'Lucy Green Eyes' (Pt. 2)

Walking those never-ending, red dirt roads wasn’t always fun, or even safe for that matter, especially for young black children in the South. Mama had taught me from a very young age to be careful of white men in particular.

“If you end up with some’um white, we’ll have to send you 'way from h’yuh,” she’d often say. It was years before I understood what she meant. Little black girls, as well as grown women, could be snatched and molested by a white man, end up with his baby, and it not be reported because of the fear of repercussion from the white people who owned the law of the land.

One particularly sunny day in April started out pretty much like any other, with me, Yvonne and Elaine strolling along the road that led us home from school. We were eight, six and five respectively, talking as quickly as a thought would pop into our heads and never completing a single one before starting on the next.

At first, when we heard the truck approaching from a distance, we thought nothing of it. Passing vehicles and honking horns were all a part of the conversation. But the drunken voices weren’t.

“Hey lil’ gals... hey there.”

When I looked back, I saw two white guys hanging their heads out of either side of the truck and a third sitting between them.

“Y’all wanna come with us?” one of them yelled out.

“C’mon y’all,” I said to my cousins hastening my pace. But they weren’t moving fast enough so I just started running. “Y’all hurry up!” I yelled back over my shoulder. Yvonne would’ve been able to catch up to me, but she wanted to wait for Elaine, who couldn’t run as fast because she was younger and a bit chubby. Meanwhile, the truck was getting closer and I could smell the gasoline that it expelled as it weaved from one side of the road to the other. I guess it was a good thing they were too drunk to drive straight, or else they probably would’ve caught up to us.

I decided to stop for a few seconds to allow the girls to catch up to me. Yvonne was trying to pull along a crying Elaine, coaxing her wobbling little sister to try to run faster.

“Y’all, come on,” I implored, finally guiding them into a wooded field just off the road where we stayed hidden until the truck had passed.

There were several such occasions that I can recall from my childhood. It makes me wonder; was it me, or were other young girls accosted on those long country roads, too.

On one of countless days when I had to walk to school alone, an older gentleman driving a mule wagon came galloping alongside me. I was around eight years old.

“Where you off to, lil’ girl?”

I stopped just as he brought the mule to a halt. “School,” I yelled up at him. He appeared to be in his early 30s.

“You want me to take you to school?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” I replied.

“Well, hop in.”

I walked around to the back of the wagon and tossed my book bag up first. Then I climbed up and settled in as the wagon began its slow, rocking trot. I swung my dangling legs back and forth, ecstatic that I didn’t have to take that long trek to school. Although the man was an unfamiliar face, there was something in his eyes that said that he could be trusted.

“What’s yo’ name?” I heard him ask from where he steered.

“Merlene McDaniel.”

“McDaniel? What’s yo’ daddy’s name?”

“His name is Mr. Lonnie Dunbar.”

“Dunbar? You Lonnie baby?” he asked with much surprise. “I know Lonnie. Me and him been friends a real long time.”

He began to tell stories of himself and my father, but I don’t recall much of what he said, primarily because I was too young to understand. In addition, I was enjoying the mule ride far too much to care about what was being said.

About a mile or so into our ride, the man pulled the wagon over to the side of the road. He stepped out and reached back in for a tall bottle filled with a slightly tinted liquid. As I watched, he took the bottle and placed it deep within the bushes. Then, as he turned around and walked back to the wagon, he caught me staring at him.

“I drink liquor,” he laughed. “Heh-heh-heh.” I guessed he didn’t want to be caught with the liquor where ever it was he was headed.

A couple of hours after being dropped off at school, someone came knocking at the door. It was the man with the mule wagon again.

“Where’s dat lil’ gal I brought here this mornin’?” I heard him say to my teacher. I tried to melt into my chair.

“I think you are mistaken, Sir,” my teacher said. She then positioned herself in the doorway to block his view of us children.

“No, I ain’t. I took her here to school this morning. Now I can’t find my way back home and I need her to show me.”

I don’t know what my teacher said to get rid of him, but he left shortly after that without causing any trouble. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but his name was Mac Benjamin. And in about 10 years, he would become one of my most beloved brothers-in-law.