament on my family’s ungratefulness and said, “separate but equal doesn’t feel much like love, it feels much more like hate.” It was at that very moment I understood that Helena probably each day felt the same feelings of rejection from the very people I, and she, loved and claimed to love her. No lesson of history at school or any of my readings, had given me such a lesson. It was at that moment I became to understand division. In my innocent heart, I had never seen Helena as different, as separate, or as lesser than anyone else in my family. Having very few people to talk to about these feelings-ones that even I could not understand or articulate- I did what I have always done in times of confusion. I rode my bike to the local library. I spent the entire day reading about Martin Luther King, Jr. Because MLK,Jr. was really the one part of the Civil Rights Movement that was ever discussed in school. I discovered that, unlike what I had been taught, there were three groups of people during this time- those fighting for equal rights, those fighting against it, and those who did nothing. This group of bystanders fascinated me. My 9 year old self could not handle being a bystander. I will spare you the details of my one child protest against the racism and division in my little farmhouse. I was not victorious-partly because of the beliefs of my family and partly because of the trepidation of Helena. But my little 9 year old self vowed from that day forward to not be a bystander.

Today as my family participated in the MLK,Jr. Day of Service, and sadly, were with a very small number working hard, Rosebro2 began lamenting on the work and wanting to be in bed like most of his friends rather than working hard at 9am on a day off of school. As I looked around the room, and saw my family and 2 others working hard, I simply asked him, “If not us, who would do this?”  Something I’ve asked my non-bystander self many times. My husband started lecturing him on what the day of service meant as well as how we should be doing it with love in our heart. At this point, a very elderly African-American woman, came over to our family and decided to be silent no more. She grabbed Rosebro2’s hands and stated, “Young man, Dr. King once told us that he decided to stick with love because hate is too great a burden to bear.” She, this stranger, was able to stop his complaining and geared his work to the next level, in ways that I was unable. I struck up a conversation with this lady who spoke of her real work through the years with Civil Rights that her age no longer allowed. She asked me what sent me and my family to this location on the Day of Service and I described to her my life altering event at age 9 and what I’ve learned since then. The number one thing I’ve learned is that I don’t have any answers, but I am not silent. I’ve learned that talking about race is not racist. I have learned that racism still exists and it negatively effects everyone; thereby, creating the need to never be that bystander. I have also learned that my work as an educator is far greater than the standards I am certified to teach. As Dr. King stated, “we must remember that intelligence is not enough. Intelligence plus character-that is the goal of true education.” 
So I urge everyone to remember that the Day of Service isn’t just a day. In fact, I have always believed, since that age of 9 sitting on a stoop with Helena, that if you celebrate the dream today, you must work tomorrow to make the dream a reality.