The little boy I watch in my head, running, fleeing, down the dirt covered street past the houses lining it, past the open drug stores door. It’s like I can hear the crunch o my feet hittin the dry ground again and again. The heat an panic as I pray to escape the inner part o town before they catch me. I’m nearly to the end o the street when I finally hear there hollers comin up b’hind me.
“Hey n*****!” a taunting voice shouts at me as I throw a look behind me. It’s dumb o’ me to run from ‘em now, but I ain’t gonna give up before I’ve tried. It’s not too far from our side of town and their less likely to jump on me once they don’ have backup round.
“Can’t hide now!” More hollers drown out each other. “You better run n*****!” I clench my fists, trying to focus on anythin but the anger fillin my head. I had thought I mighta had a chance until 2 of em ran out ahead o’ me, cutting off my path. I skid to a stop on the loose ground and look around. It’s empty accept for a few nice houses. Ain’t nobody gonna help from those. They catch me from behind, pushin me and shovin me around. I wouldn’t give in but I know if they get more than a scratch they’ll go back hollerin that a negro beat em up, then it’d be much worse than lettin em do whatever they’re gonna do now.
A small pack of white skinned boys gather round me snickering. As they close in even more I pray they’d just go away and leave me alone, but there ain’t no chance of that. Not ever would one o’ them pass up an opportunity like this. They surround me and I count about 6 of em, there shoes makes grinding sounds and a couple of em start cracking their knuckles. The younger gangs round here never really have a leader but I can tell from the way the one in front of me is standing that he’s in charge, at least for now.
“Saw you leavin the field today, ya took off pretty fast,” one of them remarks. I almost ask him why he’s repeatin to me things I clearly already know, but decide that wouldn’t turn out so good for me. “Scared?” He jeers every word, temptin me to come at im but I’m not dumb enough to try, ‘specially not when I’m out numbered by 5. I shake my head a little and try to slip around him, but the kid standin there pushes me. A shoe lashes out under me and I fall to the ground, landing on my butt. I cringe a little as somebody kicks me, but I can’t see who it is. The tallest kid, who appears to be in charge, wears a pair of nice looking shorts and a brown shirt. He glares down on me with the same look of superiority a teacher gives to a child. I used to believe that I deserved their scorn, now it just burns inside me. My nose burns a little as angry tears well up inside my eyes. I clench my jaw tight and squint up through the blinding sunlight behind him and into his eyes. Just get it over with I think. But they love playing with me, teasing, taunting, just wouldn’t be good enough to beat me up an’ leave.
“You gonna run off again n*****?” The rest of the boys snicker behind me, landing a couple kicks afterwards.

I don’t say a word, holding back the rage inside me, I give him a defiant look. Taking my hands from the dusty ground I curl them around my head, my arms covering my face. I crouch in the road waiting, if I don’t pay attention the taunts will stop, they always do. They call a few other nasty words at me and I can hear them all laughing, but slowly as I remain still, the talk gets angrier. They start shouting at me, screaming for me not to be a coward, I squeeze my eyes tight and try my hardest not to get up and sock him. I can feel myself about to snap, one punch can’t hurt right? It’s not like I’ll go to jail for 1 hit on a white kid...Maybe, but my mother's warnings echo in my head, people here will go through a lot of trouble to make a big deal out of something like this. Finally the jokes stop and something hard rams into my side with a great deal of force. Again and again shoes and bare feet hit me, sometimes they’d go as far as to get down and shove me, punching my shield of arms. It seems like forever, my body getting beat to pulp, bloody smears across my face from when they pried my arms apart. Eventually the hits become softer and softer, and laughs weaker. Finally worn, I hear their shoes squeal around on the dirt and their hard breaths as they become fewer. Retreating footsteps sound against the ground that my left ear presses against. At last when no other voices can be heard I lift my head from the ground and whip my head from side to side, the sunlight illuminates the alley way between two houses, there is nobody around accept the slight swish of a curtain. Of course one of them would see it as entertainment, nothin to do on a thursday afternoon than watch a gang o white boys beat up a negro. I turn my head away from the covered window of Margaret Anite and glance at the little pool of blood on the ground under my face.

I drag the rest of my body into a sitting position for a moment before standing. My sides already hurt when they stretch and a steady stream o blood runs out my nose. Swiping at my cheek where blood sticks to my face, I pinch my nose to halt the flow. I pull myself onto my knees and tilt my head back, glancing around once more, the road is still empty. My body aches from the days work and the bruises in my side feel like grass after a long day of hoeing. I want nothing more than to pick a shady spot and sit there for a long while, with a few bandages, a glass o cool water. But heaven knows I ain’t ever gonna be able to do that. Not ere at least.

I know it’s dangerous as I walk home, I’m spending too much time on this road. The house’s may be more spread out here but ery body knows if one of em white boys comes strollin up that path, they won’t not care if I’m already beat up, that ain’t gonna stop their fun. I try to push it outa my head, my father would never have let such things bother me. Every day he came home to ind me with my face all bloodied and raw he’d just squeeze me up into his bulky arms. I remember the way he’d make sure none of those cuts were too bad bfore my mom helped me clean em. Course now it’s different since he went away. Couldn’t keep the family together on what we were livin off o’. Don’t get me wrong, I know he had t leave, but don’t anybody, specially him, know what he’s leavin me with? Don’t he know what happens to me when he goes away? It just ain’t fair, is the whole world just here so they can beat up negros? People talkin bout all these civil rights, but what rights are there? I don’t know how they started a movement when if I so much as speak a word I’ll be beat black and blue. I guess I might not ever know, but if I wasn’t here, I’d be with em. This just ain’t right.

I practically crawl up to the front door and heave it open with my whole body so no one part takes to much o the force. I smell something boilin in the kitchen peels of laughter shriek from a few small voices at the corner of the room. Robert and Helen (my two youngest siblings,) emerge from behind the torn couch after George peeks behind it. Hide and seek again. Unlike me, the rest of my siblings don’t seem to get tired of it even though there is really no good hiding spots and everyone knows where they are. Helen giggles and topples over the side of the couch and onto the cushions. She waves her hand rapidly as her glowing brown eyes peek out in between tiny black ringlets that droop in front of her face.

“Hey Tom,” dimples appear on each of her smooth dark cheeks and even with the turmoil inside my head I smile back.

“Hi Helen. Better watch that couch it’s torn nough already, okay?”

I shake my head a little as she hums, “mhm” and bounds around the side to where the rest of my 6 siblings besides Maria have gathered in a small circle. I slip past towards the bathroom, hoping to clean up a bit before dinner. My mothers and Marias voices echo softly through the empty kitchen doorway. I sigh in relief as I sneak a glance into the kitchen and see my mother still stirring a boiling pot full of potatoes over the old stove.

I turn from the opening a moment too late, “Tom!” It’s Maria, of course. She’s a year younger than me but neither of us have ever acknowledged the difference. She drops the brown towel she had been drying her hands with onto the counter and strides over to me. I stop and look back at her, knowing she’s already seen the damage on my face, the blood droplets on the front of my shirt. Maria takes my face lightly with her fingertips, avoiding any cuts, and examines it, turning it a couple times with a feathery touch. A flicker of anger flashes across her face before she smothers it. She subconsciously draws her lips in, pressing them together for a second. “These’re pretty bad,” she comments. I haven’t had the chance to look at them myself, but I don’t question her evaluation. “Here,” she says, and slips past me down the hall.

I follow her tall slim figure down the short hallway and into the bathroom where she’s pulling out a small washcloth from inside the wooden cabinet. I stumble in beside her and peer at my reflection in the mirror. Despite my efforts to dissipate the blood from my nose The whole bottom have of my face has scattered streaks of dried blood mixed with small cuts lining down the side of my face and jaw. The flesh around my left eye is darker than the rest, turning a dark blue. I press it lightly but draw my hand back and pain courses through the bruise. A spew of water pours from the faucet and runs over my sisters hands and into the cloth. She twists the handle and the sound of running water disperses. She turns around on her heels and kneels on the floor in front of me, sitting on her knees.

“I can do that,” I say as she starts to rub my jaw line with the damp cloth to remove the blood. I hold out my hand to take it but she doesn’t give it to me.

“I know,” her tightly curled hair is pulled back but the ponytail slips over her shoulder brushing my extended hand. I don’t want to pull her away from whatever she was doing, but I don’t see the benefit in making her stop. She grins but doesn’t look happy as she pushes my hand away that was going to grab the cloth. Her eyes lift from my face and into my eyes, “what happened?”

“Gang of em jumped me on the way home,” I spit out the words. She nods but narrows her eyebrows as she rubs the areas around my nose where I saw the dried blood.

“Did you say somethin t make em angery? This isn’t just a couple scratches Tom,” she pauses for a moment looking at me insistently.

A defensive wall comes up in my mind, “I didn’t do nothin!” My claim comes out louder than I’d intended and I snap my mouth shut. “I just,” I don’t really know how to explain it, but she’s never judged my reactions before so I go for it. “I just didn’t wanna play their games, so I just stayed quiet and eventually they beat me up and left. Maybe they don’t like it when niggers don’t do exactly what they want.”

Maria yanks her hands away from my mostly scrubbed face and I can see sparks of anger igniting in her pupils. “Don’t use that word here,” she whispers. The look she gives me tells me her anger is not directed at me. She swipes the edges of my face and around my hairline then stands.

“There's some real cold people in this town, Maria.” I stand to and take the cloth to wash it in the sink.

“What are you sayin Tom?” She leans her hands on the counter and locks eyes through the mirror.
“I’m sayin...” I start, “just be careful, the other kids don’t need this yet. It’d be best if they never went into town, but I guess that’s not gonna happen.” Maria nods in understanding as i squeeze water diluted blood out of the washcloth she’d used.
“Thomas, Maria!” My mothers voice calls from the kitchen and I glance at Maria. Our eyes meet just long enough for an understanding to be made. She turns off the faucet and I wring out the cloth, and we both pat our hands dry on our clothes. This won’t be mentioned, just another day I came home beat up, neither of us will say a word. Although my mother always notices, she always stops to check, to make sure I’m alright, but she knows there’s nothing she can do except protect my siblings from this for as long as possible. My father would never had wanted me to work and my mother hates it, but if he’d been here he woulda walked all the way there an back with me everytime e could.
I sit at the tidy faded table surrounded by my siblings chattering, some of them with inaudible sentences blurted through mouths full of food. Maria leans over to whisper something to William, he laughs and George gives her a look, probably assuming it was about him. I grin but only to play along, my mind is locked onto work tomorrow. I think about sprinting home from the field, their shouting voices, I’ll never make it back on time, especially not with the number of things I have to do tomorrow. It’s not anymore than usual, just that I’m sure I’ll do it slower with all the bruises I’ve aquired. Will they even come for me tomorrow? Probably.
“How was work today?” my mother asks. I look away from them and at her, shrugging.
“It was alright,” I reply, looking down briefly at my plate with a few scattered corn bits left. I open my mouth to explain my appearance which I know is what she wants, but close it again, here is not the place for this. ¨I might be back a little later tomorrow," I state as I finish my last couple bites and set my fork down gently on my cleared plate.
I can see the worry in her eyes, ¨okay.¨ She pauses, ¨try not to be out after dark." My mothers eyes lock onto mine and I can see the insistence there, 'try' in this case is, do. I don't quite understand what the concern is all about but I can tell that whatever it is, it's important.
I wait for ages until the others have finished and the chatter slows to slip away, retreating to a small room in the back that George and I share. I lift my shirt and peer at the marks along my side and stomach, red lines, purple blotches, and a few cuts caused by shoes ramming into my flesh. I sigh, there’s nothing I (or Maria for that matter) can do about these.
A gentle knock taps on the thin door of my room. “Thomas?” It’s my mother, her gentle voice carrying soothingly into my ears.
“Yes?” I call back, releasing my shirt and lightly drawing my fingers across my face. Good, no blood.
She slips inside, shutting the door quietly behind her. Her eyes catch mine and she sighs. “You seem angry,” she states and sits on the hard floor beside me. “Did they say something?”
I narrow my eyebrows at the thought, “only the usual.” They always say stuff, it’s just the fact that they always do this, they go around saying all these things.
“Just wearing you down after a while?” She knows me too well, but it sends a flash of warmth through my body and I smile on the inside.
I nod, should I tell her what it is? I shouldn’t trouble her with it...but maybe she wants me to tell her, to share the weight of it. “What gives them the right to treat us this way?” I ask her, almost as though I’m begging for an answer. I stare at her, my tortured confused eyes sink into hers. “They’re all just cruel, ain’t anybody born nice in this town? Ain’t anybody treat people with respect who aren’t the same color?” I know my voice sounds angry, defeated, pleading for a break, an explanation to...this. “These people are all jerks and liars! Why doesn’t anybody stop them? How can so many people be so ignorant without one of em turnin out right?” I throw my hands up a little in an angry gesture.
My mother hesitates before opening her mouth, testing if I want to say more. I don’t know how else to describe it so I say nothing. She starts slow, “These people...Well all that may be true, but a lot of the people here don’t know better. Most o these people were born an raised in this environment, this is what they were taught to do. Nobody ever told em it wasn’t right to beat up a negro, it was probably encouraged or everyone turned their eyes when it did happen. The adults here just learned from their parents and those kids were never told different. For them it’s just a game of fun, they don’t treat us like people and...well some of those kids don’t even realize we are.”
I see where she’s coming from, but she can’t possibly be sticking up for those kids, look what they do. Even someone who grew up like that should have the sense to know negros don’t like gettin beat up just as much as they do. But no one would dare lay a finger on a white kid, so they’ll never know. “That just ain’t fair!” I burst out. “That don’t make it ok for em to treat us with no respect!” My heart burns with anger, my hands clenched and pushing against my forehead in frustration.

My mothers arms wrap around my balled up body, bringing me up and into her. “I know Tom, I know,” the understanding in her voice roles through me, releasing all the tensions in my body. She rocks back and forth a little and I let myself collapse into her shape and become cocooned in her strength. “It don’t give em the right to do that, it’s not fair that they can give us no rights even when we are free. The Jim Crow Laws are rotten and cruel, I know, I know what you do just to get home is too much.” She pauses, her fingers massaging my head and the short hair that curls across it. “But that’s what makes you different Tom, because even after they do all these things to you, you don’t do nothin to them. I know there’s lot’s of reasons you can’t not just because you won’t, but if you saw a white boy while with your friends would you beat him up if there wasn’t anybody or thing to stop you?”

I think about it, if I could...would I? I almost would like to say yes, they deserve it, after all they’ve done to me...Or do they? I shake my head, “no.” She’s right, they may do this stuff to me, but nobody deserves this life. Just because they don’t treat you right or care don’t mean you can’t treat them right and care. After everything they do, my mother still steps into their shoes so that she can love them.

My mother smiles a little bit, a flicker of pride gleams in her eyes as she looks at me. “Good, then you are not like them, but I do recommend you try to understand them. Love is much more powerful than hate, Thomas.” Her arms tighten around me and I can feel the protective strength, the slight anger in her taught jaw for the kids who beat up her child. I realize that she cannot fully do what she said and she does not expect me to, just try. “I think you will find that it is also easier.”

I don’t expect anyone to ever read this, but I want people to know, I would never have touched Miss. Mayella or any other white girl. I try my best not to resent the people who said I did but know I didn’t. That is my story, that’s how I got here.


The next day after all that, I was walking home and nobody was comin for me. A white country boy was runnin back to town on my left when a rock in his path caught his foot sendin him spralling to the ground. If it had been me, he woulda laughed, and maybe the day before I would too. I’ll never know. But I do know that that day, I didn’t laugh, instead I walked over to the left side of the road where he was lying, and held out my hand. The kid did not take it, instead he slapped it away, got up and ran. He looked back though, and I saw the confusion in his eyes, why had I helped him? I hoped that one day he would figure it out.


So for whoever finds this, that is what got me here, that is why I went inside the Ewel house every time Miss. Mayella asked without being able to pay. That is what got me into this cell, but know this- I wouldn’t take it back if I could and I don’t regret it.
Love,
Thomas Robinson