nobody asked…

Our little town in rural West Tennessee was, well, rural. But to the folks who lived out in the country on honest-to-god farms, we were city slickers. They came into town on Saturdays to shop or maybe to sell their produce out of the backend of pickup trucks. In mid-twentieth century, a few were still using mule drawn wagons, loaded with produce and a family of younguns on the way into town, and their purchases and a family of younguns on the way home later that day. The load of younguns going out was usually the same ones that came in. But not always.

There were many rural schools in those days. Most were simple one or two room schoolhouses, one or two teachers, and a couple of outhouses out back — the simple wooden sheds with crescent moons cut into the doors. Students attended through sixth grade in those schools, with all the ages and grades mixed together. After graduation, most of them continued their higher education starting with seventh grade, by riding a yellow school bus into town, where they were thrown with the city slickers. This forced blending was not always as congruous and harmonious as desired. But for the most part we all learned to get along, forming our own little cliques.

The luck of the draw landed me with most of my close friends in Mrs. Greene’s homeroom for seventh grade. There were a couple of other seventh grade classrooms with teachers we preferred, but at least we were all together. Mrs. Greene, or Granny Greene behind her back, was known to be a harsh disciplinarian with a dour attitude rumored to have resulted from many years of living alone as an old-maid school teacher. She wore thick glasses which did not seem to help one eye that focused thirty degrees askew from the other. You never knew for sure which eye was looking at you and which was aimed at the classroom door or out the window. This resulted in a constant uneasiness among her students.

Our first day in the seventh grade, Mrs. Greene had us stand, one at a time, and tell our name. There were so many new kids we did not know, this seemed like a good ice breaker and way for us to be introduced to each other. After she had all the names straight, she would seat us alphabetically to help prevent the inevitable city-country divisions. I suppose her philosophy was “Mix ‘em up and maybe they’ll learn to get along before they kill each other.” Or something like that. So around the room we went, each student standing and announcing his or her name. When one mumbled or spoke too quietly out of shyness, Mrs. Greene was quick to tell them to speak up so everyone could hear. All was going smoothly until one new lad from out in the sticks stood and shyly uttered his name as Junior Massey. Mrs. Greene chimed in.

“No, son, what is your given name? Speak up so we all can hear you.”
“Junior Massey, ma’am.”
“No, I mean what name is on your birth certificate? Not a nickname.”
“I dunno what’s on my berf cerfikit… but my name is Junior Massey.”
“OK. What is your father’s name, young man?”
“Robert Massey, ma’am.”
“OK, then, your name is Robert Massey, Jr.”
“No ma’am. My name is Junior Massey.”

By now the boy was upset to the edge of tears, and Mrs. Greene was quite agitated that she had such an uncooperative student in her class. After a moment’s pause, she told him in a stern voice, “When you come back tomorrow, bring your birth certificate or some official paper with your correct name on it. Understood?” An almost inaudible “yes ma’am” could be heard by those sitting closest to him. The muffled snickers around him just made him shrink further, as he tried desperately to become invisible.

As we were assembling the following morning, a large man wearing bib overalls and carrying his straw hat in his hand arrived with the boy in tow. A hush fell over the classroom, causing Mrs. Greene to look up from the paperwork on her desk. On seeing the farmer, still half in and half out of the room as he stood in the doorway, she bristled as she rose and queried him.

“May I help you, sir?”
“Yes, ma’am. Wood jew be Miz Greene?”
“Not only would I be, but I am, Mrs. Greene. This is my class and my classroom. Now how may I help you, sir?”
“I hear you got a problem with my boy here,” he said, nodding toward the boy without taking his eyes off Mrs. Greene.
“Then I assume you are the boy’s father, Mr. Massey?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well, when we were having introductions yesterday, your son would not tell us his name. He would only say that his name is Junior.”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s right.”
“That is the nickname that you call him, but I need his given name. What is your full name, sir?”
“Be Robert J. Massey, ma’am.”
“So, if you are Robert J. Massey, then your son’s name must be Robert J. Massey, Jr.”
“Oh, no ma’am. We already had one of them. This here one’s name is Junior. Junior Massey.”

Memory of the next minute or so is not clear. I remember the class that had been intently absorbing every word of this exchange erupting in laughter. I remember Junior smiling — a big snaggle-toothed grin. I remember Mr. Massey in a triumphant mode, tipping his hat to Mrs. Greene before parking it atop his tousled hair and leaving the room. And I’ll never forget the look on Mrs. Greene’s face. She held that frozen pose for the longest time — mouth agape, eyes open a bit more than they should have been, nostrils flared, ready for battle but no one to fight, showing every sign of having been bested by a country bumpkin … and knowing it.

For the rest of that school year, Junior was one of us. He was a sort of folk hero whose legend never dies, but gets better each time it is told. I don’t know what ever happened to Junior Massey, though I suspect he returned to life on the family farm, making Saturday runs into town with produce, a shopping list, and a pickup truck loaded with younguns of his own. Maybe even a Junior Massey, Jr.