My Current View - Cotton Fields

Cotton. It surrounds me. I see it every time I leave my house.

Thousands of acres of soft, white, fluffy, southern goodness. It’s perfect. It’s extravagant. And it’s all I can do not to stop and pick it. I want to fill the back seat of my car and just roll around in it.

Thanks to Eli Whitney and his cotton gin, people aren’t handpicking cotton much anymore but as I drive by these cotton fields, I can still hear the echoes of the past.

I hear singing. It’s a chorus of several hundred men, women and children. They keep time without percussion. They’re singing in rounds, each group knowing their part so well, they sing it instinctively. Every note on perfect pitch and each person singing harmony to the person next to them. They sing songs of hope. Songs of salvation. Songs of freedom. They sing to pass the time. They sing to ease their troubled minds. And they pick cotton.

A young mother, with her baby strapped to her back by a piece of fabric fastened tightly around her midsection. The baby cries from hunger and exhaustion. The young mother cries also from exhaustion and from hopelessness. She doesn’t want her child to grow up in this life but feels powerless to stop it. She keeps picking cotton. To the end of one row and back again.

An older man, experienced in the ways of the plantation. He’s been picking cotton nigh on 60 years now. His back hurts so bad that the pain consumes his mind. As the hours pass, he stoops lower and lower to relieve the pain. By the end of the day, he’s doubled over with his face inches from the ground. He keeps picking cotton.

A little girl. This is her first year picking cotton. Last year, she was playing with the other children in the yard, chasing chickens and jumping rope. This year she was told she would be picking cotton. She doesn’t know how to pick cotton and keeps pricking her fingers. By noon, all of her fingers are bleeding. She doesn’t know the songs yet and can’t find her part. Tears stream silently down her beautiful brown face. She keeps picking cotton.

A man in his 30’s. He is one of the few workers that is ambidextrous and can pick with both hands. Broad shoulders and rock-hard muscles from the hard work he’s done in his life. There is nothing he can’t do and very little he can’t lift. But he can’t save his family from this life. That’s his little girl with her fingers bleeding. His wife is in the next field picking, with their infant son tied to her back. His heart is broken. He wants a chance to provide a better life for his family. But he feels that’s impossible. He keeps picking cotton. When his sack is full, he empties it into the big baskets and gets back to picking.

I see these amazing souls. I hear their songs. Despite the hardships, I hear them laughing. They are telling stories of their homeland.

These cotton fields are heavy with the spirits of times past. A horrifying testament to a gross, inhumane act done to an entire race of people. I think of this injustice every time I drive past. Imagine how it must feel to be an African American and drive past a cotton field. I hope they can hear the songs of their ancestors. I hope they see their strength. I hope they see their resilience.

Next time you drive by a ripe cotton field, pull to the side of the road and get out of your car. Look at the field of pure white, it’s a breath-taking site. Feel the warm southern breeze on your face. If you close your eyes and listen closely, you can hear the singing

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