What good is a deed? My grandfathers and great uncles, grandmothers and great aunts, father and mother, broke, tilled, thawed, planted, plucked, raised, burned, broke again. Worked this land all they life, this land that never would be theirs. They worked until they sweated. They sweated until they bled. They bled until they died. Died with the dirt of this same 200 acres under their fingernails. Died clawing at the hard, brown back that would never be theirs. All their deeds undone. Yet this man, this place, this law… say you need a deed. Not deeds.
Man who is born of a woman is of few days and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower and is cut down. He fleeth as a shadow and continueth not. And doth thou open thine eyes upon such a one, and bringest me into judgment with thee? Who can bring a clean thing out of an unclean? Not one. For there is hope of a tree, if it be cut down, that it will sprout again. But man dieth and wasteth away. As the waters fell from the sea and drieth up, so man lieth down and riseth not. ‘Til the heavens be no more, they shall not awake, nor be raised out of their sleep.
That mule made me a share tenant, not a sharecropper. And had me dreaming about having my own piece of land. Maybe that’s where the problem started.
