I never thought it would be like this—my life, that is. As a child I knew we weren’t rich, but I never thought we were poor or destitute. Some days we only ate two small meals, and as time went on the portion sizes shrunk; we had to sell a lot of things around the house because Papa had been laid off at the factory. Our lives had definitely become less stable, but I didn’t think much of it. I thought we were just like everyone else, what I found out later was: we were.
I remember every detail about the day I left home. It wasn’t cold, or raining, or foggy, like I thought it should have been. That frustrated me. It was dark, because I left at three thirty in the morning, but the air was decently warm, and there was no sign of rain. The world would remain exactly as it had been before I left—people would even be pleased about what good weather they were having—meanwhile, I would become a vagrant. I remember trying so hard to be angry; resentful of the world for forcing me out of the home I thought I would never have to leave. But when I looked into Mama’s eyes my anger melted into tears, and flowed from my eyes in a way that a man should never cry. That’s what I had to become, after all—a man at just thirteen years old. I cleared my throat, hugged Mama and Papa one last time, picked up my bag and headed out the door, staring at the horizon as I went. I knew I had to keep my head held high, like Papa had always taught me, and I let his words ring in my head like a mantra as I let the screen door rattle shut behind me: Head held high, son, head held high. Ain’t nothing can hurt you with your head held high. I knew that I had to get to the closest train to jump a boxcar, because that’s what I’d heard that the hobos did. I headed east until I finally drew near to one, and warily approached two men sitting on the damp morning grass. I asked if a train was coming soon, and they said another one should be around within the hour. I was invited to sit with them and wait, and I accepted, all the while remembering that I had to assert myself in this new community of hobos. Head held high, son, head held high. Ain’t nothing can hurt you with your head held high. After forty-five minutes, the sounds of the train began to rumble in my ears. I was suddenly filled with adrenaline, and a twisted feeling of excitement over catching my first train. I could suddenly understand why some kids did this by choice—it really was an adventure of sorts. We all lined up along the tracks, anticipating the train’s brisk arrival. As the rumbling got louder and louder, the man next to me yelled that he would give me the go-ahead to jump on. I shook my head, wide-eyed, and looked back just to see the train flash before my eyes. From somewhere on my left I heard the man yell “Now!” and grabbed hold of the rails, pulling myself inside the car. I had done it—I had jumped my first train! I stood and looked out at the blur of landscape that swept by, and could only make out one thing for sure: the horizon. As I fixed my eyes, I heard Papa’s voice in my head: Head held high, son, head held high. Ain’t nothing can hurt you with your head held high.
RIDING THE RAILS (SARA)
I never thought it would be like this—my life, that is. As a child I knew we weren’t rich, but I never thought we were poor or destitute. Some days we only ate two small meals, and as time went on the portion sizes shrunk; we had to sell a lot of things around the house because Papa had been laid off at the factory. Our lives had definitely become less stable, but I didn’t think much of it. I thought we were just like everyone else, what I found out later was: we were.
I remember every detail about the day I left home. It wasn’t cold, or raining, or foggy, like I thought it should have been. That frustrated me. It was dark, because I left at three thirty in the morning, but the air was decently warm, and there was no sign of rain. The world would remain exactly as it had been before I left—people would even be pleased about what good weather they were having—meanwhile, I would become a vagrant. I remember trying so hard to be angry; resentful of the world for forcing me out of the home I thought I would never have to leave. But when I looked into Mama’s eyes my anger melted into tears, and flowed from my eyes in a way that a man should never cry. That’s what I had to become, after all—a man at just thirteen years old. I cleared my throat, hugged Mama and Papa one last time, picked up my bag and headed out the door, staring at the horizon as I went. I knew I had to keep my head held high, like Papa had always taught me, and I let his words ring in my head like a mantra as I let the screen door rattle shut behind me: Head held high, son, head held high. Ain’t nothing can hurt you with your head held high.
I knew that I had to get to the closest train to jump a boxcar, because that’s what I’d heard that the hobos did. I headed east until I finally drew near to one, and warily approached two men sitting on the damp morning grass. I asked if a train was coming soon, and they said another one should be around within the hour. I was invited to sit with them and wait, and I accepted, all the while remembering that I had to assert myself in this new community of hobos. Head held high, son, head held high. Ain’t nothing can hurt you with your head held high.
After forty-five minutes, the sounds of the train began to rumble in my ears. I was suddenly filled with adrenaline, and a twisted feeling of excitement over catching my first train. I could suddenly understand why some kids did this by choice—it really was an adventure of sorts. We all lined up along the tracks, anticipating the train’s brisk arrival. As the rumbling got louder and louder, the man next to me yelled that he would give me the go-ahead to jump on. I shook my head, wide-eyed, and looked back just to see the train flash before my eyes. From somewhere on my left I heard the man yell “Now!” and grabbed hold of the rails, pulling myself inside the car. I had done it—I had jumped my first train! I stood and looked out at the blur of landscape that swept by, and could only make out one thing for sure: the horizon. As I fixed my eyes, I heard Papa’s voice in my head: Head held high, son, head held high. Ain’t nothing can hurt you with your head held high.