A Head of Cabbage

Free PreviewFree Preview The conversation between Mama and Daddy about me was over in five seconds. “She can’t go and that’s final,” Daddy said, rushing his words, which nullified his usual southern drawl. I stood nervously behind the old upright piano in our huge hallway, listening as perspiration ran down the sides of my face. Daddy walked out of the bedroom and saw me. He stopped and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s settled. You can’t go,” he said before leaving into the night in his new green 1968 Chevrolet truck. A small lump formed in my throat as I dashed into my parents’ bedroom. Mama rose slowly from her chair as if old and feeble. “I’m sorry,” she said, casting her eyes down. “Farmwork comes first. You can’t go to school next week. Go on to bed now; we have to get early tomorrow morning to get started in the fields.” The next day, I got up much earlier than usual, determined to sneak to school and take my end-of-year exams. I walked down the stairs slowly thinking I would catch the school bus at the neighbors’ house a half mile up the road. As I tiptoed down the winding stairs, they squeaked, so I stopped on every other step until I reached the bottom. I headed for the kitchen back door because it opened and closed without attracting attention. The house was dark and quiet, and I maneuvered carefully around the table and chairs. “Where do you think you’re going?” Daddy asked, popping on the kitchen light that hung from the high beamed ceiling. He stood only a foot or two from me. Daddy usually slept late, so I’d thought I would have taken my second final exam by the time he found me missing. Trembling, I almost peed myself. I said, “Daddy, I need to go to school for three consecutive days this week to take final exams. I want to pass to the twelfth grade.” Daddy yelled, “Didn’t I tell yo’ ass last night that you ain’t going to school this week? I don’t care whether you pass to the twelfth grade or not. You got to help plant ‘bacco all this week, so put yo’ books down, and get ready for the fields.” My stomach started to ache. I stood still, holding my books tighter in my arms. Mama came into the kitchen and saw me dressed for school. She looked at me with worrying eyes, frowning as she spoke. “Marilyn, you can’t go against what your daddy says. He done gave the final word. You got to help plant tobacco this whole week.“ Daddy balled his hands into fists and moved in a bit closer blocking my exit. “What are you preparing my future to be? What are you teaching me?” I asked angrily as I took several steps away from Daddy. Daddy grimaced and looked at mama, appearing more upset that I had mouthed back to him. He no longer looked like my handsome young father. His lips twitched, and beads of sweat formed on his lined forehead. His chest rose and fell as if he were tired and had already done a full day’s work. Mama said, “We is teaching you what we know. That’s all we can teach.” She reached to take the books out of my arms. Her eyes glistened with the hope that I would accept their demand. “Mama,” I said, holding the books tighter, “please talk Daddy into letting me go to school this week. I can’t miss taking exams, and they start today. Daddy shouted, waving his fists in the air. “Didn’t I already tell yo’ ass that the only school you is going to see this week is that ‘bacco field.” I had already missed twenty-nine days of school. I knew I couldn’t pass to the twelfth grade if I had more absences. The pit of my stomach began to burn, and the disgust I felt for my father began to balloon into hate. I started to beg. “Please allow me to go just one day then. Please. I will explain everything to my teachers. They may be able to give me take-home exams or something. I don’t want to be held back another year.” I glanced toward Mama. She was silent but breathing hard and fast. I could tell she was frightened and wanted me to relent. Her small brown eyes were bigger than I had ever seen, and she kept wringing and wiping her hands on her apron. Daddy yelled, “Education ain’t everything! That’s all you talk about—education. Shit, I’m tired of hearing you talk about it.” I said, “Education is everything to me. You made all your children quit school to work on the farm so you could buy yourself a new truck every three years. I’m not quitting school. I’m going to graduate.” Mama held on to the bottom of her apron so tightly I thought she was going to pull it apart. Then she said, “Marilyn shut yo’ mouth.” Daddy took a step forward and said, “Don’t tell no shit-ass lie on me, gall. I ain’t made none of my chillums quit school, and I never taught you to be a liar.” He raised one of his fists, and I cringed. Then I lowered my voice and moved farther away from him. I wanted Daddy to see the connection between working on the farm and dropping out of school, so I said, “Daddy you made all your children stay out of school so much that they could not pass to the next level. They quit because they were too ashamed to continue. Who wants to be seventeen years old and still in the ninth grade with classmates and teachers making fun of them?” Daddy seemed to calm down a bit but was still adamant about planting tobacco that day. He unballed his hands. “Well, yo’ ass ain’t going to school this week, so get yo’ self ready to go to the fields.”