Language Arts 101: Introduction to Composition, Freshman Level
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Language Arts 101:
Introduction to Composition, Freshman Level
Unit 3
Sweat
By Zora Neale Hurston
It was eleven oclock of a Spring night in Florida. It was Sunday. Any other night, Delia Jones would have been in bed for two hours by this time. But she was a wash-woman, and Monday morning meant a great deal to her. So she collected the soiled clothes on Saturday when she returned the clean things. Sunday night after church, she sorted them and put the white things to soak. It saved her almost a half days start. A great hamper in the bedroom held the clothes that she brought home. It was so much neater than a number of bundles lying around.
She squatted in the kitchen floor beside the great pile of clothes, sorting them into small heaps according to color, and humming a song in a mournful key, but wondering through it all where Sykes, her husband, had gone with her horse and buckboard. Just then something long, round, limp and black fell upon her shoulders and slithered to the floor beside her. A great terror took hold of her. It softened her knees and dried her mouth so that it was a full minute before she could cry out or move. Then she saw that it was the big bull whip her husband liked to carry when he drove. She lifted her eyes to the door and saw him standing there bent over with laughter at her fright. She screamed at him. “Sykes, what you throw dat whip on me like dat? You know it would skeer me–looks just like a snake, an you knows how skeered Ah is of snakes.”
“Course Ah knowed it! Thats how come Ah done it.” He slapped his leg with his hand and almost rolled on the ground in his mirth. “If you such a big fool dat you got to have a fit over a earth worm or a string, Ah dont keer how bad Ah skeer you.” “You aint got no business doing it. Gawd knows its a sin. Some day Ahm goin tuh drop dead from some of yo foolishness. Nother thing, where you been wid mah rig? Ah feeds dat pony. He aint fuh you to be drivin wid no bull whip.” “You sho is one aggravatin nigger woman!” he declared and stepped into the room. She resumed her work and did not answer him at once. “Ah done tole you time and again to keep them white folks clothes outa dis house.” He picked up the whip and glared down at her.
Delia went on with her work. She went out into the yard and returned with a galvanized tub and set it on the washbench. She saw that Sykes had kicked all of the clothes together again, and now stood in her way truculently, his whole manner hoping, praying, for an argument. But she walked calmly around him and commenced to re-sort the things. “Next time, Ahm gointer kick em outdoors,” he threatened as he struck a match along the leg of his corduroy breeches. Delia never looked up from her work, and her thin, stooped shoulders sagged further. “Ah aint for no fuss tnight Sykes. Ah just come from taking sacrament at the church house.” He snorted scornfully. “Yeah, you just come from de church house on a Sunday night, but heah you is gone to work on them clothes. You aint nothing but a hypocrite. One of them amen-corner Christians–sing, whoop, and shout, then come home and wash white folks clothes on the Sabbath.” He stepped roughly upon the whitest pile of things, kicking them helter-skelter as he crossed the room.
His wife gave a little scream of dismay, and quickly gathered them together again. “Sykes, you quit grindin dirt into these clothes! How can Ah git through by Satday if Ah dont start on Sunday?” “Ah dont keer if you never git through. Anyhow, Ah done promised Gawd and a couple of other men, Ah aint gointer have it in mah house. Dont gimme no lip neither, else Ahll throw em out and put mah fist up side yo head to boot.” Delias habitual meekness seemed to slip from her shoulders like a blown scarf. She was on her feet; her poor little body, her bare knuckly hands bravely defying the strapping hulk before her. “Looka heah, Sykes, you done gone too fur. Ah been married to you fur fifteen years, and Ah been takin in washin for fifteen years. Sweat, sweat, sweat! Work and sweat, cry and sweat, pray and sweat!” “Whats that got to do with me?” he asked brutally. “Whats it got to do with you, Sykes? Mah tub of suds is filled yo belly with vittles more times than yo hands is filled it. Mah sweat is done paid for this house and Ah reckon Ah kin keep on sweatin in it.” She seized the iron skillet