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Autobiography of Mary Frances Hurt Wright I was born July 4, 1956 in a sleepy little
town west of Greenwood Mississippi. I was the ninth of fourteen children born
to T.C Hurt and Annie Dora Richardson. I have few fond memories of my childhood
as that part of my life had to be quickly abandoned after my father's death
when I was nine years old. Playing was a luxury my family could not afford.
Frankly, no one in my community had time for frolic. It took every minute of
the day to survive. Everyone I knew was sharecroppers. And the life of a
sharecropper's day did not have enough hours for anything other than work.
Every hour, it seemed was filled with something that had to be done. And most
people couldn't wait to do them! Long before the sun appeared, everyone in
the community had long taken their post in the cotton field, pasture, of
whatever domestic responsibility their jobs entailed. As for me, my daily
duties were cooking cleaning and childcare. Compared to most of the children
in the community my age, I had a cushy job. I must admit, chopping and
picking cotton was never something that appealed to me. However, I never
looked down on those that did. I learned at an early age, simply by watching
my father struggle out the door in great physical pain every morning, that
all of us must do whatever we can to survive. And much of what we do in this
life to survive, have very little to do with desire. I accepted my life as it was in Avalon,
Mississippi .... I was supposed to.... I had to, just as everyone else around
me.. expect nothing! However, of all the things I struggled with most of my
young life fitting mentally in the scenario of expecting nothing was a
tremendous battle for me. And the mental battle raged even more after my
father's death. I simply did not understand why thing were so bad and why
they weren't ever going to be any better! And I couldn't stop thinking about
that as my mother prepared for my father's funeral. It was so bitter sweet,
the entire preparation for his homegoing. My father was going to be buried
far greater than he ever lived. He was going to have people saying good
things about him. He was going to be surrounded by beautiful flowers; many of
them purchase by people who couldn't afford them. And he was going to have on
a suit with matching socks and tie. My daddy was going to be looking fine and
dignified, just like the white men I was use to seeing at the Avalon store on
Saturday evening. The only thing wrong with my daddy being so dressed up and
having all those nice things happen to him, he would never know it! And I
would never get to see that sparkle in his eye, that I knew must have been
there somewhere, just waiting to be lit by some small spark of joy. I always
longed to see the kind of sparkle that I often saw in my grandfather's eyes,
Daddy John as he lost himself in a world that I am sure was unlike the one we
knew, when he plucked away on his guitar. The turning point or shall I say, the life
changing point occurred when I was nine years old. It was a bitter cold day
that January morning, but I was feeling all sunny inside. I was finally going
back to school. I was so excited about that, It didn't matter, I didn't have
a coat to wear or even pencil or paper. I just wanted to be at school. As
soon as the bus stopped in front of the school, I was off like a flash
looking for my old classroom. Having been gone for so long since my father's
death I had forgotten which room was mine. I finally decided to look in the
room numbers, I recognized most. Luckily, I only had to disturb two classes
before I found my old class. It was just like it had been months before, old
Ms. Tompkins standing like a good soldier at the chalkboard with yardstick in
hand. I was so happy to see her. However, it did not take me long to realize
my emotions were quite the contrary of Ms. Tomkins's. When the anger in Ms.
Tomkins's eyes stopped changing from various degrees of disgust, and she
could finally move and speak to me, she grabbed the sleeve of my already
tattered sweater, and thrust me in the uttermost corner of the classroom. She
returned to the front of the class, and like the good teacher she was, picked
up her yardstick, and directed the class attention to a living example of
what an individual with little worth resembled. As the class looked in my
direction, I too turned and looked in that direction. Only I looked in the
face of a wall. I refused to accept my desire to learn as a stigma of
worthlessness. I was not going to allow any wall, physical or mental, prevent
me from academic success. Today, four degrees later, having spent
the better part of my life proving to the Ms Tomkins that they were wrong
through my dedication as an educator. Daily I direct student's attention to
examples of people who have defied the odds, who have refused to be defeated
and to those who have escaped the walls of poverty, social, economic and
racial bondage. My hobbies mirror the things I found my
greatest peace and joy: reading, genealogy and photography. *Graduate of Amanda Elzy High School,
Roosevelt University, National Louis, and Chicago State University. |
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