Prisoner of the Truck
Chapter 1 : My Boyhood Prison (Page 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 Order)
When he entered the public market restaurant for a hot breakfast, I wondered why he did not take me with him. At night, he spoke of bad behavior by men and women in Hedges Bar & Grill in the evening hours. I wondered if this was why he did not take me into Hedges Bar & Grill for a hot dinner. I wondered why it took him as long as 4 hours to sell the remaining fruits and vegetables to husbands in the bar while I waited in the back of the locked truck. I wondered if he would have kept me from school if there were no U.S. laws that made him send me. I thanked God for those laws. I wondered why he did not allow me to spend a nickel for a trolley ride home instead of locking me in the back of the truck for all those hours.
I began to think of myself as a timid prisoner, afraid to speak up. The truck was my traveling prison. My father was my dominant warden.
At age 11, at 10:30 PM on this particular Saturday night, in the solitary confinement of the back of the locked truck, sitting on an empty orange crate, huddled next to the kerosene lamp, I came to the realization that I was indeed, a “Prisoner of the Truck.” I had to develop a plan to escape. The plan had to include my mother, confined in the crowded upper story flat in the inner city with my brothers and sisters, all of whom I loved so dearly.
We arrived home around 11:00 PM. The children were sleeping. My patient and loving mother served us a hot meal. I welcomed the warmth of my bed, the time for Church and family on Sunday and the school week that kept me off the truck. I prayed that God would help me to find a way to escape. ORDER >>
|
