The Back Building Read Free

suppose it would, Hetty. I just feel backwards. I like being outside and snaring animals, that’s fun to me. I want to learn all about tracking and hunting. I want to land a buck and learn how to gut it and smoke the meat. I want to wrap myself in its fur and be proud that I shot it. I want to chop firewood and build things. I want to be around the horses and the other barn animals. Being inside sucks the air from my lungs, I feel trapped, like I can’t breathe.”
    “How old is you, girl?” she asked her eyes growing dark with worry.
    “Fifteen, why?”
    “Girls your age should be starting to fancy boys, not out hunting and being wild, or thinking they can be independent. Now listen to your parents. They be good people and you be causing them stress if you don’t do as they say. I thought you like to read? Go stick your nose in a book and let me do my work or else you gonna get me in trouble.”
    I grabbed my copy of Pollyanna by Eleanor H. Porter and sat in the drafty hallway to read as Hetty continued with her arduous chores. I couldn’t focus on the cheerful main character in the book while Hetty did all the back-breaking work. I watched as she wiped the sweat from her brow and upper lip. She finished cleaning the tub and used the towels that hung behind our door to wipe down the dirty sink before she started on the baseboards and floor. I put the book down and moved to help her with the floor. She handed me a rag and showed me how to dip, ring, and scrub starting with the dust-laden baseboards and moldings. Next we tackled the corners and then worked our way out so nothing got marred.
    When we finished in the bathroom I was exhausted and my arms ached. This work was not easy. Sitting and sewing was boring but not physically taxing. I understood why my mother handed the work over to Hetty so willingly. It was worth the small amount of money she doled out weekly to have the chores done for her.
    When I asked my mother about this she replied by telling me how rich people had maids who helped with the household work. The woman’s primary job, then, was to oversee the daily matters of the home. The woman decided what to put on the menu for dinner, what social engagements they should attend or host and whom they should invite. Their lives were lavish and fun and I could have that if I played my cards right. My mother told me I was an unmatched beauty, and that next year I would begin my social calendar. Until then, I needed to hone and refine my skills as a gracious young lady. She piled books on my head and commanded me to throw my shoulders back and down as I walked across the parlor ten times without dropping the novels.
    “To help erect your posture.” She said leaving me to perfect the preposterous balancing act alone (Twelve paces to the edge of the rug and twelve back).
    I felt badly for Hetty. When she went home it was to a clapboard house with seven siblings, three of whom she shared a room with. She didn’t have a mother anymore and took on the burden of caring for the smaller children as well as working both outside and inside the home. Often times my mother sent laundry home with Hetty so that she could earn a little something extra. Hetty always accepted the extra work and said she was saving her money for some day down the road.
    Hetty was the exception to the rule. She wanted out of our small town of Ithaca, New York. She confided in me that she had a dream to be a teacher one day. A black teacher, now that would be something.
    I never thought much about my grades. I assumed they were useless if I were just to be married off when I was ripe anyway. Hetty was different. She was driven by the words her mama instilled in her as a child. Her mama told her, “Hetty, you focus on a dream and you work hard to achieve it. You are one determined girl and you are gonna do fine in life.” Her mama was teaching her to be independent and not rely on a man to make her whole.
    Schoolwork came easy to me. I