Oranges, Cadillacs, Campbell Soup Cans, Black American History, & God Oranges. You can bet on finding one in my refrigerator every time you open it. We even have a special orange peeler made by Tupperware. I love peeling back that tough exterior and the excess white residue underneath to reveal that juicy sweet goodness. Or sometimes cutting the oranges into slices and devouring them until it looked as though I am wearing a unique mouth guard. Now, I look at these oranges and imagine George Starling, the Blye brothers, and other pickers scaling large trees all day for pennies. Picturing George “Schoolboy” Starling using his intellect to calculate what the grove owners promised to pay and then finding their paychecks not adding up. I envision how George realized that World War I depleted the workforce. He then would convince the majority of pickers to only work fair wages or not work at all. George knew the grove owners themselves could fill the demand and would have no choice but to breakdown and pay the appropriate wage (without cheating their paychecks because George Starling could do the math). See George knew that black men and women would typically work all day for seventy-five cents or maybe a dollar, but he also knew picking in the grove with fairer wages could be bring in that same amount in just an hour or two. Under his leadership George basically formed his own union because he knew the grove owners had no choice, if they wanted to get paid they had to have pickers. Mr. Starling stood strong against the white owners. George wouldn’t budge either, it was his price (a fair price) and not a penny less. Yes sir, oranges will always taste a little sweeter to me now. Cadillacs. My father-in-law owns a brand new cherry red 2017 Cadillac. It has a sleek new modern design, but that logo still stands out. The Cadillac crest sits prominent on the back and front of the vehicle. When I see it, Big Boi & Andre 3K echo in my head rhyming about two dope boys in a Cadillac with me and you, yo momma and yo cousin too rolling down the strip and slamming the doors. One does not have to be an automotive expert to spot a Mercedes, Audi, or Ferrari just by the logo…and the Cadillac logo is no different. No doubt about it, Cadillacs represent luxury. However, now when my father-in-law pulls up in my driveway I immediately recall the young aspiring Dr. Foster earning the money to buy a brand new Cadillac himself. He wanted a car that would spark interest and grab the attention of potential clients. After all, Dr. Foster was a man of style and first impressions. Even though, he earned enough money to purchase a Cadillac, when Dr. Foster visited the local dealership he was only offered the used models. Evidently Negroes at this time were not worthy of owning a brand new one despite the ability to afford one. That Cadillac symbol now makes me visualize Dr. Robert Pershing Foster feverishly writing that letter to the Cadillac manufacturers describing his experience. Then not only being granted to purchase a brand new Cadillac but also choosing the color and model which would be delivered to him. If I get the opportunity to get behind the wheel of my father-in-law’s precious Cadillac, I will definitely daydream about Dr. Robert Pershing Foster cruising around to his patients, his practice, the race tracks and casinos. Letting all the onlookers know, the doctor has arrived. Campbell Soup cans. My wife is always stocking our pantry. She will be the first to tell you we have items that need to be kept in multiple quantities at all times. One of these said items are varieties of Campbell soup. These soups are commonly used for ingredients for various meals, while some are just the company’s famous chicken noodle soup. I’m convinced their chicken noodle soup completely eradicates almost any head cold and sore throat. These staple Campbell products in our household all come in cans still. Going forward these cans will always bring George and Ida Mae Gladney to mind. Both working long hours for wages lower than their white co-workers. George working the canning machines over and over and over for years with that repetitive labor wearing on his body. Ida Mae finally getting a job at the Campbell plant that would free her from the stereotypical female “slave market” jobs. These “slave market” jobs were basically groups of black women waiting to be handpicked by white women who would pay them to do their household chores, grocery shopping, or sometimes other menial tasks. I try to visualize the various homes the Gladney family lived in before finally purchasing their first three story flat with the help of the steady work the Campbell plant provided. Yes indeed, George and Ida epitomized work ethic. Yet George still had time to open the church every Sunday. To me a can of Campbell soup might as well have a picture of George and Ida Mae Gladney on it. One may think it is foolish for a can to recall such images, but it will. The images of a life of hard work, struggle, faith, heartbreak, and incredible perseverance. Black American History. My knowledge of black history was forever transformed by this book. I thought I had an idea of what hatred and evil black men and women endured from arriving in 1619 until the Civil Rights Act of 1964, that’s 345 years…that’s approximately 6 generations. A day to day fear of not knowing if you were going to be beaten, lynched or raped…or maybe all of the above with no recourse or accountability. Like George Starling’s friend, Reuben Blye, recalling helping his uncle cut down a limp, lynched body out of tree they spotted on their way to run errands, when Reuben was only ten years old. Or Ida Mae’s friend Joe Lee, who was beaten almost to death for being wrongfully accused of stealing turkeys. Ida Mae recounted he was beaten with chains until Joe Lee’s overalls turned red with blood and stuck to his skin as if with adhesive. Her husband George and other men had to use grease to peel the overalls off of Joe Lee, just as their slave forefathers had done generations before. Not to mention the “stolen” turkeys wandered back to the farm from the woods the next day. No apology offered, just another day in the life. Then there is a black soldier named, Wilbur Little, who returned home in 1919 after his tour of duty in World War I. He was greeted by a band of white men demanding he take off his uniform and warned him to leave town if wanted to continue to wear it. Days later, Mr. Little was found beaten to death in his uniform. This man fought for a country that killed him when he returned. Yet, we call Colin Kaepernick un-American? There was a quote in the book from a white southerner in the early 1940s that stated “the killing of a Negro by a white man ceased in practice even to call for legal inquiry.” How many unknown deaths? How many unrecorded lynchings? How many murderers went unpunished by the law? I think little Eddie Earvin summed it up best when he recalls passing by a white church where the kids threw rocks and bricks at him calling him the vilest of names and asking his grandparents, “What kind of god they got up inside that church?” God. “Over the course of six decades, some six million black southerners left the land of their forefathers and fanned out across the country for an uncertain existence in nearly every other corner of America”, writes Isabel Wilkerson. Six million? I find that number six million astounding because after reading this Pulitzer Prize masterpiece I’ve realized that means six million different reasons. Six million different journeys. My biggest take away from this revelation of the Great Migration is the following. We are all fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God. There is no such thing as being “colorblind” because God obviously is not “colorblind.” We live in a country, or a world for that matter, made up of different skin colors and cultures, yet we are all dynamic and uniquely made. Why do we still feel the need in American culture to place, not just black men and women, but all men and women in boxes? We resort to political, religious, and sexual labels as if we are not more than those? Why must we continually place limits on their greatness? Why must we ignorantly react to the cries of the marginalized? How can we come to understand another culture instead of forcing that culture to stop being different? Will the “U.S.” ever be “us?” Well, for me it was simply learning more about the culture’s existence. A culture that survived 345 years (if we are honest 398 years and counting) of oppression. A culture which relied on their family members and loved ones spread out all over the country for shelter, food, and basic day to day survival. A culture where many saw through all the injustices and hate but still saw Jesus. The Lord of Lords, the King of Kings, the resurrected Son of God who would not forsake them. The God Ida Mae’s mother, Miss Theenie, would pray to whenever Ida would travel, “May the Lord be the first one in the car/train, and the last out.” The same God, the stoic and strong George Starling would sing to with tears welling up in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. The same God who young Gilbert Elie heard being called out to in the woods by a black man being lashed. Gilbert heard the black man pray “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they doing. I lived a good life for you, if you never done nothing for me, Lord, please…” Gilbert Elie said fifty plus years later “I ain’t never heard a man pray like that man.” This book only strengthened my love for Jesus, his Holy Spirit, and his heavenly Father above. I will never pray, sing, or read God’s word the same after finishing this book. When you can seek first the Kingdom of God, there is no evil that can overcome you. John McDaniel Thank you #Lecrae , #ShoBaraka , and #Propaganda for this recommendation.
