20: Mississippi

I took a job as a census taker ‘cuz they were hiring. They’d hire every body in the Delta if they could.

They need extra help here in Issaquena County, ‘cuz less than a quarter of us filled out that form, and getting all our numbers is important to them.

I live here with B and our baby Sarah. We like it ‘cuz it’s spread out. We can keep to ourselves. “Keep it like a secret,” is what B always says.

So when the second census form came in, I didn’t say nothing. I hid it in a drawer. She found it a few days later, though, ‘cuz I hide everything there.

 “Hypocrite,” B said, waving it around. I laughed – ‘cuz it was true – and tried to grab it back.

She laughed too, ‘cuz my job is a joke between her and me. She counts out loud in the morning while I put my skirt and hat and official satchel on: “One Mississippi, two Mississippi.”

It’s a game, all right, and I know which side we’re on, going extra slow ‘cuz it pays me better in the long run and gives the folks what want it time to disappear, to go to ground.

I can’t blame them for hiding, ‘cuz what has the government ever had to say about Mississippi, beside that we’re the poorest state, the least educated, and the fattest?

To tell the truth, we still haven’t turned in our second census form, and I crossed our names off my list too, ‘cuz we don’t want to be those numbers, either; ‘cuz there wasn’t a box big enough to fit the three of us.

Me and B and Sarah, we’re a family, no matter what they say. And we’re gonna live happily here in the bottomlands, ‘cuz that’s the last thing anybody expects.