Skip to main content

40 Acres and A Mule

I was forced to eat cereal in a bowl of slightly outdated milk this morning because we're out of eggs. I'll have to go to the store this afternoon to stock up, and I can do that without concern because I can afford to just drive to the place and fill my cart without wondering if there will be enough money in my account to pay the bill. I won't break a sweat when I swipe my debit card, and I won't have to give up something else essential in order to have food in the fridge.

Before I can buy groceries, though, I've got some work to do at the English class for Hispanic immigrants. I've been given a new assignment—working through a book on American history with the more advanced students. No, we won't be reading about the atrocities the CIA has initiated in order to keep a giant thumb on South America, in case you were wondering. We won't be learning about how we shoved native tribes farther and farther west into extinction. And we won't be talking much about tobacco and the slave trade. Not much, anyway.

The book we'll be using starts with the reconstruction of the South after the Civil War, and the first chapter introduces the subject of constitutional amendments as related to rights granted to newly freed slaves. It also glances over Booker T. Washington and his founding of the Tuskegee Institute in Alabama.

I could talk to these students about how my parents, Alabama natives who supported segregation, had "war loser" views of Reconstruction, but I think I'll stick with the history written by the winners, as most documented history is, and will only interject bits and pieces as I see fit. For example, the text explains that freed Africans were eager for an education, but it doesn't mention that in southern states, they were so eager because it had been illegal to educate slaves. And when it talks about southern laws designed to make it difficult for a black man to vote, it doesn't say that the poll taxes and literacy tests were meant to keep out the poor whites, too.

I keep hearing that passing line in "Gone With the Wind" when a carpetbagger says to a group of blacks on the streets of Atlanta, "And we're gonna give you 40 acres and a mule," drawing out the phrase with sing-song intonation as if he's talking to children, and the people repeat the phrase as if they can't believe someone would actually give them something of their own.

Those free slaves were dismissed from their plantations to starve in the woods, and the poor whites who made up most of the confederate population were just as hungry. Having their own land and a mule to help pull the plow was almost too much to imagine. Some of that land was swampy or on a rocky slope that wouldn't grow srub, much less edible produce, but all of that might be too much information for today.

We'll see. One thing is for sure, though. None of the people in our history text for today had any eggs left after the war, and they didn't have a box of cereal with some stale milk to fall back on, either. I'll try to remember to mention that in class today, but I'll especially keep it in mind while I'm pushing my cart through the grocery store.

Comments

dive said…
I imagine they already know more than enough about the CIA in Central America, Robyn.
It's good that you'll be able to teach them something that you have personal knowledge of through your family history. A teacher who can bring history to life is a precious thing indeed.
MmeBenaut said…
Good for you Robyn! One of the most admirable things about the US is the strength it has achieved when the fight for everything was so damned tough.
There were atrocious misjudgements made by all colonising forces; not least in my own country and the indigenous population here is still suffering a lack of medical care that makes me ashamed. I agree with Dive, insert a little extra background if you think that your class can handle it.

Popular posts from this blog

Am I Stupid, or What?

In two weeks, I will climb up into a charter bus, take my assigned seat, and ride 22 hours straight to Orlando, Florida. I will be a chaperon with the high school marching band, which will perform at Disney's Magic Kingdom--me and 180 people on four big buses for seven days. We will travel together, eat together, play together, fall down exhausted together--and after 22 hours, I suspect stink to high heaven together. Because of the crazy schedule, we will leave Ohio at 6 pm, travel all night and most of the next day, and spend several hours at MGM Studios before ending up at the hotel sometime after 7 pm. After I check in with the eight girls I am to supervise, I intend to shower and shower and shower. I intend to wear clean clothes and socks and brush my teeth until my toothbrush wears out. Of all the things I could be concerned about on this trip, being dirty seems to weigh heaviest on my mind. One of my eight charges could run off and do bad things with her boyfriend, but I'...

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...

An Offending Pile

So, I'm standing in my living room letting my mind wander for a minute or two as I stare out the window and watch the day go by, and I see my neighbors walking their dogs down the street. They are nice neighbors who are always friendly and responsible with their property. That is to say they aren't like the other neighbors who heap rubbish behind their house like Ma and Pa Kettle and let their dogs bark for thirty minutes at a time . Anyway, I see the nice people walking their dogs, a big golden retriever who is as sweet as can be and as dumb as a post—he once ate a sock and nearly died before it was surgically removed—and a new golden retriever puppy. Then I see Neighbor Wife suddenly run down the street with the big dog. Then I see Neighbor Husband stopped in front of my house with the puppy on its leash. And then I see the puppy taking a huge dump in my grass. Let me tell you, that is not done in this town unless the dog owner has a plastic bag handy and is ready to pick up ...