I was brought up on a farm. Cotton, corn, stuff like that. Grandaddy was a framer. It was constant work. If you weren't picking cotton you were plowing. If you weren't plowing you was cutting the fence lines. When we weren't working in our fields, we was working in the white man's fields.
On Saturday we rode on the wagon to the one general store in downtown Carthage. They had one movie theater on the square, and then a general store around the square on the corner. We got what we needed for the house, maybe a pair of shoes or a pair of pants or a shirt. That was about it.
It was very intimidating and very scary. We weren't allowed in the front. We tied the wagon in the back, got what we wanted, and carried it out the back. We mostly stayed behind Granddaddy and he took care of all the business.
We usually had problems going back home. They'd yell at us to get out of the way. Made us get off the road. They'd holler out the N-word. Granddaddy would just pull over and let them pass and then we'd start off again. Maybe we'd have to do that two or three times on the way home.
Sometimes at night they'd come back and throw rocks and bricks on the porch and stuff like that. Holler that N-word at us...
-Frank Griffin (Breach of Peace, Etheridge, 2018)