neighborhood had a small middle and high school, surrounded by better-quality housing than the ones
near Robin Village. After several weeks passed, I enrolled into James Bowie Elementary and found a white candy man in Oak
Cliff. I quickly joined his sales team, again selling candy in the white neighborhoods after school and on weekends.
I only stayed in the all-black elementary school for several months, but I still liked it more than going to white schools.
It felt right being with people who looked, acted, and thought like me. There was no constant humiliation, most everybody
ate free lunches, and I made a lot of friends, something I never did at Pershing. I became more talkative at school, learned
to play games, shoot marbles, talk about girls, and clown around with other black boys. Eventually I would begin to feel relief
in the mornings, on the way to school, and pressure in the evenings.
At first I hardly missed my mother, but later I wondered how she was doing, wanted to see her in person. I had become very
quiet and secretive about my feelings and thoughts. Despite this, I asked my uncle one evening about my mother’s whereabouts.
He told me he had found and encouraged her to admit herself into a drug rehabilitation center. We would go see her soon, he
said.
If she does well, we even would be reunited with her.
In preparation for our reunion, I began to save the money from my candy sells. Each night I would give my uncle the eight,
eleven or thirteen dollars I had earned. He promised he would put it away for me. Every night I also kept accurate figures
on the money in a small notepad. In a few weeks I had earned sixty-seven dollars.
Meanwhile I found the complex where Junior lived, following my uncle’s direction. My aunt Felisa, a real short lady, had four
children and was not married. Although she didn’t work, she tried to share what she had with Junior.
Junior was doing okay. He missed our mother more than I and was taking the change hard. He didn’t have much to do since all
his friends were gone, and he thought the future looked bleak. So I spent more time around there with him, trying to cheer
him up. Then my own problems flared up.
On the day I was supposed to visit my mother, my uncle called me into his room. His usual solid demeanor was replaced by a
look similar to my mother’s twisted worry. “Jerrold, I have some bad news to confess to you.” I just sat quietly. “All the
money you had been giving me I spent on food to feed us.”
I was outraged. “I want my money, I was saving that for my mother.”
His wife intervened. “We’re sorry we didn’t tell you, but everyone had to eat. You have been helping to feed us,” she said.
No explanation would do. He had no right to spend my money without my permission. I had planned to help my family rebuild.
I wanted to show my mother that I could help. But I entered the car on my way to see her with empty pockets and with broken
trust.
We drove only a few minutes, so the rehab must have been in another part of Oak Cliff. The two-story center was a remodeled,
old wooden house. We pulled into the driveway. Inside, my mother sat in the living room area, watching TV with other addicts.
Somebody escorted her and us to a private part of the place. She had gained weight, and her once fair, clear skin had been
restored. Neither of us had anything to say. We just sat there going through the formalities. I was too upset at my uncle
James. She was probably tired of being there. After James and his wife left, I told her what they had done with my money.
She told me not to worry. But, obviously, she was worried and anxious to leave.
Back in East Ledbetter, I began to see things differently. What first had seemed like some real success for my uncle turned
out to be nothing. James had depended on my modest earnings to help hold his family together, income I knew would not last
long; white candy men spent
near Robin Village. After several weeks passed, I enrolled into James Bowie Elementary and found a white candy man in Oak
Cliff. I quickly joined his sales team, again selling candy in the white neighborhoods after school and on weekends.
I only stayed in the all-black elementary school for several months, but I still liked it more than going to white schools.
It felt right being with people who looked, acted, and thought like me. There was no constant humiliation, most everybody
ate free lunches, and I made a lot of friends, something I never did at Pershing. I became more talkative at school, learned
to play games, shoot marbles, talk about girls, and clown around with other black boys. Eventually I would begin to feel relief
in the mornings, on the way to school, and pressure in the evenings.
At first I hardly missed my mother, but later I wondered how she was doing, wanted to see her in person. I had become very
quiet and secretive about my feelings and thoughts. Despite this, I asked my uncle one evening about my mother’s whereabouts.
He told me he had found and encouraged her to admit herself into a drug rehabilitation center. We would go see her soon, he
said.
If she does well, we even would be reunited with her.
In preparation for our reunion, I began to save the money from my candy sells. Each night I would give my uncle the eight,
eleven or thirteen dollars I had earned. He promised he would put it away for me. Every night I also kept accurate figures
on the money in a small notepad. In a few weeks I had earned sixty-seven dollars.
Meanwhile I found the complex where Junior lived, following my uncle’s direction. My aunt Felisa, a real short lady, had four
children and was not married. Although she didn’t work, she tried to share what she had with Junior.
Junior was doing okay. He missed our mother more than I and was taking the change hard. He didn’t have much to do since all
his friends were gone, and he thought the future looked bleak. So I spent more time around there with him, trying to cheer
him up. Then my own problems flared up.
On the day I was supposed to visit my mother, my uncle called me into his room. His usual solid demeanor was replaced by a
look similar to my mother’s twisted worry. “Jerrold, I have some bad news to confess to you.” I just sat quietly. “All the
money you had been giving me I spent on food to feed us.”
I was outraged. “I want my money, I was saving that for my mother.”
His wife intervened. “We’re sorry we didn’t tell you, but everyone had to eat. You have been helping to feed us,” she said.
No explanation would do. He had no right to spend my money without my permission. I had planned to help my family rebuild.
I wanted to show my mother that I could help. But I entered the car on my way to see her with empty pockets and with broken
trust.
We drove only a few minutes, so the rehab must have been in another part of Oak Cliff. The two-story center was a remodeled,
old wooden house. We pulled into the driveway. Inside, my mother sat in the living room area, watching TV with other addicts.
Somebody escorted her and us to a private part of the place. She had gained weight, and her once fair, clear skin had been
restored. Neither of us had anything to say. We just sat there going through the formalities. I was too upset at my uncle
James. She was probably tired of being there. After James and his wife left, I told her what they had done with my money.
She told me not to worry. But, obviously, she was worried and anxious to leave.
Back in East Ledbetter, I began to see things differently. What first had seemed like some real success for my uncle turned
out to be nothing. James had depended on my modest earnings to help hold his family together, income I knew would not last
long; white candy men spent
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