Walking Among the Kudzu
by H. Victoria Hargro Atkerson
Xlibris Corporation

Chapter 4
In the summer of 1960, after completing the tenth grade, Mama announced that I was going to spend the summer with my Aunt Helen in Atlanta.

I was startled. Until that very moment, I had no idea that I had an aunt anywhere.

When I asked Mama about her, she simply said, “The bitch finally remembered that she had a family. She wanted to know what she could do for you, and I told her. So. . . off you go, baby. I can finally get some peace and quiet.”

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Well, Mama must have needed a lot of peace and quiet because I never went back home after that summer. The thought of going to Atlanta was exciting to me because of all the demonstrations I heard about in school. They were happening all over the South spurred by the sit-in demonstration in Greensboro, N.C. the year before. Four freshmen students from North Carolina A & T College integrated the lunch counter at Woolworth’s. From that moment on, colleges all over staged the same type of protest. For the first time in our history, thousands of whites joined the fight for equal rights. They came from all over by buses, cars, and trains to participate and to help get our people registered to vote.

As soon as school was over, Mama took me shopping for new clothes, which made me very excited about going away for the summer. For many years, I listened as children at school talk about going away for summer vacations. This would be my first vacation. In fact, it was my first trip anywhere. It made me sad to leave Mattie behind, but I knew better than to ask if she could go along. We cried a lot over my pending trip and promised to write each other faithfully every week. School ended on a
Wednesday; Mama purchased a ticket on the train that would depart the following Friday.

Our trip to the Union Station by public transportation was uneventful.

Mama and I barely said a word. As the bus drove down Michigan Avenue, she handed me a lunch, which was packed in a shoe box, and she gave me a few pointers about traveling.

“Ya have to be careful when you travel, Shelby,” she advised. “Find an old, black woman on the train and be sure to sit next to her.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

Several moments passed in silence as we sat with our legs straddling over my two mixed-matched pieces of luggage, she said, “Don’t talk to nobody. Stay clear of boys and men. You got me?” she asked angrily.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, making sure I kept my head down to show respect for her and what she was telling me.

“Find yourself an old lady and sit next to her,” she repeated for the second time. “If that old lady gets off the train, find another old woman and sit next to her.”

To make sure I understood her instructions, she told me a few horror stories about girls traveling alone who were kidnapped and murdered, with no one ever hearing from them again. The fear of strangers and my natural fear of Mama would be my friend and would steer me cautiously down the railroad tracks to Atlanta, Georgia.

The trip to my aunt’s house marked the first time I left the city of Chicago. When it was time for the train to leave for Atlanta, Georgia, Mama gave me a few dollars and said goodbye with a quick half-hug while juggling that ever-present cigarette between her fingers, which were decorated with her traditional bright red nail polish. Just as I was getting on the train, she yelled out a final word of warning.

“Don’t sit next to no men and don’t talk to strangers!” With my short and very tragic history with Benny behind me, I quickly agreed.

When I boarded the train, I had to walk through two cars before I found a pleasant looking older black woman who smiled broadly as I approached.

Her whole face said welcome. I was glad I finally found her.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” I said with my nerves in my mouth.

“Why no, but it looks like it’s gonna be,” she said teasingly.

“Mind if I sit here?” I asked.

“Why no, baby, come on and keep me company,” she said, preparing the seat for me by moving a big bag of yarn from the seat I intended to take next to her.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, placing my carry-on-bag on the overhead rack, and then I settled into the seat next to her.

“Are you traveling alone?” she asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Where are you headed?” she asked inquiringly.

“Atlanta, Georgia. I am going to visit my aunt,” I volunteered.

“That sho’ is a nice place. Is this yo’ first visit to Atlanta?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Well, you’ll gonna love Atlanta. Colored folks live pretty good down there and the white folks stay pretty much to themselves,” she said.

“You live in Atlanta?” I asked.

“Heavens no, but I visited many times. Years ago, I had tons of relatives there, but they all died off,” she said sadly. Then she switched on that pleasant, cheerful smile that attracted me in the first place, saying, “I live in Savannah with my daughter and her children. I have a fine family. I’m proud of every last one of them. I travel back and forth between Chicago and Savannah every year. I travel free as the wind too.

My husband used to be a porter on this very railroad. He and I traveled free everywhere these old tracks would carry us. He retired and we had all the time in the world to go wherever we wanted, then a year ago, he died in his sleep. God, rest his soul,” she related sadly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said too meekly, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t you be sorry, honey. He lived a long healthy life, and we were blessed. My son lives in Chicago, he’s a big time lawyer now,” she said, showing me pictures with a broad smile on her face while her eyes twinkled with delight.

“You must be very happy about that,” I said.

“Yes, I am. It took a lot out of his daddy and me to get him through school. I scrubbed a lot of floors to make sure he got a good education.

He’s done well fo’ hisself too, married a nice girl, and got hisself three beautiful children.” She showed me a picture of them also. “My daughter in Savannah is a school teacher.”

For several hours, we chatted, laughed, and shared our lunches. We really had a big laugh when she pulled out a shoe box just like mine, filled with sandwiches, fruit, fried chicken, and deviled eggs.

My journey south filled me with wonder, excitement, and a mounting fear of all the things I heard happened to black people in the South.

From the elongated windows of the train, I observed each little town as we passed by. Looking and wondering about what it would be like to live in the small towns along the railroad track.

Daydreaming was my main activity on that trip. My travel companion fell asleep soon after we finished eating our lunch.

What would it be like living there? Or there? I wondered, looking at beautiful homes as the train rode swiftly by single homes on huge pieces of property that I had only seen on television. The further south we went, the cleaner things appeared. The further the train traveled down the tracks the more fascinated I became. I liked being on the move, seeing new places.

I regretted whenever the train stopped moving. Another old woman got on the southbound train, and she sat in the seat directly across from us.

She was going to visit her nephew and his family, a social studies teacher at Washington High School in Atlanta. Later that night a young woman boarded the train and sat behind us. We asked her where she was going.

She looked at us annoyed and said, “Anywhere. I need a new start in life. I heard about how nice Atlanta was, so I am going to start there.

I don’t have a job or a place to stay, but I’ll find both when I get there.”

When we asked her where she was going to spend her first night in Atlanta.

She said, “I’ll figure that out too when I get there.”

Taking a deep breath, she reclined in her seat and withdrew from our conversation. The two older women and myself never spoke a word, but we looked at each other surprised by the careless attitude of the stranger.

Saying nothing, we knew each other’s thoughts. This girl was either stupid or crazy.

The train traveled throughout the night, stopping in town-after-town.

I soon became accustomed to the rocking motion of the train, the sound of the metal wheels on the tracks and the occasional whistle that blew intermittently. There was an infant in our car that complained a few times throughout the night. His cry was somehow very comforting as I drifted off to sleep.

As dawn broke, we entered the state of Georgia; I noticed a definite change in the landscape. The soil turned a deep, rich, red color, and the greenery was so dense. It was overpowering. When we passed wooded areas, the vines covered the trees. There were no empty spaces anywhere.

Vines grew everywhere, covering trees and buildings alike. The woman seated next to me woke up as I was looking out the window.

I asked, “How do they get the vines to grow like that?”

The old woman laughed aloud and said, “Those. . . are kudzu vines, honey, nobody trains those vines to do anything. They have a mind of their own. They grow wild. . . just like us.” She smiled with a mischievous look in her eyes, then she closed her eyes for another nap.

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