The Impressionist by Tim Clinton, Max Davis Read Free Book Online

smelly, rusty old water faucet next to an equally filthy bathroom door. While Jim Ed went outside for his drink, the boys guarded the “White’s Only” fountain making sure he obeyed the law. What little water did come out of the old faucet was hot and tasted like its smell…nasty. When Jim Ed finally made it back to his mother, tears were streaming down his cheeks.
    “What’s wrong, my angel?” Mama Porter asked.
    Jim Ed wiped his eyes and looked up at his mother. “Mama, why are people so mean to us because we colored?”
    “It ain’t right, honey, but it be the way things is,” she said. “It be the way things is.”

    “I tell you, Adam, I despised myself for being black— despised the color black. The road we walked on was black. Black was the color of dirt and storm clouds. I always felt like I had some infectious disease or something. I was angry at God for making me that way. After a while, being called a ‘nigger’ for so long and being treated that way, I guess I just started believing it—didn’t think I was worth the dirt in my own Mama’s front yard.”
    “I’m really sorry you experienced that,” I said, cringing inside. “Prejudice is an ugly thing.”
    “Yeah, it’s ugly all right. You wouldn’t believe some of the terrible, ignorant things I’ve seen people do in my lifetime. But just the same, I’ve learned over the years that you can’t thrive in life while blaming all your problems on others. You’ll always wind up a victim. Besides, things are better nowadays. We’ve come a long way and so have you, although we have a long way to go—still a lot of healing to do.”
    “I hope so,” I said, thinking of my father and grandfather and some of my relatives, how they lived in a cesspool of discrimination and bigotry. I wondered how I would have acted if I’d been raised back then, in that setting. It was not something I enjoyed thinking about, but ignoring it seemed worse.
    “So what happened?” I asked. “Where’d all the hate and anger go? Why are you painting this white guy’s portrait?”
    “Well,
my
change didn’t happen all at once, but little by little, starting when I met Christina—my dearest Christina.” Jim Ed’s face lit up. “I tell you, Adam, we have to always be alert because God sends significant people into our lives at critical moments. Christina came to me during one of mine.”

9
    “Christina?” I said, a slight smile fighting to form on my face. “Is this a love story, Jim Ed?”
    “Yes-sir-ree,” he replied, “could be a movie on the Hallmark Channel.” He lowered his head a few inches from the paper and blew air on a spot he’d just painted. “Christina, well she…how can I put it? She was the most beautiful woman ever laid my eyes on—walked with grace and dignity—always held her head up high, even in the midst of our struggles. Was humble, understanding how much she needed God’s mercy and grace in her life, but at the same time had this glowing confidence about her.”
    “Sounds like a special lady,” I said, trying to create an image of Christina in my mind.
    “Oh, she was special indeed. It was just like the song says, ‘she was a magnet and I was steel.’ Something about her just drew me to her. I’d been around lots of pretty girls in my day. I may not be much to look at now, but back then,” Jim Ed chuckled, “I was considered quite a catch…but none of those other girls could hold a light to my Christina. She’s the one who helped me see that I was special. Made me a better man.
    “I’d be getting all down on myself or fighting mad for being who I was and she’d tell me things like, ‘Jim Ed, did you know that black is the color of the richest most fertile soil? Black soil is the best.’ I remember we were walking by Mr. Hatcher’s field one day and she said to me, ‘You see that shiny black steed over there? Your color is the same as it. Isn’t it a spectacular creature—strong and confident?’