We are the migrants, distant and disconnected from home. Families were split into pieces because of the countless Help Wanted handbills. The handbills promised paradise, but brought anguish untold.
Some stayed, unable to part from the connection they felt with the land they had raised from despair each spring. Many went towards the light they imagined in their minds, fully expecting their ideals to become reality. They can tell you what they know now: heavens that heads create can never be. To those who value the family over all, paradise will never be so without those they love.
The wishes of the migrants ultimately come back to this: a need for a final goodbye. Some never got the chance for a last word, while some willingly walked away.
To those whose lives ended before the destination was reached... the grapevines seem to overflow only from distances away. Experiences up close tend to ruin the mystique surrounding the promised land. You are missed, but you lived life until the last moment in ignorance- and ignorance truly is bliss. You will never have your dreams be crushed by a sheriff who despises your stereotypical identity rather than your true self. The land that infatuated you so will fade as a heaven into the dreams of the dead. The lachrymosity that affected all those who were burnt out of shantytowns purely for existing will never reach your soul. Due to that, we thank God for taking you away at a time that seemed much too premature for our small minds to comprehend.
To those who chose to walk away... We wondered, at first, how it was as easy as you found it to be to abandon your kin. We hope that one day we will be reunited, but a miracle such as that is hardly likely. Whether it be the water or something else that pulled you away, we only wish that the captivation continues. All people need something to live for— your's just happened not to be the alleged overflowing grapevines and rolling hills that California promised. Some are sad they never had the courage to join you, convinced that anything, even death, would be better than the hunger pains they feel every day. Some imagine you aren't doing much better than the rest of us, rendered ultimately pessimistic by the hope that California snatched from them. We pray that the stream will never run dry, the sweetheart you left for will never give you up, the job you managed to scour out is steady. Deep in our hearts, we understand there is no way we will ever be able to find you again, but don't think for an instant that means we have given up hope. We will meet someday soon, in our dreams.
To those who helped us on the way...
Whether it was sharing a camping space or sacrificing precious food to an unhealthy child, we thank you kindly. California didn't turn out to be everything that we had worked for, but you were the ones to show us the last morsels of the midwestern kindness we yearn for in this unfeeling country. We often wonder if you made it to this hell... If you're living just a few miles away without our knowledge. It seems, sometimes, that you are our only friends. Even then, you are the type of friend that can only hold a conversation within our own consciences. It must be good enough until we meet again.
We are the migrants, distant and disconnected from home. The handbills promised paradise. Some stayed. We decided to go. That decision was one that changed us, not only as individuals, but as an entire group. The Okies learned to forgo their kindness in order to forgo scrutiny. The need for safety overcame the want for hospitality. We stopped offering our food, our homes, our jobs. Learned to keep to ourselves. The one change we regret the most? The lesson of "I to we" our folks tried so hard to teach us has returned to just "I."
So is the circle of life, though. Every story, a beginning and an end. Storytellers have to realize, though. They must realize that only fairytales have perfect endings. Some kids'll yell and scream for a happy endin', so some tellers will alter their story to please. I ain't that type a' storyteller. I'm a' tell my chil'in how it is. I'm a' tell Tom, and Al, Roshasharn, Ruthie an' Winfield, an' even Noah if he ever gets back. I gotta tell 'em that this world ain't gonna treat 'em the way they thinks it oughta. It'll tumble 'em up, spit 'em out without a whisper a' sorry. An' so it goes, the world goin' round and round, leavin' us behind, all those who can't move fast enough to the next cotton pickin'. My kids keep tryin' ta save me, I keep tellin' 'em to cut it out. They need to focus on gettin' their own lives back on the path, stop worryin' 'bout their ol' man. But the world hasn't managed to beat that ol' Okie hospitality from them. An' perhaps I'm proud o' that. They can carry on Ma and Pa's legacy. As for me, one final goodbye has ta be said.
To the person I used ta' be...
My folks'll tell ya... We've all been changed by movin' here to California. Sometimes I get to wishin' that we was still back in Oklahoma, that we never became the "Okies," the folks who didn't belong anywhere 'cause of the place they lived in before. Maybe we was kinder back home, maybe we wasn't. It's hard to remember sometimes. All I know is that my life was plenty simple back tendin' to the farm I'd known my whole life. Scroungin' for food ain't the best way ta' live— sometimes ya' gotta sacrifice your dignity to get a night's worth of bread for supper. But it's what we all gotta do. Somehow, our nightmares became reality right in front of us, and nobody stopped to think 'cause we was all so hungry.
Sometimes that ol' preacher seems to be speakin' to me. At nights I'll hear him
tellin' me all those crazy things he used to ramble 'bout. Latest I hear, he's tellin' me from his grave that the only way to get happy in this sad place is to forget 'bout the man I used ta' be. So I'm tellin' ya I'm a gonna do it! No more bein' down 'bout ol' days on the farm. This new life will treat my folks and I fine... someday. And someday is all I can pray to the Good Lord for.
