The Judgments

The story of a man who is judged.

There lived an entitled man on the first street in Boston, in 1921, given the name of Brody Goodman. He made his way in the world via the business of oil, and his story will speak to the hearts of all men and women.

My heart remains shattered, for my accomplishments seem to be trivial, all due to the impression that my complexion has created a life of ease. I am weary of your judgments. Please, listen to my story.

I woke up that morning with groggy eyes and spit dried on my mouth. My stomach remained empty, as usual, and dust clouded and burned my lungs with the intensity of a wildfire produced by the utmost potent blue flames. I picked at the rash created by the bed of hay on which I slept. I cursed, spat, and tied my overalls. In the second that the latter had been done, a figure slammed the wooden barn door open with a force so compelling, that even the lifeless hay bales seemed to quiver in fear. My father stepped towards myself, clutched my throat with his fist, and slapped. I felt the burn of my left cheek and savored the flavors of blood and spit. I stood there choking, likely on a tooth that I had swallowed in this period of father’s utter wickedness. One could guess that the sight of his own son choking had quenched, insufficiently, the thirsts of his hatred. He reached for the cattle whip on the bales, and struck twice while I attempted, in futility, to run.

“Come ‘ere boy” He yelled, while in pursuit of his biggest threat.

Previously, I quarreled with him and momma on the topic of education. I sought to study the behaviors of the modern world, particularly in economics and business. The lifestyle of poverty created, in me, feelings of disgust. This lifestyle had plagued my father, so I planned to avoid it. The quarreling began two weeks ago, as I had returned from the wheat harvest late.

Now, to clarify the motives of our quarreling, I will admit that I skipped a few hours of harvest that morning. I left to the city with my older brother and his two friends on the neighboring farms two miles south. One of his friends took the name of Boe. I never knew Boe at the time, only that he had golden hair and a smile as crooked as the sight of a crow devouring its meal.

Despite the crookedness of Boe’s smile, he remained intelligent; I would say he had a quota of intellect that stood far above the average. His perception of time seemed to be phenomenal. He could predict times of arrival with pinpoint accuracy. He could hog-tie, herd cattle, and harvest with a skill that exceeded my own. He could speak in the languages of those in the east, though I did not understand them. He could also read, and write, and carry out arithmetic in such a tranquil manner, that I extolled him in every instance he performed those feats.

Boe inspired in me a fire so potent, that it would eventually aid me in my survival of the harsh realities of my feeble chances of intellectual well-being.

Thus, I embraced this fire and lived my life in such a way that I seized every intellectual opportunity presented to me by destiny, or by fate, or by luck, or by coincidences of all kinds, in all instances, brought by any man, or woman, who lived on the Earth in my time.

Such odds, when faced with by any human being, would discourage, depress, dishearten, deject, daunt, and dampen their spirits.

Realize that my complexion has not contributed to my success; for I would be damned to a life of poverty and ignorance had I not embraced that fire.

Regardless of your judgments, I began my life poor.

Regardless of your judgments, I rebuked the lifestyle of those in poverty.

Regardless of your judgments, I toiled for thousands of hours in hopes to improve myself.

Reader, I am confident that this fire, when found in your being, will destroy your poverty.