| Many years ago in my little
ghetto enclave that I grew up in, I was always adverse to the many sights
and sounds that could exist only wherever there was an abundance of blak
folk gathered together.
As most blak folk know, there are many peculiarities to be seen and heard in the ghetto that form and sculpt our lives to a great extent. One such moment, that I can remember, centers upon a man who lived in our neighborhood. He was a short, squat, dark-skinned, blak man who was always smiling and laughing with his many friends that he would encounter in the street. Now, what was different about him was that he always carried a bucket with homemade, rough-hewn, poles sticking from out of the top and various rags that he stuffed down into the bottom of his pail. In his back pocket was a squeegee. He would get up early in the morning and go from storefront to storefront washing windows--inside and out--as he traveled down the avenue. This is how he made his living. He would start on one ghetto street and work a whole day, then he would start on another ghetto street, and another, until he repeated the cycle. The storeowners came to depend upon him. For his activities he was called "Windows" by everyone in the neighborhood. Now, to my young mind, this was a tough way to make a living. So, one day I walked up to him on the street and decided to ask him about his strange occupation. He was out in front of a grocery store getting ready to start his work, chatting with some of his buddies. I waited until his friends left and eased up to him..... "Windows," I said, waiting for his response. He turned, looked me over, and smiled. "Hey, young blood. How's it going?" he asked. "Windows," I said, nervously,
"do you REALLY enjoy doing what you do. I mean, if you worked a regular
job don't you think that you would be
Windows looked at me and grinned. "Youngblood, you too young to understand--but you will one day." Always eager to learn, I challenged him: "Make me understand." He balled up his rags and put down his squeegee he had been holding in his hands. He went into the store and, after a minute, came back out again. "Take a seat," he motioned and the both of us sat down on some milk crates that the old men normally sat on to swap stories with. "Young blood, as long as you live--and I do hope that you live a long and prosperous life--it is always good to be your own MASTER. When you are in a position to guide your own destiny--don't NEVER give that up. 'Cause when you do, whatever controls you becomes the master... "You think that I am struggling because I CHOOSE to make my living this way--but that's not the case. I make a good living--more than enough to pay my bills--what more can I ask? "Now, if I worked a 9 to 5 I would be at the mercy of the clock and my so-called superiors within the company. Every step I made would be scrutinized and I would forever be afraid of getting on the wrong side of the boss. I would maybe have to compromise myself or my beliefs in order to keep my job. And that is something I DON'T want to do.... "My set-up, now, is that I'M the boss. I am the corporation. If I feel like going to work--I go. And if I don't....well. "I refuse to work like a slave for the benefit of others. If I must work--let it be for MY benefit. Blak folks worked for years for the 'other man' and got nothing to show for it. I decided long ago to work for MYSELF! "I may not get rich--but ain't nobody pulling my strings but me. I don't have to scratch my head and scrape and bow for no one. I offer an honest service for an honest dollar. "I may not be doing much to most folks but I'm self-reliant and self-sufficient. I am my own man--and not somebody's BOY. And I feel good about myself...that's all that matters...." As his voice trailed off I thought about all that he had said and tossed it over in my mind for a second. "Well, youngblood, let get back to my empire," he said smiling. I was too young, back then, to
understand all that he espoused..but I do, NOW.
The Watcher |