6
CityLight.org
may 2012
Introduction: When God prepares a man for
kingdom service, he often places him as a boy
in a devout Christian family to be loved and
guided in truth, but even there, the people are
not perfect. I thought you would enjoy a snap-
shot out of Joe's childhood that helped shape
him into the man he became as a champion to
squarely confront racial prejudice and be led of
God, along with Eddie Guess... to lead a state-
wide event, The Tony Evans Crusade, May
When I Became
Aware of Racial
Prejudice
By Gladys Grimaud
Continued on page 22
"My parents taught me that I was to respect others older than myself. I
respected Chester a lot. If he said it, it was true. That was enough for me."
never understand why he and the other
farm hands wore those long-sleeved shirts
to work the fields in the summertime. He
explained it to me one day.
"Well suh, Little Man, it's `cuz the long-
sleeved shirts makes us sweat, which
makes it easier to feels the cool breezes
when dey comes along."
For me, the mystery about the long-sleeved
shirts had just been solved. If Mr. Chester
said it, it must be true. Being foreman of
the field hands, all black women, he knew
more about the subject than anyone else I
knew. My parents taught me that I was
to respect others older than myself. I re-
spected Chester a lot. If he said it, it was
true. That was enough for me.
My grandfather originally purchased the
farm long before I was born and hired
Chester to help him run it. When I was
about five years old, I would follow Ches-
ter in the fields, trying to put my feet in
Chester's footprints as I walked along be-
hind him. Not an easy task because Ches-
ter's stride was longer, and his footprints,
like his feet, turned outward. This made
18-20, 1997. Here is just one of Joe's boyhood
stories that reflects society as it was in 1944.
Mr. Chester
Chester peered out at me from under his
wide-brimmed straw hat; sweat pouring
down his black face, drawn from years of work
in the collard and cornfields on our farm.
"What's ya' gonna do wit dem June bugs?"
My squatty clear glass pickle jar was full
of bright green June bugs. In the swel-
tering Georgia heat, Chester pushed the
glasses that he was wearing back toward
the bridge of his nose, trying to keep them
from sliding off his face. Waiting for my
answer, he stood there in his usual garb,
overalls with a long-sleeved shirt. I could