Step By Step: A Memoir of Hope, Friendship, Perseverance, and Living the American Dream - Couverture rigide

Bowman, Bertie

Couverture rigide

ISBN 10 : 0345504119 ISBN 13 : 9780345504111

Editeur : One World, 2008

Synopsis

Book by Bowman Bertie

A propos du livre

Extrait

Summerton, South Carolina

As a result of haphazard record keeping, i started out life with two “official” birthdays, but not much else. Legend has it that in the early 1930s down in Summerton, South Carolina, a midwife named “Mrs. Jessie” rode around Clarendon County in an old buggy pulled by a white horse. The horse was reliable, knew the roads by heart, and took her to the farms of the colored families. Mrs. Jessie delivered all of the colored babies, and I was no exception. I was born in 1931.

Local people still share tales today about the lady with the white horse. The elders say Mrs. Jessie would hitch her horse outside the courthouse door, strut past the onlookers, and enter, waving a long list of kids’ names for all to see.

“Here they is!” Mrs. Jessie would proudly proclaim. “Here’s all the babies I brung into the world since I seen you last!”

The clerks permitted Mrs. Jessie to put the names into the record book herself, using her jagged scrawl on the pages to list the health, weight, and other physical descriptions of the baby. That was a big honor for a colored person. Nobody was allowed to touch the record book unless they were white. When Mrs. Jessie came to my entry, the comment listed beside my name, Bertie Herbert Bowman, was in big letters: “wate—much as 10 bag flower—long like daddy arm.”

The courthouse ledger showed my birthday on May 5, 1931. In her usual state of frenzy and haste, Mrs. Jessie recorded thirty-two other births, but obviously she did not midwife all those babies in one day. She might have been a legend with a constitution of iron, but she wasn’t superhuman.

In Summerton, a hamlet of nearly 2,000 people at the time, important events were always noted in the family Bible. Since Mrs. Jessie often possessed the sole responsibility for making the critical notations in the Bibles, many families still have her printed comments in their Holy books. Sadly, our family Bible burned, so I have no way of knowing what was written inside, but I do recall that Mrs. Jessie’s penmanship in it was a direct match to that in the county record book.

I would later learn from my father’s cousin Celestine Gregory that my birthdate was not May 5 but April 12, a fact of which she was certain because I was born on the same day as her brother, Billy Nelson.

I was the fifth child, my father’s fourth son in a family that would eventually grow to include fourteen children. My father’s side of the family originally came from Bertie County in North Carolina, which may provide a clue as to the origin of my first name.

Mary Ragin was my mother’s maiden name. I was told that she was uncommonly beautiful. My mother, with her glowing brown skin and her Indian-black straight hair, drew stares from men and women alike when she walked down the street. I don’t remember her too well. She died when I was little, her heart stopping suddenly in a difficult childbirth. I don’t remember how old she was when she died because I was so young.

my father, robert bowman, took another wife, Mary Rosa Richardson, a woman, like my mother, of strength, kindness, and compassion. Our family already had a full complement of children: John, Robert, Bertha, Charlie, and Annie before me, and then my two youngest brothers, Rufus and Ernest. But now our blended clan included Rosa’s children: Charlotte, Larry, Wilhelmenia, Dorothy, and Jimmy Lee, who was adopted by my mother as a baby. My family counts the loss of a girl who lived for only one month as a part of the family as well. Rosa didn’t replace my mother in my heart, but she was the woman who mostly raised me, and I loved her. My father made a very wise choice in choosing a mate. In contrast to my father, with his steel will, Rosa made us think that everything was possible and guided our household through some very tough times. She was pretty, with a smooth, fair-skinned complexion, and was unassuming even though she ruled us kids with a soft, firm command. If she couldn’t make you obey her just by appealing to your sense of what was right, a well-placed threat would usually do the trick.

Of course, I wasn’t perfect as a child. If I did something wrong, she would give me a little smack on the hands. Her discipline wasn’t very much at all, compared to my father’s. “I’m going to tell your father ’bout you being bad,” my mother would warn our group with a stern face. “And you know what he will do to you if you don’t do right. He’ll heat your rear ends up with a switch and I know you won’t like that.”

My father laid down the rules to maintain the household, a set of tough regulations that would control a whole brood of youngsters and keep order. We cooperated and never challenged him. If the rule of law had broken down, everything would have dissolved into mayhem, and neither of my parents was going to stand for that foolishness. No back talk was tolerated. Chores were divided by gender. In the early mornings, it was the boys’ responsibility to start a fire and keep it going. The girls were not allowed to make fires, but they were permitted to cook and bake. The menu was standard and routine: bacon and eggs or ham and eggs, grits or cornbread and syrup. We had it daily and were glad for it because it filled our bellies. A lot of people around there didn’t have that. Sometimes during the winter months we ate mush, which was the same as oatmeal, but consisted of cornmeal.

Mom and Dad loved to take late walks, talking low and giggling, on summer nights when the moon was out shining. We children would sit on the porch and watch them go down the road holding hands, teasing each other, for as far as we could see. We loved to see them like that. Now, don’t ask how long they stopped, where they went, or what they did. All I know is that they loved to take walks in the moonlight. Neighbors have since told me that my father was a real romantic. I know he loved his wife and family, but I knew him as a very tough man.

Home was a wooden farmhouse with a tin roof under a big oak tree that still stands today. I hear it is one of the biggest oak trees in all of South Carolina. In our simply constructed house, the bedrooms seemed very big to me during my childhood. The boys had one bedroom, the girls another, and my parents slept in their own bedroom. The girls had a much bigger room because my parents said they needed their privacy. We eight boys, restless and noisy, slept in big iron beds, four to a bed, and when it was cold we covered up with very heavy quilts made by our relatives. We each had our place in the bed, but we had to take turns getting up to put wood on the fire during the chilly night. Sometimes we would huddle in the dark, hands outstretched, warming ourselves near the blaze. Occasionally, one of us would wet the bed. To this day I don’t know which boy did it and the culprit has never admitted it. Still, I do know that often when it was my turn to put the log on the fire, I would rise out of a dry spot in the bed and after my departure, my brothers would all roll over. When I returned, I was forced to sleep on the wet spot.

My family was no better situated than everybody else. These were rough times, during the Great Depression, and even white people were suffering. Every black person was in the same boat, trying to eke out a living, keep their family fed, and maintain the land. My family was poor, but we kids did not know how poor we were. We had a kitchen stove that we cooked on, and a potbelly stove we used to burn wood for heat. It could get really cool during those long winter nights. I cannot remember ever sitting around the dinner table talking and eating, because we all couldn’t fit because of the sheer number of all of us. In fact, I cannot recall family conversations anyway. The rule in my home was that children talked with children, adults talked with adults, and no breach of the law was tolerated. We were never to talk with grown-ups until some adult asked us a question. And at mealtime we lined up and got our food, then ate it either on the porch in the winter or out in the yard during the summer when the house was too hot.

In the sweltering heat of the summer, nothing could outdo a bath. I remember taking baths underneath the big oak tree, its large branches forming a canopy over the two tin tubs in its dark shadows. Before we went into the field, we put the tubs on the ground and before long, the bright yellow sun had warmed the water into a hot soup. My mother supervised the bath activities, making sure that everybody got a decent share of time. Nobody hogged the bathwater with my mother looking out. There was one tub for the girls and one for the boys, with heaps of fun. My sisters got in and out of the tub quickly, proud and modest, and then we boys would have a good time jumping from tub to tub, splashing and acting a fool.

Winter was the harshest season of all. During the winter months, the wind would whistle through the wooden boards of the house, sending a chill through you if you were not standing directly in front of the fire. The water was cold when it was time to wash up. We didn’t take baths in the wintertime. To generate enough heat, we burned oak most of the time to warm the house. We took turns spinning and circling our bodies to take advantage of the glow. It was a rotating kind of warmth.

There was an old saying we all learned as kids: “Do you know why people from South Carolina wear long underwear in the winter and the summer, too?

“Because what will keep you warm in the winter, will keep you cool in the summer,” people used to reply.

In the winter, I worked in the barn, getting the hay and feeding the animals. Everyone in the family shared in the hard work. We had to get ourselves out of bed before dawn every day to do the chores while our parents slept. The rooster would wake us up...

Présentation de l'éditeur

A great American story of an ordinary man who is living an extraordinary life, Step by Step is the inspiring personal account of Bertie Bowman’s remarkable rise from farmer’s son in the Jim Crow South to hearing coordinator for the Senate Foreign Relations Committee in the U.S. Capitol.

In 1944, Bertie Bowman–a poor, impressionable thirteen-year-old kid, the fifth of fourteen siblings–heard South Carolina senator Burnet Maybank declare: “If you all ever get up to Washington, D.C., drop by and see me!” Though Maybank was addressing a crowd of white constituents, Bertie took those words to heart–for they offered him an invitation to a new life, a chance to escape the drudgery of the family farm and his well-meaning yet stern father. Carrying only a flour sack and his meager savings pinned inside his shirt, Bertie set out for the city “up the road” to make his mark. Surprisingly true to his word, Senator Maybank saw to it that the young runaway had a place to stay and a steady income–earned by sweeping the Capitol steps for two dollars a week. Yet what started as a janitorial position, step by step, became so much more.

For sixty years, Bertie Bowman stood at the epicenter of change and witnessed history in the making: the death of FDR, World War II, Brown v. Board of Education, the Civil Rights movement, Vietnam, and Watergate. The perpetual recipient of unconditional kindness, he formed many enduring friendships with the unlikeliest of people. Presidents Lyndon B. Johnson and Bill Clinton, Senator J. William Fulbright, and even segregationist senator Strom Thurmond have been among his greatest allies.

But Bowman also, in his day, encountered prejudice and the “separate but equal” doctrine, and he observed firsthand the clandestine backroom deals made in the name of democracy. However, in the embrace of the large enclave of Southern blacks who populated Washington, D.C., Bowman maintained a spirit of hopefulness. With each step, his can-do attitude made him a star, mentor, and community leader, and a strong advocate for the unsung staffers who took great pride in doing their part to keep the Capitol’s wheels turning.

Work hard. Be true to yourself. Take responsibility. Have a positive outlook. Expect the best from people. These are the beliefs that Bertie Bowman lives by–and as he shares his story, he also shares the lessons and values that have served him well throughout his life and career.

Détails de l'édition

• Éditeur: One World
• Date d'édition: 2008
• Langue: anglais
• ISBN 10: 0345504119
• ISBN 13: 9780345504111
• Reliure: Relié
• Numéro d'édition: 1
• Nombre de pages: 203
• Coordonnées du fabricant: non disponible
• Personne responsable: non disponible