The things I write here are true…almost unbelievable when you think it all happened in the United States of America in the early ‘50’s and 60’s…but let’s not forget, the setting is the plains of Alabama. The living was not easy. Living was hard for black people and so were the living conditions.

There are YouTube videos that recount the post World War II era when homes were being built for returning veterans. They were modest homes by today’s standards…but sturdy brick homes with picture windows adorning the front. These homes were in planned communities or suburbs popping up in cities across America. The setting was that of manicured lawns, sidewalks, paved streets, driveways for the family car…the American dream. These dreams were fueled by government legislation…the Federal Housing Administration and Servicemen’s Readjustment Act. However, these legislations did not extend to returning Black veterans. I’m sure they knew because when discharged, they heard the same departing speech of funds being made available. The anticipation of rising above past and current living conditions came to a screeching halt…you are not eligible. The dream of owning a home became just that…a dream.

Have you heard of “riding shotgun”…or the idiom that refers to sitting in the front passenger seat of a moving vehicle as the bodyguard. Well…that language also refers to a house…a “Shotgun” house. For six years of my life, “living” (if you want to call it that) was in a “Shotgun” house. What is a “Shotgun” house?

Unlike the sturdy brick homes with picture windows, et al, a “Shotgun” house is a narrow (most commonly 12 feet wide), elongated wooden frame structure of three divided rooms with no hallways perched on cinder blocks. (The “Shotgun” name comes from the idea that a bullet could theoretically pass through the house from front to back without hitting anything). The wood that framed the house on the outside was the same on the inside…only painted.

The house I lived in was rented. At one time, it was white, but the dust from the red dirt road had settled on it. Unpainted cinder blocks led up to the front porch. There was no back porch…just wood planks on cinder blocks up to the opening. The roof was slightly pitched and covered with corrugated, rusting tin. The limited electricity was a single bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling in each room. There was no plumbing or heat, except for an open fireplace in the second room. The windows, all five of them, were the same… literally open holes with rough hewn window frames and pieces of screen netting tacked on the outside. The front room had a window of four panes facing the porch, a second window on the side. The second room had two windows, one on each side of the house. Inside this room was an opening that served as the closet. The third room served as the kitchen. It had one side window. There were no cabinets or sink in the kitchen. On one wall were makeshift wooden planks with stringed curtains that parted in the middle. This served as storage for utensils, pots, pans and dishes. On the back wall near the door, was another makeshift plank that held the dishpans.

Since there was no plumbing, the water supply came from what we called, “the hydrant” a metal pipe and nozzle extending from underground near the front of the house. Buckets were used to bring water for drinking, cooking and bathing into the house. No plumbing meant no toilet….there was an outhouse. Yep…an outhouse. No plumbing also meant no way to “wash clothes” (the phraseology then). This was a “by hand” and washboard activity that took place out near the outhouse…two large metal tubs on a plank stretched atop stacked cinder blocks,..one for washing…one for rinsing. Included in this montage was a large black cauldron for boiling clothes to help remove dirt. The clothes were pinned to multiple lines between two wooden “cross like” boards and propped up with poles to air dry. The house was secured with metal latches on wooden doors front and back. There was a screen door or sorts made of two pieces of screen netting in an out of square, unpainted wood frame hanging awkwardly at the front door.

The house was slightly elevated from the dirt road. A narrow cutout from the road led to the house. The cutout was flanked by green bushes that provided the disciplinary switches when needed. Weeds made for the greenery around the house. The beauty came from the yellow dandelions flowers in the spring and in the summer, two red rose bushes along the side of the house with the most sun. It was not easy living for a family of eight…count them…Stepfather, Mother, two girls and four boys. The rent was five dollars and collected each week.

Whether or not the rent was paid (at least for us) was always a matter of dispute, my Stepfather’s word against the rent collector’s. It was difficult to prove with no receipt of payment. I remember many times the owner of the house and rent collector (another black person) yelling from the road and car…”where is the rent…you didn’t pay the rent”. It happened often and to avoid being evicted (imagine that), I (at age 11) was given the task (every Monday) of getting an early draw from my mother’s weekly salary. That meant walking from school to the employer’s place of business (a service station in town) to get five dollars. From there, I walked to the rent collector’s house to pay the rent. I did this until the time we moved. Standing around waiting to ask my mother’s employer for the money and then waiting to get the money was humiliating to say the least. It had both a negative and positive impact on who I am today.

As I write this, I can’t think of one good memory while living in the house…not one. Maybe it’s because there were eight people crammed in a “Shotgun”…sweltering heat in the summer and freezing cold in the winter. We were not the only ones…other families lived the same way..

At age 14, we moved to a different and more comfortable house. I don’t know how it all came about, except another of my mother’s employers was involved in it. This house had an ample supply of electricity, indoor plumbing, a bathroom and propane gas heat. It even had two closets with doors. It only had one additional room, but the high ceilings made for more cubic space. It seemed large and was a mansion by comparison. It too was on a dirt road and further away from school, church, neighbors and all that was familiar. It was scary at first because it was in a heavily wooded area, no street lights and a penitentiary very close by. We lived there two years before the migration ‘up north’.

I am not writing this blog to earn money. I am writing it as a witness to the beauty of having a relationship with God and His faithfulness to me. I used to be ashamed of my humble beginnings, but I have come to realize, as I age, that every aspect of my life…all of it…can be used for His glory. I lived in a “Shotgun” house then, but not now. Here is what I know, the faithfulness and favor of God has brought a home of comfort I never could have imagined, thought or dreamed possible here in Alabama. (“Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us,..) Ephesians 3:20 ESV. All that I have…everything…belongs to Him. Every single day, I am given the opportunity to steward it well and use it to bring honor and glory to His name.

There is another day coming when the things of this earth will pass away, even the house in which I now live physically and spiritually. As such, I continue to prepare for that day by putting all of my faith and hope in Jesus who said, (“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also,”). John 14:1-3 ESV. Are you prepared to go back with him?

Vivian