Many people believe that growing up in the South is a unique experience. The stories of Southern hospitality and good ol' down home cooking prevail upon the mind like the sweet smell of incense.. The images of grand houses and gentlemen callers fancifully flirting with Southern Belles is woven into the fabric of our minds. But this is not what my story is about. For you see, those rosy colored trips down memory lane were never a part of the life I lived. I never experienced that warm hospitality people talk about, or partook of those sumptuous Southern banquets. I never lived in the great mansions of the South or had a gentlemen caller waiting upon my hand. The South I "experienced" was far different than the one you saw on that postcard the other day. It was a life born of poverty, fraught with fear, and blessed with family. In fact, it is an entirely different reality than the one you know and love. And what you take for granted as being your reality I had to learn about from a pot belly stove, a city called Birmingham and a person I call myself.

My story begins on a cold Southern night. We lived in a small wooden house in the Colored section of the city. The year was 1934 and Jim Crow laws were in full effect. Segregation was more than a law back then, it was an entire way of thinking, and it came to be symbolized best by the city of Birmingham, Alabama.

It was late. My mother had been in intense labor for the last couple of hours and my two aunts were busily preparing her for my arrival into the world. Outside my father was cautiously gathering coal from the coal box making sure to glance over his shoulder every now and then just in case this was one of the nights the Klan would be riding through. Back inside the house my three siblings took turns poking their shiny black heads into the room to try and see what all the fuss was about. But then one of my aunts would notice them and chide them away. Just then, my mother let out a series of painful screams and my aunts knew that the time had arrived. Fifteen minutes later I made my entrance into this world.

Outside our small house the wind continued to howl. Suddenly, we could hear footsteps and loud banging at the door. Instantly my siblings came in and huddled near to my aunts, who themselves proceeded to the center of the room with my mother and I. This city couldn't be trusted. There were still plenty of angry whites out there who were willing to take the law into their own hands, and any little offense, such as colored people being up late, was enough to set them off. There was a second loud knock at the door and at once my aunts dashed around our small house to put out the candles, immersing us in the darkness of the night. The only light that shown in the room came from our little pot belly stove in the corner, a small, pathetic reminder of how little we had and how desperate we were.

As the darkness enveloped us that night, the bit of light and heat coming from that old pot belly stove in the corner seemed to radiate out against the dark night. It seemed strange that such a small and awkward item could produce anything useful but there it was. In the midst of the fear that had seized our household that night it was the one thing that defiantly stood against the fear of a Birmingham night. And in the middle of all this there was me, all of 1 hour old and already getting my first lesson in our harsh reality. In that moment there existed a connection between the Birmingham night, that old pot belly stove and myself that I could never have imagined or foreseen. It was not a connection born of destiny, but, instead dictated by reality, and not just any reality but a Black reality. Though we all shared a common hue, what we were was as different as the colors of the African rainbow. On one end stood the Birmingham night with all of its fear and prejudice, perhaps the darkest and most terrifying part of Black reality. On the other end stood a lowly pot belly stove as strong and defiant against the night as ever a true fighter could be, and in my reality it symbolized the hope and promise that just one individual can make. And then there was me, an infant girl clinging to her mother's breast but already being forced to bridge the chasm and find my own piece of the spectrum in this Black reality. There was a choice to be made and my reality demanded that I answer the call and make a decision.. Would I choose to live in fear of these dark Birmingham nights or stand defiantly like that old pot belly stove in the corner. This was my new reality and though only an infant I made my choice early on. In one loud wail I let out a cry that could be heard throughout the house. My mother tried her best to silence and comfort me but I would have none of it and continued to cry even louder. I had determined in my small mind that I would rail against the night and just like that cheap old pot belly stove in the corner I would stand my ground too.

Just then the door swung open and out of the darkness of the fearful Birmingham night came my father with a shovel full of coal. At once our fears were relieved and my aunts went and relit the few meager candles we had around the house. As light slowly returned to our once dark house my father placed the shovel full of coal into the pot belly stove. Within a few minutes that old stove took on a whole new demeanor. It boldly blazed both light and heat for all to see and feel.

With a little help from my aunts my mother carried me over to the corner of the room and sat in a chair opposite that pot belly stove. There she warmed both herself and I with the heat that streamed out from the old stove. This was the first time that I had experienced the true warmth of that old pot belly stove. It was like being back inside my mothers womb again. Outside the cold Birmingham wind continued to howl just to remind us all of the reality we lived in, but inside that little wooden shack of a house a small miracle had just taken place. A choice had been made, a battle had been fought and a victory was now being celebrated.

As the rest of the family gathered in the room to warm themselves and get a good look at the baby girl who cried out against the night, I felt a whole new kind of warmth come over me. It was just like that blazing pot belly stove except it was the kind of warmth that only comes when your with family. It didn't take long before I fell asleep in my mother's arms with that feeling or warmth still surrounding me.

I suppose now I should take time to analyze how I was feeling in light of all that had happened on that dreadful night. But for me it was enough to remember that a pot belly stove, a city called Birmingham and little baby named LoGrant were all a part of the same Black reality and would continue to be a part each other's lives henceforth and forevermore.