Part 2
The Sufferance

*Hobo symbols- the Hobo Code*

“Why, oh why can’t I?”

“Why, oh why can’t I?”

Chapter 4

It had been about eight weeks since I had gotten a decent night’s sleep.  Every day I was going to bed at 11 p.m. or so ‘cause Mama put me to work ‘till then, and she would wake me up every morning near 6 a.m. But I had to applaud Mama for putting in her heart and soul around the house. I just didn’t understand why I had to put so much heart and soul in. She had me cleaning our dirties, cutting every slice of bread we owned in half- she said it made it last longer- and walking down to the market to sell eggs.
“Hun,” Mama was at it again with an early-morning start, adopting a more serious tone than typical, “I needya’ to do some things for me again.”
“Ugghh, what is this, every day now, Mama? I’ve got work to do myself. I can’t waste any time doing motherly tasks that you’re meant to do alone. Mama, this just ain’t fair!”
Mama’s face went white. She was used to me talking back to her, but I think she thought things’d be different now that there was so much stuff that needed doing. “Hey now, I’ve got a bucket-load of housework I have to do so I need you downstairs and ready in ten minutes! Times are changing, hun, and you’ve gotta except that. I’ve got plenty of things to worry about, I can’t take your complaining!! Listen, I don’t got your father around to help me, and if this stuff don’t get done I won’t be able to keep food on this table! I want you down in ten minutes and no later. I don’t want to hear anything else out of you!”
I’d never heard Mama get so angry. Especially about money. I knew things were tight for us, but I hated that they were tight enough to tighten Mama’s face into a knot all scrunchy, enough to make her say terrible things like that we were gonna be poor, enough to make her yell.
I also hated the rich people like that boy that I saw riding on his bike the day Papa left. But I couldn’t help wondering who he was.
I hated mostly that she was ruining my artwork- she may as well scribble a mess all over it because she would never let me finish anything I started. It was always now “do this” and “do that.” I could never stop my passion for adding color to my life. I knew since I was 6 years old that, if I were to become anything other than a wife in this world, I’d be an artist. I’d never had anything getting in the way of my dearest love.
Until then.

Chapter 5
Sitting with Mom and Dad by the radio that evening, Dad said he couldn’t understand why it was that all these problems could be so prominent in such a civilized society. I didn’t comprehend half of what the man speaking said, but what I got from is it that we’ve gotta look out for poverty, because it’s sweeping the country.
Mom interrupted after the program. “Darling, the Clarks are coming over tomorrow evening for some steak and potatoes and chit-chat. Do you want me to fetch some wine from the store too?”
“Yeah, get some white. Get some Coke for Sam and Jeremy. The Clarks are bring their son, Jeremy, right?”
“Absolutely,” Mom dutifully responded. “Except, Mildred said he’s been a little troublesome lately. She thinks he might be getting ready to reach his teen conundrums.”
Mildred was Mr. Clarks’ wife. She was the town gossiper, and Mom’s best friend. I’m sure I should have disapproved of this, but it was really none of my business, Dad would say.
“I wonder what the Clarks have to say about all these soup kitchens being established around here.” Dad furrowed his brow when saying this, and I could tell immediately he disapproved.
“Oh, I’m sure they don’t approve,” was all Mom returned. She didn’t even look at Dad when she spoke. It was clear that Mom didn’t want to discuss it so much- she was too furious about the matter to speak. I knew she was afraid.
In addition to the fact of poverty, I had also caught that the newsman reported a few soup kitchens were going up around town. Prior to this, there had only been one soup kitchen in Baltimore, and Mom liked it that way. She had thought it was good ‘cause it meant fewer hobos were scattered about- they would all be concentrated around the one soup kitchen like spiders around a web or moths to a flame and we could avoid them more easily.
“Samuel, I want you to be extra careful of the streets now that these infested nests are going in. Hear me?” Mom stared at me straight and her eyes penetrated me until I assured her I would.

The next morning, I raced down the stairs to fetch a glass of milk and slice of toast before heading out for a bike ride around Baltimore. Mom reminded me again.
Except today, Dad chimed in. “You mind what you’re mother told you, Sam. If I hear one thing to the contrary, we’ll know, and you’ll get the beating of your life.”

Chapter 6
November 21, 1931

It’d been a few weeks since Papa had written Mama and me, but he had said he’d write every week. Mama always said he was just busy, and I always wondered how she could be so sure. My fear that maybe Papa was off being a father to some other wife’s daughter had gotten so bad that I would break out in cold sweats during the night, start bawling at 2 a.m., wake up crying or with a cheek all crusty or tear-stained.
I never told Mama.
I never told her about that young boy who rode by our house the day Papa left, either. I admitted to myself how much I hated him and what he stood for, but I never admitted how intrigued I was by it all. I found myself curious with the concept of the wealth and ease that his life probably welcomed, and it was always a question in my mind exactly who he was.

The Presidential Library and Museum

Franklin D. Roosevelt was born in Hyde Park, New York on January 30, 1882. He was the son of James Roosevelt and Sara Delano Roosevelt. His parents and private tutors provided him with almost all his formative education. He attended Groton (1896-1900), a prestigious preparatory school in Massachusetts, and received a BA degree in history from Harvard in only three years (1900-03). Roosevelt next studied law at New York's Columbia University. When he passed the bar examination in 1907, he left school without taking a degree. For the next three years he practiced law with a prominent New York City law firm. He entered politics in 1910 and was elected to the New York State Senate as a Democrat from his traditionally Republican home district.
In the meantime, in 1905, he had married a distant cousin, Anna Eleanor Roosevelt, who was the niece of President Theodore Roosevelt. The couple had six children, five of whom survived infancy: Anna (1906), James (1907), Elliott (1910), Franklin, Jr. (1914) and John (1916).
Roosevelt was reelected to the State Senate in 1912, and supported Woodrow Wilson's candidacy at the Democratic National Convention. As a reward for his support, Wilson appointed him Assistant Secretary of the Navy in 1913, a position he held until 1920. He was an energetic and efficient administrator, specializing in the business side of naval administration. This experience prepared him for his future role as Commander-in-Chief during World War II. Roosevelt's popularity and success in naval affairs resulted in his being nominated for vice-president by the Democratic Party in 1920 on a ticket headed by James M. Cox of Ohio. However, popular sentiment against Wilson's plan for US participation in the League of Nations propelled Republican Warren Harding into the presidency, and Roosevelt returned to private life.
While vacationing at Campobello Island, New Brunswick in the summer of 1921, Roosevelt contracted poliomyelitis (infantile paralysis). Despite courageous efforts to overcome his crippling illness, he never regained the use of his legs. In time, he established a foundation at Warm Springs, Georgia to help other polio victims, and inspired, as well as directed, the March of Dimes program that eventually funded an effective vaccine.
With the encouragement and help of his wife, Eleanor, and political confidant, Louis Howe, Roosevelt resumed his political career. In 1924 he nominated Governor Alfred E. Smith of New York for president at the Democratic National Convention, but Smith lost the nomination to John W. Davis. In 1928 Smith became the Democratic candidate for president and arranged for Roosevelt's nomination to succeed him as governor of New York. Smith lost the election to Herbert Hoover; but Roosevelt was elected governor.
Following his reelection as governor in 1930, Roosevelt began to campaign for the presidency. While the economic depression damaged Hoover and the Republicans, Roosevelt's bold efforts to combat it in New York enhanced his reputation. In Chicago in 1932, Roosevelt won the nomination as the Democratic Party candidate for president. He broke with tradition and flew to Chicago to accept the nomination in person. He then campaigned energetically calling for government intervention in the economy to provide relief, recovery, and reform. His activist approach and personal charm helped to defeat Hoover in November 1932 by seven million votes.

“Beyond the rainbow”

“And the dreams that you dare to dream”

*Food Riots of 1931*

Chapter 7
January 1, 1932

Mom’s face wore a furrowed brow that morning as I pulled out of our nurturing driveway. I always knew when something was the matter when Mom’s forehead was creased and she did nothing but mill around the kitchen and whisper things to Dad. Dad’s eyes had looked worn out and tired, like he hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night. He had come in late and untwisted his tie with tiredness, like he hadn’t done for so long, like he hadn’t done since the government announced the Depression.
Mom and Dad had been talking about how horrible things had gotten around Baltimore. “....25% unemployed, now…. Fired last night…. Foreclosure….” Those were the only words I could make out through their whispers, but I knew that none of them were positive. I knew they had meant that we were in jeopardy of becoming hobos.
Those words they spoke struck me like none of Mom’s prior to that day had. She had rambled to me endlessly about how we needed to be careful, but poverty was never a reality to me until I heard those words spill from her lips that morning.
I escaped that reality, submerged into daylight, and sped off on my red bike. Every day, I had become accustomed to the sights of the same streets. Every day, I passed the same people. I knew everyone’s schedules by heart. This was the reality that I lived in. This was the reality I felt inclined to escape.
About a half hour later, I found myself submerged in trees and country-type houses I had never seen before. Decorated in silky submission, they felt surreal and out of place. I felt out of place. But the beauty and tenderness were magnetic. I’d used to think the city would always be my home, but internalizing the majesty of the suburbs, I wondered if I was wrong. I kept getting lost in all the tranquillity, it seemed I would never find my way out.
But I realized soon enough that I was just lost. I could not identify anything, and had begun to wonder if that wonderland was even outside of Baltimore.
Pulling over to the side of the road, I sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, trying to figure out why in the world I though going out here was a good idea.
Mom always said the backroads were trouble. She’s infallibly right, but I never listen to her. Why didn’t I listen to her? She was right about the hobos being rotten, she was right about us having to watch out for ourselves, she’s never wrong!
Looking up to stare at the tires of the pinnacle of my most adorned hobby, I noticed a little symbol painted onto a mailbox. It looked like a rectangle that was missing its top side. Walking over to examine it out of curiosity, my eyes fell upon another. Written small in white on the side of the road lain a circle with an arrow stretching from one region straight out the other.
There was a string of them all pointing in the same direction, meticulously distributed along the road and sidewalk. I followed them, finally reaching what seemed to be a kind of alcove, the entrance hidden by some trees and their branches. Parting this “door,” I entered, and found myself standing on a layer of dirted ground, encircled by pine trees, atop which were worn-out tents, grubby clothing hanging on clothes racks, and masses of people from young to old who looked as if they hadn’t had a bath in months.
I stood in awe for a moment before realizing that these were real-live hoboes and this place was something Mom warned me of, called “Hoovervilles.” Seeing them on the street made them look singular. Seeing them in a mass, all cultivated and concentrated in one habitat made them look human, like a community. I felt at home all of a sudden. This safe haven held morsels of my own neighborhood, though so different it was actually- people lived together and worked together.
I watched as a woman took laundry down from a stray line, also wrestling with keeping her children (who couldn’t have been more than toddlers) under control as they scampered around haphazardly. She was struggling.
After a moment of deliberation, contemplating how my mother said never to get involved with “those kinds of people,” never to even lie your gaze upon them, wrestling with whether they’d really keep begging me for more, throw dirt on me and burry me in their debt, I stepped forward. Because I also remembered what Mom had said that morning about poverty, what she had said long ago about me needing to “strap on some overalls,” what she said about being careful. Today I was going to be careful. Today I was going to do something.
“Do you need some help, ma’am?” My voice echoed.
Chapter 8
November 9, 1932

Mama had woken me up early again that morning. She was racing around, prancing, like the horses I used to ride as a young girl.
“Roosevelt won the election!” She screamed. “He won! I wish your papa was here to share this occasion with.” Mama looked down, forlorn for a moment, but quickly her head rose from the dust of her mind, and she was bouncing around once again.
Mama had always been rooting for FDR throughout his campaign. She said he’d be a mighty fine president. Said he’d give us the change we needed to fight. I didn’t really know exactly what she meant by fight. It seemed like “fighting” had little to do with getting us rich again.
I found it hard at that point to care about anything. It was like hope had once been my friend, sat on my shoulder, whispered in my ear every day that Mama woke me before dawn, every day Papa’s letters hadn’t come. Then, hope had drained from my face and spat ice at me. Then, I was cold. At that time, Papa’s kind words hadn’t graced me for months. I was sure I was losing him to the Depression.
“Mama,” I spoke softly for the first time in so long that it felt unnatural, “when’s Papa going to come home?”
She was almost out the door, but she turned around and responded, eyes dropping to floor, sunken into despair, I was sorry to have made them so tainted with my inquiries. “I don’t know, soon I bet.” But I wasn’t so sure, and neither was she.
After informing me that breakfast would be on the table in 20 minutes, she left, and didn’t say anything else to me for the remainder of the morning. We just went about our business, working alongside each other like two strangers in the same army. It was only until that afternoon when we spoke again. She told me we were finished for the day, news because of which I slumped upstairs to my room. I glanced upon an old painting of mine, from years past. It was dusty, but still held the figure of my father and me. I rarely painted anymore. We couldn’t afford the paints and Mama scheduled me far too busy. Seeing this work from history, I ached for my watercolors and, mostly, for my father.
I was tired of missing him, of missing my painting. I was tired of watching Mama sink into the color gray. I was tired of being poor, of fearing the worst, of having to accept the worst. I picked up a brush and coated it in a thick layer of red. The colors spilled onto Papa’s tie- it was the first time I realized how little color was left in our life. Reds were black, blues were white, smiles were invisible.
I knew I had to do something to produce color. I had to give the rainbow back to the people, maybe Papa would see it and come home. I had to take care of everybody else in my town- the sick, the hungry, even the hoboes- because I knew then that there was something too far missing to be patched up with the success of our small house.
It was only the next morning that I had completed the painting of me and my father, in the most elaborate hues. That morning, when Mama sent me out on the daily chores, I brought the golden painting to the pawn shop downtown.
I came back with $13.00 and hope at my shoulder.

Part 3
   The Change

Let's Fall in Love

“I have a feeling, it's a feeling
I'm concealing, I don't know why
It's just a mental, insidental sentimental aliby

But I adore you
So strong for you
Why go on stalling
I am falling
Our love is calling
Why be shy?

Let's fall in love
Why shouldn't we fall in love?
Our hearts are made of it
Let's take a chance
Why be afraid of it

Let's close our eyes and make our own paradise
Little we know of it, still we can try
To make a go of it

We might have an end for each other
To be or not be
Let our hearts discover

Let's fall in love
Why shouldn't we fall in love
Now is the time for it, while we are young
Let's fall in love

We might have and end for each other
To be or not be
Let our hearts discover

Let's fall in love
Why shouldn't we fall in love?
Now is the time for it, while we are young
Now is the time for it while we are young
Let's fall in love
Let’s fall in love”

“‘Something here inside cannot be denied’”

SMOKE GETS IN YOUR EYES
From the musical "Roberta" (1933)
(Otto Harbach / Jerome Kern)

Paul Whiteman & His Orch. - 1934

They asked me how I knew my true love was true
I of course replied "something here inside cannot be denied"
They said "someday you'll find all who love are blind"
When your heart's on fire, you must realize smoke gets in your eyes
So I chaffed them and I gaily laughed to think they could doubt my love
Yet today my love has flown away, I am without my love

Now laughing friends deride tears I cannot hide
So I smile and say "when a lovely flame dies, smoke gets in your eyes"

(smoke gets in your eyes, smoke gets in your eyes)

Smoke-gets-in-your-EYES

“provide emergency relief with respect to home mortgage indebtedness, to refinance home mortgages, to extend relief to the owners occupied by them and who are unable to amortize their debt elsewhere…”

“‘Something here inside cannot be denied’”

HOME OWNERS’ LOAN ACT (1933)

Chapter 9
January 1, 1933

The smell of hot soup inflated my lungs, they were burning from hunger and sweat. And hope.
DRIP….DRIP...DRIP.
It leveled in the wooden bowl like it belonged. I felt like I belonged in that moment. Not because I was supposed to be fed here, but because feeding those who were meant things were going to get better. And that’s what was meant to happen. Papa was meant to come home, so I was meant to be serving the poor slices of bread and hot bowls of chicken soup.
That was the fourth day I’d been working at one of the new soup kitchens downtown, and Mama immediately approved when I told her I planned to spend my free time over there. In fact, she practically collapsed on the floor when I reported how much I enjoyed being at the soup kitchen- I had never worked in my life without complaining and groaning. Mama said the quiet was nice for a change. She had stopped caring about the hoboes a long while ago- said no one could afford to bother with how much others could afford ‘cause we were all dirt poor at this point.
I would stay up late at night and work on new paintings- one a day- and in the morning, I would busy myself with marching triumphantly down Mosher Street to the pawn shop where the clerk would hand me close to $15.00 in exchange for the masterpieces. Although I was coming home empty-handed, it had felt as though I were dropping a penny into a deep cookie jar and waiting for it to fill, and every penny made a difference. It felt like I was doing something.
This particular morning, I had been serving for almost an hour, bread, milk, soup to the hoboes (I’d gotten used to being around the hoboes, so much so actually that whenever I would go home I felt as though I were walking into The Ritz or something rather). Marching towards the counter to fetch another bread basket, determined to do my job the best, I grabbed for one and felt a tug on the other end. Letting the basket take me away to its other hand, his hand appeared attached to this. It was light and not nearly weathered enough to belong to a farmer or a worker. It was young and delicate like a flower. And attached to this hand, was an arm, and a face, blond hair, legs covered in khaki pants. Looking into his eyes I knew it was the same boy which had ridden by my house those couple years ago the day Papa drove his life in the opposite direction of Mama and me. This time, though, this boy’s shirt was red, almost crimson, like his bike. His eyes were aged and birthed new wisdom it seemed that even he didn’t quite see yet.
It was strange how he felt like my equal at that moment. We were borth reaching for the same bread, we were both working at the kitchen, we were both young and simple but a little less naive, I’m sure.
We were both feeding the homeless and jobless soup, then going home to eat our own soup, to cut our own bread, in different places, with different knives, with different eyes. But I realized bread is bread and we all ate from the same loaf at that time.
“Hi, do you want to split it?” He said.

Chapter 10
January 1, 1933

The day that our new President Roosevelt told us we were embarking on a journey to the freedom from “pocket to mouth,” Papa came home. Mama said this was the New Deal that we had with the government. I was old enough that I followed some of the news, but Mama filled in all the blanks for me which left me feeling still so young and ignorant. She said, though, I’d already grown a lot for only a couple of years.
“Ah! Oh!” Mama’s eyes filled with tears, she disappeared in a cloud of my father when he finally walked through the wooden doors that had for so long been gray to us all.
I let them embrace each other for a few minutes until I couldn’t keep myself from leaping in between them to steal a kiss from Papa. “Hey, sweets,” he whispered in my ear as he knelt down to gaze up at me. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Papa.” I just looked at him for a moment, held his face in my mind, held his eyes in mine. I didn’t let them go. Because inside his eyes, it felt like home to me. I’d missed home.
Home sweet home. It was rich again.
They could keep us poor, but they couldn’t keep us alone.

“Somewhere over the rainbow”

“I know 3 trades, I speak 3 languages, fought for 3 years have 3 children, and no work for 3 months.
But I only want ONE JOB.”

“Somewhere over the rainbow.
“Way up high.
“There’s a land that I’ve heard of.
“Once in a lullaby.

“birds fly over the rainbow why then oh why can't I?”