Love And Honor: The Life of Rev. Julius Cheeks as Told by his Daughter Judy

9781483510088

Chapters

Boy to Man

Dream Maker

Still Climbing

In the Studio

The Stage General

Changes

The Red Star Inn

Faith and Honesty

My Arrival

June and Inez

Cross Roads

And Then Came Marge

The Programs

Brothers

Living with Daddy

Aunt Bea’s Porch

Mother

Dad’s Lil Girl

The Last Mile

Boy to Man

My most vivid childhood memory of my father, is of him in his early thirties. Because I was just above knee high to him, he seemed tall and strong. The way he swept me into his arms with those big bear hugs, convinced me that he was the most powerful, fearless man in the world. I felt safe in his presence and I never doubted his love for me.

I can still smell the musky oil he used on his dark wavy hair and his cologne, which provided just enough fragrance to weaken the ever-present aroma of the Winston cigarettes he smoked. Although I detest the smell of cigarettes today, I remember loving the smell of Daddy’s Winstons. We loved taking long walks.

I’d place my tiny hand in his and we’d walk until I grew tired, then he’d pick me up and carry me the rest of the way. These walks, were conducted in, an almost eerie silence, that only we understood .There seemed to be something about me Daddy totally understood, something he knew we shared. We never talked about it, but we felt it in silence. It was the seal of our very special bond.

Daddy grew up in Jonesville South Carolina, just outside of Spartanburg. He was born August 7, 1929, the year of the Great Depression. Times were hard for almost everyone. He was one of thirteen children. His parents, Mozan and Martha were sharecroppers. They were hard workers who sang and picked cotton all day, with their children helping along side them. They worked their fingers to the bone but never seemed to break even. The singing did little to ease the pain and despair, but it soothed them. Martha had a voice that was so powerful and soulful, she’d send shivers down your spine with just a moan.

When Mama sang, you just had to stand still! She would melt your heart, recalls my uncle Hawk.

She sang from a place people know nothing about nowadays. All this fancy singing they doin’ today can’t touch what Mama had, hers was pure and real!

Martha would lead with some of the old hymns she remembered from her childhood or at times, she’d moan her way through whatever emotions she felt. The children would fall in behind her in perfect harmony. None of them had any musical training, but participating in this daily routine enhanced their God given talent.

Mozan was also a great singer but he would only sing if the spirit moved him. When the spirit moved him, it seemed to move the earth. There was talk of how he would rattle the church doors whenever he sang, sending fellow worshipers into a spiritual frenzy.

The family worked and sang all day in the cotton fields. It didn’t matter how old they were or what was going on elsewhere in the world, they were all – from the youngest to the oldest – considered valuable contributors to the family’s survival and they all pulled their weight.

In those days, if you were black and lived in the South, picking cotton was all you had to look forward to. The family struggled to put food on the table and produce the bare necessities. The children wore hand-me-down clothes, which Martha stitched and patched up relentlessly. They often went without shoes. The money they earned was just enough to buy seed for crops and continue the arduous cycle, always just enough, to keep them on the level they were on. Anything beyond that existence was almost silly to contemplate.

Mr. Moss, the owner of the land, seemed to take pleasure in announcing that Martha and Mozan’s harvest had once again come up short.

It was easier to believe that God would relieve them of their suffering and they’d receive their reward in heaven?

Some great morning when this life is over, I’ll, fly away. To a land, far beyond the shores, I’ll, fly away… Easy for some.

Daddy found the injustice of working for ‘nothing’ unbearable. He would say to Martha, Big Chick, there must be another way, there’s gotta be.

She’d put her hand on her hip and with a stern look, she’d reply, Well, if there is another way you ain’t found it yet, so get your tail over here and start picking!

He reluctantly placed his sack on his back and returned to work, dreaming of his escape from the hell he felt his parents had resigned themselves to. Saying to himself again and again, There’s got to be another way. I know there is.

After early morning fieldwork, Daddy would walk miles to the wooden dilapidated shack, which served as the local school for black children. They all crowded into the tiny building which never had enough chairs or desks to accommodate them. They struggled through the hand-me-down books, so worn and ragged they could hardly be held, let alone read. You’d have to have been really determined, if you wanted to learn anything under those conditions. Needless to say, not many of them were. Daddy was no exception.

Exhausted from his morning chores and the long walk to school, he would struggle to stay awake in class.

He hated everything about that school. He even hated his journey there. Each morning, he walked to school with bare feet and ragged clothes, trying his best to ignore the taunts and abuse he received from the white children who rode past him on the school bus. They’d shout out, Hey nigger, look at you, where you think you going?

Get in here and shine my shoes, Boy!

Some of them would even spit at him.

He could not retaliate, nor could he defend himself. This was one of the first lessons you learned being black in the South. Retaliation meant more trouble. It would have been the last thing the family needed. He knew that he could grab any of those white boys on the bus and whip the daylights out of them, but that was not an option. He just had to take it.

He would put his head down and keep walking until the bus was out of sight, thinking to himself, how unfair it all seemed. Those white kids were all neatly groomed with their bellies full, no doubt. He knew they never lifted a finger to work before they boarded that bus. He imagined their mothers in their nice clean aprons, covering their nice clean dresses, seeing them off with a kiss and a nutritious lunch in their bags, while his stomach growled with hunger.

Everything seemed nice and right, if you were white.

The whites had the power, which enabled them to not only dream of a future, but to plan one.

Daddy had to create his own power and figure out his own escape.

Martha had instructed him to always come straight home from school - to do more chores - no doubt.

But Daddy found the temptation of boyhood discoveries more alluring and would often go wandering off into the woods. He knew his reward would be a whipping but he was willing to suffer that, rather than pick more cotton and do more chores.

Martha was stern but loving. She knew every one of her children like the back of her hand, and had a different way of dealing with each of them. The one thing they all knew they could rely on, was her love.

Uncle Hawk believes to this day, he was his mother’s favorite. Daddy thought it was him, and my Aunt Bea felt the same. The truth is, Martha loved them all but treated them according to their particular needs. She allowed them to be expressive but not disrespectful. The same hand she used to discipline them so fiercely, would stroke them when they were troubled. She knew what they needed and when they needed it and she gave it freely.

Sometimes Martha would send one of the other children to look for Daddy if he didn’t make his way home from school on time. She often went herself and would beat him all the way back to the cotton fields once she found him. She never worried about his safety, she instinctively knew exactly what he was doing.

Inspite of the harsh punishment, Daddy would continue the routine of drifting off every chance he got. He’d even wonder down to the shanty cars and listen to the hobos play music. Martha finally gave up and said, Ain’t no use in beating him, he’s just gonna go back and do the same thing every single time.

She’d often smile to herself, look at him and shake her head.

His father Mozan was totally different. You didn’t necessarily feel warmth from him, but his presence was very powerful. His dark slanted eyes seemed to pierce your soul and reveal your deepest secrets.

He seldom spoke, but his children felt everything he wanted them to know, as though communicating telepathically. He seemed to guard his inner peace with conviction. He was stoic, suffered in silence and kept his opinions to himself.

You always had the feeling something deep was going on inside him but no one dared to ask. Only Martha could penetrate his wall of protection. The children did their best to avoid him. It was decided that Martha would do the whipping. Mozan showed no mercy when he administered punishment.

He was a very handsome man. Mozan was Cherokee Indian with long, dark hair, which