give something small. That's all I have to offer. It is the only way that we can chip away at that myth. You—you can be bigger than anyone you have ever met. "Please listen to me, because I would not lie to you now. I speak from my heart. You have the chance of being bigger than anyone who has ever lived on that plantation or come from this little town. You can do it if you try. You have seen how Mr. Farrell makes a slingshot handle. He starts with just a little piece of rough wood—any little piece of scrap wood—then he starts cutting. Cutting and cutting and cutting, then shaving. Shaves it down clean and smooth till it's not what it was before, but something new and pretty. You know what I'm talking about, because you have seen him do it. You had one that he made from a piece of scrap wood. Yes, yes—I saw you with it. And it came from a piece of old wood that he found in the yard somewhere. And that's all we are, Jefferson, all of us on this earth, a piece of drifting wood, until we—each one of us, individually— decide to become something else. I am still that piece of drifting wood, and those out there are no better. But you can be better. Because we need you to be and want you to be. Me, your godmother, the children, and all the rest of them in the quarter. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Jefferson? Do you?" He looked at me in great pain. He may not have understood, but something was touched, something deep down in him—because he was still crying. . . . *
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Grant and Reverend Ambrose "I went to college." "But what did you learn?" "To teach reading, writing, and arithmetic, Reverend." "What did you learn about your own people? What did you learn about her— [your Tante Lou]?" he said, gesturing toward the other room and trying to keep his voice down. I didn't answer him. "No, you not educated, boy," he said, shaking his head. "You far from being educated. You learned your reading, writing, and arithmetic, but you don't know nothing. You don't even know yourself. Well?" "You're doing the talking, Reverend." "And educated, boy," he said, thumping his chest. "I'm the one that's educated. I know people like you look down on people like me, but"—he touched his chest again—"I'm the one that's educated. . . . "Yes, you know. You know, all right. That's why you look down on me, because you know I lie. At wakes, at funerals, at weddings—yes, I lie. I lie at wakes and funerals to relieve pain. 'Cause reading, writing, and 'rithmetic is not enough. You think that's all they sent you to school for? They sent
Reverend Parker of Little Zorah Missionary Baptist Church, Jeanerette, La., 1947
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