Melvin Carter Jr. - Diesel Heart: An Autobiography

Diesel
Heart

Diesel
Heart

An Autobiography

MELVIN WHITFIELD CARTER JR.

This book reflects my experiences to the best of my ability.
Other people who were there may well have experienced things differently.
I use the real names of many people but provide aliases for others, to protect both the guilty and the innocent.

The publication of this book was supported though a generous grant from the Elmer L. and Eleanor Andersen Publications Fund.

Copyright 2019 by Melvin Whitfield Carter Jr.
Other materials copyright 2019 by the Minnesota Historical Society.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, write to the Minnesota Historical Society Press, 345 Kellogg Blvd. W., St. Paul, MN 551021906.

mnhspress.org

The Minnesota Historical Society Press is a member of the Association of University Presses.

Manufactured in the United States of America

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The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information SciencesPermanence for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.481984.

International Standard Book Number

ISBN: 978-1-68134-125-5 (paper)

ISBN: 978-1-68134-126-2 (e-book)

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.

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TO BELOVED MOMMY,

for always believing in the best of me, for tutoring me, and most of all for creating a household of love and joy.

TO DEAR DAD,

for manning up the paternal battle-station during troubled times and escorting me into manhood, while living the true definition of standing your ground.

TO HENRY:

This is the book that we were always going to write.

TO LOVELY WILLETHA,

who rescued me from the bottomless abyss of grief and chaosand gave me precious life itself.

TO ALL YOUNG MEN

struggling to grow up in a world even more confused and complex than I could ever have imagined: you are talented and gifted beyond measure, especially if all those tests say otherwise.

AND WITH SPECIAL THANKS TO GOD,

who carried me through so many good, bad, and dangerous timesand who gave me my wife, three children, and precious grandchildren, AND the vision and mission and assignment for Save Our Sons.

Contents

Mans greatness consists in his ability to do, and the proper application of his powers to things needed to be done.

FREDERICK DOUGLASS

The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on.

OMAR KHAYYAM

I dont measure a mans success by how high he climbs but how high he bounces when he hits bottom.

GEORGE PATTON

For where your treasure is, your heart will be there also.

MATTHEW 6:21

PART 1

1

Who I Came From

The sun hovered high, bright, and shiny over the huge Texas sky, looking down on the 1954 Smith-Harris family reunion in Chilton, Texas. The atmosphere was festive. The aromas of barbecue and wildflowers clashed, danced, and blended with the faint stench of manure from nearby farm fields and pastures. Cows mooed in a far-off barn.

Behind us, set out on tables, were vegetables fresh from the garden, blended with fruits just off the trees and local pecans harvested last fall to create salads exploding with flavors that didnt exist up north. And then there were the huge Texas watermelons. Never before, nor even later in life, did I ever savor a taste so sweet, so cold, so satisfying.

At the center of it all was Grandma Clara May Smith. Every year a family reunion was held for her, and every year was expected to be her last. But even though she was ancient, and in spite of the sweltering heat, my mommas daddys mommas momma sat upright on a pedestal-like chair, a blanket spread gently over her lap. Her penetrating eyes watched as children paraded before her. Although nothing was spoken, I could feel her connection with each and every child set on display before her.

Grandma Clara May Smith was so ancient that way back when she was born, birth records of those born into American slavery werent kept, and no one knew her birthdate. All anyone knew was that by the time American chattel slavery (the cruelest, most savage form of slavery ever to exist on the face of the planet) had ended, Grandma was already a little girl.

She had many children. One of her daughters, Pinky, bore Charlie D. Harris, who begot Billie Dove (Harris) Carter, my mom, and disappeared forever when mom was thirteen. Billie Dove had me as well as my five siblings.

It was my turn. Suspended in stillness, we stared into each others oblivion. Although no words were spoken, I comprehended that she lived and experienced that which I could never imagine, much of it unspeakable. And she in turn fully comprehended that I would experience a life that she would be denied, could not even imagine. The disconnect was the connect itself.

It is still hard to translate into words, but it seemed that, in a brief instant of eternity, Grandma and I merged in a place where there is no place or time. Gently and lovingly, she entered my psyche, lifting me with her heart and scanning me with her mind. As she launched me into a future into which she would not be allowed, I released her from a past that would remain beyond my comprehension.

Thats your cousin. Thats your cousin. Thats your cousin! Everybody pointed at everybody and each other. I was five and didnt know what a cousin was, but I figured it was significant. Up in St. Paul where I lived, as far as I knew at that time, I had only two cousins, Henry and Gregory, both on my daddys side. We sat there looking puzzled at one another as grown folks pronounced us cousins, but we presumed wed figure it out someday.

In Texas, we stayed with the Freemans in Dallas, Aunt Berta in Waco, and Uncle Bill on the farm out in the country. Everybody had two names, like Billy Junior, Ella May, Clara May, Clara Jewell, Judy Kay, and June-Bug, except for my playmates Carl, Weasel, and Blackie (a most beautiful brown-skinned girl). My Waco cousins played, ran, and jumped barefooted alongside a narrow driveway extending from the street to a garage. I tried to do the barefooted thing like the other kids, but I did the hotfoot dance with every step. The heat on the paved concrete was unbearable to my tender feet. We played kids games, like Little Sally Walker (Yeah, shake it to the east, yeah, shake it to the west! Yeah, shake it to the one that you love the best!) and something about Possum in a timmon tree, wont you throw those cimmin down! (I didnt know anything about persimmons at the time.)