Black, Kidnapped in the '60s, No Big Deal

Chapter 1

The Anthill

It’s about 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning in 1962.

I had better make myself get out of this bed if I’m going to catch Space Ghost and Johnny Quest, my favorite cartoons. Man, how I love cartoons! There is no one here but Delora and me. Leaving a 12-year-old home alone every day to baby-sit his eight-year-old sister is no big deal in this day and age.

I look over at my collection of Benson & Hedges cigarette boxes that are lined up along my bedroom windowsills. I can’t believe how a cigarette company will put cigarettes in such a cool box just to have people throw the box away when all of the cigarettes are gone.

I ask Momma to give the boxes to me when she is done with them. So far, I have collected 40 boxes, and they look really neat the way I’ve placed them on the windowsills. Sometimes I take them down and arrange them on the floor like dominos. I enjoy watching them fall after pushing the first box.

My room smells like cigarettes even though I don’t smoke. But that’s not strange because our whole house smells like cigarettes. I think Momma must smoke about two packs a day, maybe more. My grandmother told me that smoking is bad for you and that God doesn’t like it when people smoke. Although I am only 12, I know now that I will never smoke when I’m older because I don’t like the way smokers smell.

My father’s name is Wiley Sipio, but everybody just calls him Sipio. He stands about 5 feet 8 and has a very dark complexion and a short haircut. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish his hair from his scalp. He is a lean, small-framed man who is two people in one. Sometimes he is approachable and friendly, but at other times he can be one of the meanest people you ever wanted to meet.

He retired from the US Navy in 1960, as a petty officer third class with the rank of E-4 after 20 years of service. Now he works at the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Florida, as a fireman.

Some days he and I can talk and joke with each other like buddies, but the next day when I attempt to pick up where we left off, he will almost take my head off. I have to be very careful each time I approach him. He is also a master at embarrassing me in front of my friends if my chores are not all done when he gets home from work.

Delora has Sipio’s complexion and looks just like him. Her last name is also Sipio, but my name is McFerrel Jones. My complexion is much lighter than theirs. I look more like my mother.

Many times Mitch, a classmate who lives not too far away, pokes fun at me by saying that Sipio is not my real father. I tell my mother what he says, but she always tells me that Mitch is lying and should mind his own business. She says it in such a way that I know to shut up and move on.

My mother’s name is Annie Louise Sipio, but everybody calls her Maw Dillie. I see a lot of mail around the house with Annie L. Jones on it. That probably explains why my name is Jones and not Sipio. I still wonder why that is, but I’m not asking.

Momma works at the commissary on base. It seems it’s a very good thing around here when a person manages to get a job with the government at one of the military facilities because the pay is always fair. Momma and Sipio both work on Saturdays, so that leaves the whole house to my sister and me.

This is my week to clean my parents’ room, the bathroom, the hallway, and my room. Delora has to do the rest: the kitchen, living room, and her room. Come Monday, we switch. The yard work is always mine though.

I don’t like when it’s my turn to do the kitchen because I don’t like doing dishes. I know there’s no way to talk my sister into another week of doing the kitchen, and I’ve used up all my tricks. So I’m stuck, come Monday. It’s not at all like the good old days when I could tell her to give me her dime for my nickel because the nickel was bigger. (However, I am still able to come up with some pretty good stuff at times.)

I can hear Delora bumping around in her room. That means it won’t be too long before she is in my face arguing about something stupid, and she will tell Sipio if I hit her. Once that happens, nothing I can say or do will prevent him from almost killing me with that wide belt of his.

She can say just about anything to me and get away with it because all I can do is yell and pretend as though I’m going to hit her. I keep my cool most times and seldom touch her. However, occasionally I’ll lose it and hit her anyway.

Don’t misunderstand. I love my little sister very much and always will because it’s just the two of us. We get along very well most of the time.

I never do any of the really bad things like stealing, cursing, playing hooky from school, talking back to adults, or smoking. And I don’t play or hang out with those who do.

I always answer, Yes, ma’am and Yes, sir or No, ma’am and No, sir to all adults. I am well liked by all of my friends. However, I do play rough at times.

Darnell is a close friend of mine, so much so that for a long time I thought he and I were cousins. Maybe that is because my mother and his mother, Lois, are always together.

I will never forget the time when Darnell, Delora, and I were walking along the side of a dirt road called Bell Avenue. My grandparents, Frank and Rosa Jones, lived on the same street. We were on our way to the house where Darnell’s grandmother lived when I spotted this anthill. I was baby-sitting Delora, who may have been abut five years old, and suddenly got this funny idea. As a joke—and that’s all it was, just a joke—I told Delora to sit down while I tied my shoes.

What was I thinking? How could this possibly be funny?

I thought it would be funny to sit her on an anthill and when she jumped up slapping at herself, Darnell and I would get a big laugh out of it. Not once did I stop to think about the pain that the bites would cause her. Man, was I ever wrong!

She started screaming and running around in circles, falling down, and crying out in pain. I was trying to get her to shut up because she was really getting loud and Darnell started yelling, Uh-oh, now! Uh-oh, now!

By that time, I heard Darnell’s grandmother yelling, What’s wrong with the baby? What’s wrong with the baby? We were close enough to her house for her to hear Delora’s screams.

I told her that Delora sat on an anthill and that the ants were biting her. But Darnell, who has great big eyes and was really stretching ’em bigger now, had his mouth wide open, shouting, Mac did it, Mac did it.

His grandmother ran to where we were. She moved pretty fast for an old lady. First, she grabbed Delora and started brushing the ants off her and then she grabbed me. I noticed how strong she was because she grabbed my arm as if she were a man, and it hurt. My first name is McFerrel, but most people call me Mac. For some reason, she has always called me Faile. And this time, with a crazy look in her eyes as she was holding my arm, she had a look on her face that I had never seen before and said, Faile, why did you do that to this baby? You oughta be ashamed of yo’self, with yo’ bad behind. You knew better than to do something like this, and now I’m gonna tear yo’ behind up.

In my neighborhood, any grown-up will beat your butt if you do something wrong. It is a big mistake if this happens because when you get home, you will get another whipping for doing something that caused another grown-up to beat you.

Everything was happening so fast. Delora was crying and Darnell was still yelling over and over, Mac did it, with his eyes about to pop out of his head. His grandmother had a death grip on the upper part of my left arm as she was almost dragging my little sister and me back to her house, about a half block away. As we got closer to the house, there were two people now crying—my sister, because of the ant bites, and me, because I knew what was about to happen.

When we finally reached the bottom of the stairs to her front porch, she said to me, Faile, you stand right here on this poach till I get back, and you better not move.

Still crying, I replied with the only answer that came to mind, Yes, ma’am, I didn’t mean it… I was just playing. Then she and Delora went into the house where she rubbed alcohol on the bites.

I thought about running, but to run from an adult—any adult—would get me the death sentence from my folks for sure. Also, my sister was still in there, and if I showed up at the house without her, that would be just as bad.

From inside the house, I could hear Delora’s sobbing starting to ease a little. That was a good thing because it meant she was feeling better. It also meant that I would be getting my reward very soon for doing such a stupid thing to my only sister. I thought that maybe when Darnell’s grandmother comes for me, I will become very sick from extreme nervousness and fall down on the ground shaking and foaming at the mouth. Then maybe she’d decide that there is no reason for her to beat me because I am too sick.

Oh please, Lord, make me really sick right now so she won’t beat me when she comes back out, I prayed. It was a fast prayer, but it would have to do.

Delora’s crying had stopped, and I heard someone coming. It was Darnell’s grandmother. As she stepped out onto her porch, for some reason she was not looking at me. For the moment, this gave me a kind of blessed relief. But that was short-lived. I saw what she was really looking at. It was her plum tree in the front yard growing close to the road.

Before I realized what was going on, I started thinking that maybe she was not going to beat me after all. Maybe she changed her mind because she has always been so very nice to me for as long as I can remember. But then the reality of my situation came rushing into focus just as she had almost walked past me.

On her way to the porch steps, she grabbed me with such lightning speed and firmness that I peed on myself a little. I was so scared! Together, we flew down the steps and to the plum tree where she surprised me again with her strength by ripping off one of the long plum tree limbs—a limb that would have given a younger person trouble breaking it.

The whole time she was stripping the leaves and small branches, it sounded like she was talking in a low demon-like voice, saying stuff like, I’m gonna beat you till you can’t walk… That poor baby… I’m going to tear yo’ behind up… You’re so bad.

As I was thinking, How’s she doing that?—Talking without moving her lips, I also noticed the veins starting to pop out on her neck. Suddenly the sting from the first pass of that plum switch crossed my back.

I remember thinking, That burned. Boy, did that burn. How is that possible? Then I felt another swipe across the back of my legs. This time the burning was replaced by an intense stinging. Before I could compare this feeling with something, there was a third rip across my butt and then another. These licks were coming so fast that I didn’t even have time to cry out for each one given. I had already been crying before she started hitting me, but my voice sounded much different once the whipping started.

The way she was able to make that plum switch wrap around my body without breaking each time she hit me was an art all its own. It seemed like she would swing once, but the plum switch would strike twice because I was feeling two hits for every one time she swung.

Even though it was hard for me to see much of anything while