Yesterday I tried something real uncomfortable to understand history better. Woke up before sunrise, grabbed my old work gloves and headed out to a field where they let folks try cotton picking.
First Things First
Let me tell ya, that sun beat down like a hammer right quick. We started just after dawn. Had this rough sack strapped over my shoulder dragging behind me. Got shown how to bend low, grab the cotton boll quick with one hand, and kinda twist-pull it off with the other. Thought it looked easy. Man, was I wrong.
The Pure Hell of Doing It
- Bending Over All Day: My back screamed after maybe half an hour. Felt like knives sticking in there permanent. Couldn’t hardly stand straight by lunch.
- Fingers on Fire: Them cotton bolls ain’t soft pillows. They got sharp points hidden inside. Pricked my fingers raw real fast. Saw nicks and scratches bleeding by noon, even with gloves. Imagine doing that barehanded? No way.
- The Pace Killed Me: The overseer fella (guy playing the part, relax) kept yelling to move faster. My sack felt empty, but he acted like I was lazy. Needed pounds and pounds just to look like I did anything. Sweat poured into my eyes, dust choked me. Breathing was hard work itself.
- Nowhere to Hide: That sun didn’t play nice. Got dizzy. Drank water but felt shaky. No shade. Just endless rows. Felt trapped by the field itself.
The Weight of Reality Hit Me
Quitting time finally came, but it weren’t like punching out of a job. Felt totally beaten down. Could barely drag my sack back. They weighed it – pitifully light. The “overseer” made some crack about needing to do better tomorrow or face punishment. Was just play-acting, but it gave me a chill thinking folks lived that terror for real, every single sunrise to sunset. Their whole life measured in pounds of cotton under that scorching sky. Finished the day feeling heavy, not just tired. Gave me a raw, awful understanding of that daily struggle I’d only read about.
