A Hillbilly Funeral
by
Rebecca Anna Coleman
Part Two of Three

The air inside the simple, wooden frame church was hot, humid, and reeked of Gentleman Jack, piss, shit, tobacco smoke, flowery perfume, fried chicken, cold salad, warm bread, and sweet cakes. The wooden walls echoed with the sound of wailing as dozens of old women, who could have never been anything but old women gathered around a simple, pine casket. To the side stood a middle age man, he had a round beer belly, on top of his balding head a few tuffs of gray hair remained. His red face was dropping down in a way that reminded of a old hound dog, and his green eyes seemed dull from drinking a little too much. 

He wore a fading charcoal gray suit, and on his left finger one could see a large, golden masonic ring. Gathering around him was a fellowship of men that looked just like him. To his side stood a woman who towered over the rest of the crowd and she wore a shapeless frock, she was muttering something darkly under her breath. Surrounding her was a collection of women who came in all shapes and sizes, and all kinds of different colors. All were gathered around the towering woman, all were whispering something darkly under their breaths that reeks of mint mouthwash. 

And in front of the casket I stood, dressed in a off the rack, gray woolen suit that had been rented from Belk's Department Store just a day before, gray woolen trousers, a white button down dress shirt with brown buttons, a black tie and highly polished black dress shoes completed the look. My long, brown hair was tied back in a tight ponytail and my face felt like it was on fucking fire rom the half of a bottle of Old Spice Aftershave I'd splashd on after my first attempt at shaving this morning. Not that I needed to shave, it just felt like the right thing to do.

I felt out of place. These were my people, yet they were not my people. They were all strangers to me, people I'd only see twice yearly, the first time at Thanksgiving and the second time at Christmas. 

“Hey son!” The old man standing by the open casket called out to me, “Good to see you here.” He said as he walked through and clapped me firmy on the shoulder. He reached over and took my small hand into his oversized bear paw and he seemed like he was going to crush it into dust. “She would have loved to see you here.”

I blushed and nodded my head.

“She loved you.” He stumbles over his words a little. “You were here, you know? You were the only one who visited her in the hospital.”

The group of men slowly moved toward me.

“Gentleman, this is my nephew.” The man said as he pushed toward the group, “William Dawson Coleman.” He said proudly, “He taught himself to read, he's a good man, going to make a fine Mason one day. He's going to the eighth grade next year. I got his mom to take him out of the public school and enroll him in Benton Academy. You know, were all the proper families send their children.”

He then turned to me and in a powerful, echoing voice that seemed to fill the space around him, in a voice that was far more a command than a request, one that carried the undertone of violence he said to me.

“William, tell this fine gentleman a little about you. I need to go fix myself a drink and use the bathroom. Come find me when your done, I got some business I need to settle with you, man to man.” And with that he left. 

 Their eyes shifted away from the casket and focused on me. I swallowed hard and blinked as I peered toward the collection of men that seemed to surround me on all sides. All of them were Master Masons. All of them were men who commanded considerable wealth,  political power, and even judicial power in the small town of Benton, Mississippi. These were men who had other men move mountains if they so desired. I knew most if now all belonged to the Benton Country Club, some even belonged to the local Episcopal Church, Saint Mary's were they sat on the board of Vestry. 

All had once worn in some by-gone era the white sheets of the Ku Klux Klan. Many had even sat on the old White Citizens Council. They were the type of me who would have had me flogged and lynched from the old pear tree if they knew what was going through my head right about now. So, with a slow but steady hand I reached up and shook hands with each and every one of them. 

These were the type of people who loathed anybody who was different from them. Who causally tossed around words like “Trannies”, “Faggots”, “Queers”, “Niggers”, “Micks”, “Wetbacks” and  “Chinks”among other things. If they knew my secret or that I'd been questioning myself. I would have found myself dangling form the business end of a noose before I could shake three sticks at a cows tail. They would have gone after me like a bear goes after honey. 

“It's a pleasure gentleman.” I said smiling as I reached and shook each of the mens hand. Each and every one of them seemed to have desired to break every finger and every bone in my hand.  After that bit of ritual was over. The group started to surround and circle me. All seemed to be sizing me up. 

“So, your going in the eighth grade next year? Think you can cut it? Benton Academy different from the city school. There is a certain code of conduct your expected to follow if you get my drift.” One of the men said to me as he gave me a sideways glance.

“Yes sir.” I said swallowing hard. 

“Your not some kind of little faggot are you?” Another man aid as he walked behind me, he peered at my ponytail. “I have a good, sharp pocket knife in my pocket. I can cut that god damn pony tail off for you right here and now. Unless your some of them sissy-boy.” Another man said as gave me another side eye look. 

“Shit I'll put a hundred dollars on the fact that the boy is wearing a pair of pink, lacy panties under that suit. Shit boy you look like the kind of son-of-a-bitch that will go through his sister's underwear drawer and take her pretty pink panties and prance around with them on his head.” Another man said before falling into a terrible fit of laughter. His laughter kept up for several long minutes before he started to choke and hack.

“I'm going to tell you gentleman wha wrong with this generation. One, the goddamn dope heads of the fifties and sixties started having children. And two we made a mistake when we let them niggers let them trouble makers from up north start to filled their head with all kind of ideas.”
“I tell you, we'll never let this slide when I was coming up. If my daddy saw me with that long hair, he would have taken me out to the wood pile and whipped my ass till it bled.” Another man said.

A chorus of “Amens” followed.

“He would then make me put on one of my momma dresses, he would then drive me into town, and march me into the barber shop. And for good measure he would have whooped my ass again right there in the barber shop so my ass would be raw as hell. Hell he might even have momma put me in a pair of panties just for some good measure.  Anyway he'll put me in that old leather chair and tell me to sit still and next thing I'd know ol' mac would have clipped my hair down the bare skin.”

“Those were the good ol' days when you could spank your child without having some bleeding heart,  calling the state on you. Hell now if you even touch your child the state swoops down and takes your child away.”

“I tell you, we made a bad mistake letting them niggers get all big headed. These folks from up north came down and started causing trouble for us. They put it in their wool head that they could vote and even hold office. Nobody down here asked them to come down and rock the boat. They did it because the bastards up north told them town. Sherman's troops all over again.”

“It's been twenty years and we've already were seen the fruits of that degeneration in our lives.” Another man chimed in. “I tell you, what we need now more than ever is a return to the good-old ways, the days when a man was a man, and dressed like a man, and did a man's job. And when a woman was a woman and dressed like a woman and did a woman's job. And everybody knew his place. I mean everybody, white man and nigger alike.”

“Hell back then nobody was rich! We all picked the same patch of cotton and hoed the same patch of ground hoping to grow a small bushel of peas or a bushel of corn. All the food on the table came from the yard. Everybody had a few chickens for eggs, everybody raised a hog or two, some even had a old steer.” Another man chimed in.

“That right!And going into town was a treat. Nobody needed to venture far, and you know, none of his thought we were poor. We never depended on food stamps, or government handouts. We hunted, fished, and lived off the land like the first Americans did and nobody ever hungry!”

“Amen!” Another said, “And back when I was growing up, the Klan ruled Benton and kept law and order.”

“Those were the gold old days, the niggers had their own school, we had our own school, nobody mixed. The niggers in Benton listened to the white folks just like God had intended for them too. And Sundays were a day of rest! Everybody went to church and then went straight home and rested.

I was almost out of the conversation.

“And I remember when minimum wage was a dollar twenty five a hour. I remember my first job was bagging groceries for old man Keneth Helton down at Sunflower. Back when it was on Grand Avenue, that before they moved.  The old man started paying a dollar thirty. Back in those days it was not uncommon for the old man to work you from dawn till dusk.”

“I remember working for old man Keneth Helton, he was a good man. I remember the uniform, khaki pants, white button down shirt, green bow tie, and a green apron. Back in those days, you earned your money, old man had you carry them groceries out to peoples car and load them up. And most would tip you too!”Another old man chimed in.

“Might have been just fifteen or twenty cents. Sometimes even a quarter if you got a quarter you were in high cotton.” Another man chimed in.

“Heck sometimes one of the wives of the wealthy farmers, or some of them chemical men would give you a dollar.”

“That was a lot of money in those days. I remember working for  old Keneth Helton, I used to bring home around forty something dollars. When I turned eighteen I enlisted in the National Guard. At that time I was working twenty hours a week down at Sunflower and getting around twenty five dollars a week from the guard. Then it went up to thirty dollars a week after I was promoted to PrivateFirst Class. Then it went up to forty dollars a week once I became Corporal.” Another man chimed in.

All the other men just nodded their heads.

“They promoted me to sergeant just before they shipped us off to Korea. The Dixie Division they called us... Korea was Hell.. I saw things that even my daddy did not see in France.”

At this point I thought it was best to leave the conversation and go find my uncle. 

End of Part Two.