I wanna go home, just like my sixteen year old brother, Jim, said I would. He hasn’t talked to me in days. I reckon he’s still mad that I followed him when he was runnin’ away. My four other older brothers had already left, so I didn’t think that Ma and Pa would miss me any more than they did them. Whenever one brother left, Ma would get all weepy, and Pa would be rubbin' her shoulders to comfort her. But once dinnertime hit, that void was filled—gorged with all the extra food. The next morning, there’d be no more weepin’ or comfortin’ for them, but only dreamy smiles and belly rubbin’. When Jim caught me followin’ him, his body convulsed as he screamed, “Go home, go home, go home! You’re too young for this adventure, Savannah.” His blue eyes trembled. They looked like they were ’bout to spout. “Y’know, Ma and Pa love you and don’t care for the rest of us. Pa wasn’t goin’ to feed me no more, but he always left you a nice chunk of bread. Go home, Savannah. You’ll eat.” “No, I ain’t ever goin’ back home! I wanna ride the rails like you, Jim! I can be a tough ’bo who finds some adventure!” “Well a’ight. But I ain’t takin’ care of you the way Ma and Pa did,” he mumbled, striding on towards the railroad tracks where we’d hop a train. We learned by watchin’ others. One boy soared real high, but grabbed nothin’ on his way down. His body fell to the ground with his legs landing right underneath the speedin’ train. His howls and screeches frightened me into jumping onto the train. And here I am, lucky to have fallen into the open boxcar door of the train with only some scratches and bruises. Jim wasn’t so lucky. He jumped too late and missed the open door. But he managed to latch onto somethin’ and pull himself over an’ into the boxcar. Thought he was gonna fall or die, but we’re still together -- even if we ain’t talkin’ yet. The company is quiet in the boxcar. There are only four other men with Jim and me. Three of them have identical black beards and look a bit older than Jim. Reckon they’re brothers. They haven’t talked to no one but themselves and have just sat and stared at the rest of us. I’m scared they’re plannin’ to skin us alive or beat us to death. Perhaps they are undercover bulls. But I guess they can’t be bulls because when Jim and me first got into the boxcar, they welcomed us with wide smiles. If they were undercover bulls, we would’ve already been stripped, robbed, and beaten. In the corner opposite from me is a shifty-beady eyed old man who’s whittlin’ a stick with a pocketknife mutterin’ an old Negro tune ’bout freedom. His face is smudged with so much oil and dirt that I can’t tell whether he’s white or black. People call him Commie. Earlier today, he crawled so close to me that I could see the red veins in his eyeballs. Right in my ear he whispered, “The government ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of capitalistic bull!” Then he slunk back into his corner and started up his whittlin’ again. I popped my gut laughin’. I figure he sure don’t know much since he thinks the government is a wild animal with horns. Even I know that the government ain’t no animal, but a group of white men. Jim’s shakin’ like a mad goose with blue lips next to me. But he’s gotta blanket and a bindle stuffed with clothes. O’course I ain’t got no blanket. I ain’t got nothin’ ’cept for these overalls and undershirt on my back, which Ma made me for my eleventh birthday last year. I don’t even got money to buy nothin’ or to gamble nothin’. I reckon Jim has a couple of dollars on him, but I ain’t bettin’ that he would spend it on me. That’s why I can’t afford no sleep tonight. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed thirteen marbles, and it’s as if the train’s shakin’ me ’round just so it can hear them clank inside my belly. But my belly ain’t filled with marbles—it’s filled with them damn tasty particles of nothin’. The last meal I ate was mulligan stew four days ago. The worst part about a belly full of nothin’ is not bein’ able to hurl when the train’s jerkin’ my body this way and that, shakin’ my head like a rattle. I can’t think no more! It’s too cold to sleep in this goddamn boxcar. The open door lets the wind whip through ’til I can’t hear nothin’ other than it chafin’ my ears and slicin’ my soul. The icy blast makes me regret that I never wore socks, even though Ma always told me to wear ’em. The harsh January 1930 weather is gettin’ me good. My hands are frozen grippin’ this bar to hold me steady inside the boxcar, and my teeth are chatterin’ every second I breathe. I just gotta hold onto this bar, curl up in the ball, and forget the bad for now. I gotta “tough it out” like Pa always says. I don’t wanna roll out and I won’t. But what if I fall asleep and I let go of the bar and roll outta the door onto the dusty ground? No one’ll get me, not even Jim. I won’t know where to go. And what if I wake up and my toes are gone? How will I keep on walkin’? The pain in them strangers eyes when they see a seventy-five pound ’bo pass by. A ’bo with no toes—what a shame! The train is headin’ north to Pittsburgh. Eventually, Jim and me are gonna make it all the way to New York. Apparently, the City has lots of people like us: youngins with adventures to find. The glow of the City awaits us, but all this travelin’ is gnawin’ me. I’m missin’ home lots more than I thought I would. Maybe if I fall out of the car, I’d fall into Ma and Pa’s arms again. Or maybe I’d just die. Either way, my toes would still be cold and my stomach empty.
A 'BO WITH NO TOES (LAUREN)
I wanna go home, just like my sixteen year old brother, Jim, said I would. He hasn’t talked to me in days. I reckon he’s still mad that I followed him when he was runnin’ away. My four other older brothers had already left, so I didn’t think that Ma and Pa would miss me any more than they did them. Whenever one brother left, Ma would get all weepy, and Pa would be rubbin' her shoulders to comfort her. But once dinnertime hit, that void was filled—gorged with all the extra food. The next morning, there’d be no more weepin’ or comfortin’ for them, but only dreamy smiles and belly rubbin’.
When Jim caught me followin’ him, his body convulsed as he screamed, “Go home, go home, go home! You’re too young for this adventure, Savannah.” His blue eyes trembled. They looked like they were ’bout to spout. “Y’know, Ma and Pa love you and don’t care for the rest of us. Pa wasn’t goin’ to feed me no more, but he always left you a nice chunk of bread. Go home, Savannah. You’ll eat.”
“No, I ain’t ever goin’ back home! I wanna ride the rails like you, Jim! I can be a tough ’bo who finds some adventure!”
“Well a’ight. But I ain’t takin’ care of you the way Ma and Pa did,” he mumbled, striding on towards the railroad tracks where we’d hop a train.
We learned by watchin’ others. One boy soared real high, but grabbed nothin’ on his way down. His body fell to the ground with his legs landing right underneath the speedin’ train. His howls and screeches frightened me into jumping onto the train. And here I am, lucky to have fallen into the open boxcar door of the train with only some scratches and bruises. Jim wasn’t so lucky. He jumped too late and missed the open door. But he managed to latch onto somethin’ and pull himself over an’ into the boxcar. Thought he was gonna fall or die, but we’re still together -- even if we ain’t talkin’ yet.
The company is quiet in the boxcar. There are only four other men with Jim and me. Three of them have identical black beards and look a bit older than Jim. Reckon they’re brothers. They haven’t talked to no one but themselves and have just sat and stared at the rest of us. I’m scared they’re plannin’ to skin us alive or beat us to death. Perhaps they are undercover bulls. But I guess they can’t be bulls because when Jim and me first got into the boxcar, they welcomed us with wide smiles. If they were undercover bulls, we would’ve already been stripped, robbed, and beaten. In the corner opposite from me is a shifty-beady eyed old man who’s whittlin’ a stick with a pocketknife mutterin’ an old Negro tune ’bout freedom. His face is smudged with so much oil and dirt that I can’t tell whether he’s white or black. People call him Commie. Earlier today, he crawled so close to me that I could see the red veins in his eyeballs. Right in my ear he whispered, “The government ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of capitalistic bull!” Then he slunk back into his corner and started up his whittlin’ again. I popped my gut laughin’. I figure he sure don’t know much since he thinks the government is a wild animal with horns. Even I know that the government ain’t no animal, but a group of white men.
Jim’s shakin’ like a mad goose with blue lips next to me. But he’s gotta blanket and a bindle stuffed with clothes. O’course I ain’t got no blanket. I ain’t got nothin’ ’cept for these overalls and undershirt on my back, which Ma made me for my eleventh birthday last year. I don’t even got money to buy nothin’ or to gamble nothin’. I reckon Jim has a couple of dollars on him, but I ain’t bettin’ that he would spend it on me. That’s why I can’t afford no sleep tonight. My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed thirteen marbles, and it’s as if the train’s shakin’ me ’round just so it can hear them clank inside my belly. But my belly ain’t filled with marbles—it’s filled with them damn tasty particles of nothin’. The last meal I ate was mulligan stew four days ago. The worst part about a belly full of nothin’ is not bein’ able to hurl when the train’s jerkin’ my body this way and that, shakin’ my head like a rattle. I can’t think no more! It’s too cold to sleep in this goddamn boxcar. The open door lets the wind whip through ’til I can’t hear nothin’ other than it chafin’ my ears and slicin’ my soul. The icy blast makes me regret that I never wore socks, even though Ma always told me to wear ’em. The harsh January 1930 weather is gettin’ me good. My hands are frozen grippin’ this bar to hold me steady inside the boxcar, and my teeth are chatterin’ every second I breathe. I just gotta hold onto this bar, curl up in the ball, and forget the bad for now. I gotta “tough it out” like Pa always says. I don’t wanna roll out and I won’t.
But what if I fall asleep and I let go of the bar and roll outta the door onto the dusty ground? No one’ll get me, not even Jim. I won’t know where to go. And what if I wake up and my toes are gone? How will I keep on walkin’? The pain in them strangers eyes when they see a seventy-five pound ’bo pass by. A ’bo with no toes—what a shame!
The train is headin’ north to Pittsburgh. Eventually, Jim and me are gonna make it all the way to New York. Apparently, the City has lots of people like us: youngins with adventures to find. The glow of the City awaits us, but all this travelin’ is gnawin’ me. I’m missin’ home lots more than I thought I would. Maybe if I fall out of the car, I’d fall into Ma and Pa’s arms again. Or maybe I’d just die. Either way, my toes would still be cold and my stomach empty.