The Emancipation of Robert Sadler Read Free

their work, they’d stick their heads in the rain barrel outside and then rush inside and put on their dresses. I watched them hurry out of the house and begin the two-and-a-half-mile walk down the road to school. Mama would holler after them, “Be sure’n be home about 10:30 so’s to knock down cotton stalk!”
    In a few hours they’d be home, and the first thing they would do would be to wash their dresses in the basin and hang them over the chair to dry before the fire until they’d take the smoothing iron the next morning and iron them for wearing. They came home with stories of danger and adventure nearly every day.
    â€œThe big white school bus fly by so fast we almost got runned over.” They’d be grey with dust, their hair and clean dresses ruined with dirt. “Mama, why they do us like that?”
    â€œGirls, listen to me. There ain’t no dirt can grieve us til they buries us. And when that day come, we rise up on the glory side—so there ain’t no use to grumblin. Go wash up now.”
    One morning they came home crying so terribly I thought maybe the white children had beat on them. It was worse than that. They had been walking up the dusty road the two and a half miles to school when the white farmer we rented from approached Father.
    â€œWhar those chillren of yors goin, Jim?”
    â€œThey’s goin to school, jes like yors.”
    â€œOh no they ain’t, Jim. My chillren is goin to school, yor chillren is goin to the field!”
    From the look on his face, Father knew that he’d better send his children to the man’s field. Though they worked for nothing, he knew if they didn’t some mighty bad things could happen to him.
    â€œGit out the field, chillren,” he said.
    The crying lasted about a week. They never went back to school again because soon they were doing Mama’s work too. She didn’t have much energy, and she seemed to be having trouble catching her breath. Some days she could hardly get out of bed. But she went to work in the field nearly every day.
    Ella and I played in the clearing during the day with the other children too young to work the fields, waiting for our mamas to come for us. One day when we saw her coming for us, her forehead and fine high cheekbones shone with sweat. Her small but strong body stooped low and her walk was slow. As she drew near to us a broad smile spread across her face. We ran to her arms and kissed her wet face. Mama’s health was getting worse. Her breathing was more labored and she looked like she was in pain. I began to feel protective of her, and I worked hard at cleaning, sweeping, and feeding the chickens. My older sisters were working with Mama in the field so it was just Ella and me in the house.
    One night Leroy and Johnny moved out of the cabin to join the other brothers and get jobs. Mama said good-bye to them tearfully. As she embraced them, she looked as though she wanted to tell them something—something special, something that would make sense of everything and give it all a purpose and meaning. But instead she kissed them each quickly and said, “The Lord watch over you.”
    When they were gone, and the house was still, Mama sang to us. It was as though she was praying. She was part Indian and usually wore her long black hair in braids tied around her head. This night her hair hung loose and fuzzy around her shoulders, and I thought she looked like an angel. The other children must have thought so too, for we all sat real quiet, watching and listening as Mama sang to us. We joined in, too, and sang until it was time to go to bed.
    Jesus, shine your light, shine shine shine . . .
    As tender and loving as Mama was, Father was mean. His disposition was growing worse and worse. He came home that night drunk as usual. I heard him call for Mama. I crawled off the bed and watched from the shadows. He was teetering on his feet and in an ugly