Theophilus Hicks sat on the rickety porch of his ramshackle eight hundred square foot cabin in Sharpsburg, a small hamlet a few miles south of Rocky Mount, North Carolina.  Everyone calls him Theo, and he likes it just fine.  “Theo means ‘God’ in Greek.  Did you know that?” he’ll tell you, an electric smile crossing his face to let you know he doesn’t take himself seriously.

Theo’s seen a lot of traffic go by on State Route 1006 in his lifetime.  If you ask him his age, all he’ll admit to was being born “when Franklin Delano Roosevelt was the big boss man.”  Close-cropped, wiry gray hair offsets his dark mahogany face, creased and leathery like the pocket of a worn baseball mitt.  His brown eyes are clear; his body is lean, his arms like steel cables, betraying a lifetime of hard physical labor under the broiling, brutal sun.  His fingers are gnarled and arthritic, but shake hands with him and you’ll become convinced he could break some bones if he had a mind to. 

He took a sip from a glass of homemade lemonade perched on a sturdy three-legged side table next to his rocker, leaned his head back on the cushion embroidered with the words, “God Bless Our Home”, and cleared his throat.

“You know, I tries not to pay no mind to them fellas talkin’ ‘bout politics,” he began, “but sometimes, it’s hard .  Ever once in a while I hear that radio guy in the afternoon, and he be talking ‘bout how folks aren’t entitled to health care.”  He shakes his head slowly, almost sadly.

“That’s the problem with guys like him.  I’m sure he can make all kinds of fancy arguments that proves he’s right, but it don’t matter none.  He done lost touch with the way folks have to live these days.”  He raised his arm in a broad, sweeping gesture.  “Look around you here.  All this area used to be good bright leaf tobacco land.  Worked the fields myself forty years.  Now, the government folk say that smokin’s no good for you.  I remember when near everbody smoked.  These days you cain’t even smoke in places when you wants to.   I’m not sayin’ that tobacco is good or bad, but look what’s happened to the folks ‘roun here.

“And I’m sure it’s the same all ‘cross the country.   I don’t travel much myself, but I hear tell from folks that’s got family all over.  Miz Maybelle next door, her son just had to move from Dee-troit ‘cause he lost his job over to the Chrysler plant.  Down the road, Fred Taylor’s daughter Yvonne had to file bankruptcy in Los Angeles when she lost her job.  And doan even ask ‘bout the Hendersons over yonder.  They moved up here from N’Awlins after the flood.  They done lost ever’thing.

“And that’s what these fellows doan understand.  These rich guys drops more money out of they’s pockets than we’re likely ever gonna see in our lives.  So why do they fight so hard when the working man’s just tryin’ to get a slice of the pie?  We doan want no fancy car or some big house up on a hill.  We just need help getting’ what we need.  Some food on the table and to be able to go to the doctor when we get sick.  That ain’t too much to ask for, is it?”

He took another sip of lemonade and stared off into the distance for a moment, then looked at me pointedly.

“You a smart fellow, ain’t you?  Answer me this, please.  How come when folks ask for help with the simple necessities of life and ask rich folks to pay a little more, not even enough so’s they’d notice it was gone, they say we’re using ‘class warfare’?

“If that’s class warfare, what do you call what the rich people been doin’ to poor folks all these years?”

© 2009, Kenneth M. Rhodes