The Well by Mildred D. Taylor Page B

could pass for white. That was because Papa’s daddy was a white man.
    Finally Old Man McCalister, he was sure enough who it was and he gave a grunt. “Paul-Edward,” he said. “Ain’t know’d you was back. Heard you was s’pose t’ be lumberin’ ’long the Natchez Trace.”
    Papa gave a nod. “Just got back.” He glanced over at Hammer and me. “Come to get my boys.”
    Old Man McCalister Simms grunted again. “They done put in they hours.” Then he turned and went back into his barn. Papa headed the wagon towards home. He answered our many questions about Kevinand Mitchell and the Natchez Trace, then after a quiet had settled in, he said, “Well, I ’spect y’all must be thinking I oughta be putting a stop to this, putting a stop to you boys working over at the Simmses’.”
    Hammer and me, we ain’t said nothing. We just waited for Papa to get on with his words.
    â€œThing is, I most likely couldn’t put a stop to it, even if I wanted to.”
    â€œYou mean to tell me,” said Hammer, “you like us working for nothing for these white folks?”
    â€œI say that?” asked Papa.
    Hammer got sulky quiet.
    â€œYou got thirteen years on you, Hammer. I figure in thirteen years you ought to know me well enough to answer that for yourself. Another thing you ought to be knowing at thirteen is that you don’t lay out a white boy, not down here in Mississippi, not unless you want to find yourself hanging from a tree. Folks down here don’t care if you thirteen or thirty, you do something they don’t like, they’ll hang a black boy soon’s they will a black man ’cause they don’t see no difference. It’s past the time you learned that, Hammer. You too, David. Working for the Simmses might hurt your pride, mine too, but we can put up with that. Better your hurt pride than your life over the likes of Charlie Simms. You boys better start learning how to use your heads, not your fists, when it comesto white folks. You learn to outsmart them, ’cause in the end you can’t outfight them, not with your fists. They got the power, but we got our heads. Y’all understand what I’m saying?”
    Well, I could see it. I didn’t like it, but I could see it, and I said so. Hammer, he ain’t said nothing.
    Papa gave him a look and waited, I s’pose for Hammer to speak, but course Hammer just sat there, not saying a word. Then Papa said, “Y’all know my daddy was a white man. My sister and me, we were born slaves to him. That’s right, he owned us, just like you’d own a dog. We were slaves because our mama was a slave, and he owned her. Now I ain’t saying he ain’t loved us, because I believe he did. I was just a baby when the war come that was supposed to set us free, but there wasn’t no difference between the way my papa treated us before and after. He set up a house for us, and he come and spent time with us most every day, and everybody knew we was his colored family. He seen to it that my sister and me, we got book learning, got right smart-looking clothing, got whatever he figured we needed.
    â€œCourse now, for all that caring he done, he ain’t never let me forget I was a colored boy. There come a time he whipped me into not forgetting it. That was when his boy by his white wife up and hit me and I hit him back, knocked him down. Well, that whiteboy went and told our daddy, and my daddy come got me and whipped me right in front of that white son of his. I mean he laid into me good with his whipping strap. Said I had to learn that no matter how white I looked, I was still a Negro and a Negro couldn’t go around hitting white folks. Said that whipping was for my own good. Said that I’d better start learning how to use my head, not my fists, if I was going to survive in this white man’s world.
    â€œNow it may sound