The Farmer and the Boy
Let’s start in the hayfield. It’s 1937, and there’s a boy and a man, and they’re out in the field at the end of a late summer day. The boy’s 16. He’s tired and dusty and dirty from working all day with a pitchfork. The farmer’s a tall, white, weather-beaten old guy in his sixties or seventies, wearing overalls and a straw hat.
He was probably born in Maryland, probably not long after the Civil War, most likely in the 1870s, when blacks were freshly freed, the South was smoldering, and the country was putting itself together again after the greatest tragedy in its history.
The boy weighs 140 pounds. He’s not tall and not wearing a hat or proper underwear. He’s worn patched-together hand-me-downs all his life. The family has a small farm and some chickens. His mom makes the underwear from the sacks the chicken feed comes in.
The boy’s just out of high school and tired from working in the sun harvesting hay, but he has a plan and needs every cent he can get. Now he’s ready to move the plan from one stage to the next. He tells the farmer, “Looks like I’ll be quitting.”
The farmer’s surprised. The boy’s a hard worker. He’s cheap labor. He’s lean and strong and tireless. He’s serious and no trouble at all.
The farmer asks, “Why you want to do that?”
“Going to college.”
“College? What for?”
“I don’t know. Thought maybe I’d like to teach."
The farmer bends down a bit. The brim of his straw hat shades his face. He squints straight into the boy’s eyes then dispenses some advice.
“Boy, you know a nigger ain’t got sense enough to teach.”