I have been meaning to write this diary for some time. I don't fancy myself a motivational writer nor an inspirational figure. As a matter of fact the story I am going to tell is not mine. Its about my grandfather as told to me by my father. You see as a teenager I marvelled at how serious my Dad was about voting and getting other people to vote. He was a grass roots worker before there was such a term getting out in the community to help register fellow African Americans and encouraging every person he encountered no matter what their demographic to get out and vote. Growing up in Memphis Tennessee in the late 70s there was always the backdrop of the assasination of Dr Martin Luther King Jr. to influence black folks to get involved in the political process. But I could tell that with my Dad there was more to it than just the loss of the leader of the Civil Rights movement. He seemed to have no compassion at all for those black people who didn't exercise their rights to go to the polls. So one day after hearing him rant a little bit about one of our neighbors who was only luke warm about going to vote I decided to ask him what made voting such a major issue in his life. Follow me over the fold to hear the story he told me...
When I asked my Dad about voting I don't think he saw the question coming. He paused for a moment as if searching for the right words and then he sat down. I sat there expecting him to recount the history of black folks being denied the right to vote and how much people had sacrificed to get the government to grant us that right. You know something kind of generic and detached but nonetheless motivational. Instead he told me the history of his father and I was taught a lesson I will never forget.
I never met my Dad's father. My grandfather passed away when he was in his early 50s from cancer long before I was born. From everything I had ever heard about him however he was a very impressive man. My grandfather was born and raised in northern Mississippi as was my Dad. At the time it was quite unusual for a black man to own land and equipment to use that land to grow and sell crops. In this regard my grandfather was somewhat of a power broker in the black community at that time. My dad started to explain to me what life was like in those times with the advent of Jim Crow laws. These laws were primarily meant to keep black people and white people seperate while making black folks feel inferior. One of these such laws required that in order for a black person to vote, they would have to pass what was called a poll test. This was supposedly a citizenship test that would judge whether the person taking the test had enough knowledge about America to be able to make a good decision on who should be running it. Every black person failed the test every single time. Now the rub of course was that none of the black folks who took the test were ever given the test back to see what they might have missed. This of course would have discouraged many a proud man, but not my grandfather. He was made cut from a different mold you see.
Now my grandfather being one of the more affluent of the black people in Marshall County Mississippi felt it was his duty to continue to go and take the poll test every time it was offered. But he also felt the need to study for the tests so he could ensure that he got all of the answers right. the truth was that he like man black men of his time never finished high school because he had to work to support his family. However he was a very smart man and he and my grandmother managed to raise 8 black kids in rural Mississippi who all went on to get at minimum bachelors degrees from college. So he would take the test, then he would study, then he would take the test again, then he would study and the process went on and on that way for many many years. Each subsequent time he showed up according to my Dad the white folks giving the test would be a little more rude with him and then would gleefully come out and tell him he had failed. My grandfather took all of this in stride and although he frequently asked to see his test again in order to see what he had supposedly missed, he never made a commotion when they refused him, many times not so politely. So here was this vision of a proud black man in a segregated Mississippi who despite being denied his rights over and over again never gave up and kept going back to the polls hoping and praying that maybe this time would be the time that they judged him fairly and allowed him to vote. And then his time on this earth was cut short. But unfortuntely the story didn't end there.
You see about a month after my grandfather was dead and buried an envelope arrived from the elections board with his name on it. Curious as to what the elections board might be sending to a dead man my father cautiously opened the envelope. What he found was a letter authorizing his deceased father to vote. Now to make it clear, nothing had changed at this point in history. Every black man who took the poll test was still told he had failed 100% of the time. So this was an intentional attempt to denegrate my grandfather one last time. My Dad and his family were just getting over the grieving process and this letter just ripped the wound right back open. I am sure those folks at the elections board got a great laugh from that one. My father and his family, not so much.
From that day forward my Dad has had a passion about getting black people to vote and from the day I heard that story the passion has burned inside me as well. Its personal for me now and I try to make it personal for everyone else. Whether you are black, white, brown, or yellow, someone in your family's history has sacrificed for your right to vote. It is irresponsible and disrespectful to them not to exercise that right. So for those that have voted (as I have) I applaud you, and for those that haven't and or aren't planning to I say WHAT IN THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR?!?! Honor your ancestors and lets get out the vote!
Obama/Biden 08