Where Would I Be?, Dr. Koon’s first novel, is her Mother’s story. It is
the heart-wrenching, delightful, and sometimes humorous true story
of her Mother, her heritage, her faith, and her remarkably successful
family who beat the odds in the worst of times. Where Would I Be?, a
question that the author and her siblings has asked over and over
again, speaks volumes about the indomitable spirit of their
remarkable Mother, Irene Clark Ward. An excerpt from the book,
The Baptism, is provided below.
The Baptism
Close your eyes and picture a lake or stream with cool water and black children dressed in white
gowns with white cloths wrapped around their heads. A black man in a white pastor’s robe is
standing in knee -deep water while black men and women surround the edge of the water
singing: “Take me to the water, take me to the water, take me to the water to be baptized; none
but the righteous, none but the righteous, none but the righteous, shall be saved”. I can hear
them singing that song and the voice of the Baptist preacher as he recites the words: “I now
baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost” as the child is dipped into
the cool water, eyes closed, breath held, waiting for the longest minute in life to pass. Up out of
the water the child takes a gasp of fresh air – the song begins again: “ I love Jesus, I love Jesus, I
love Jesus, Yes I do”.
“Did you see that?”, one of the little old ladies would say. “Too young; she ain’t got nothin’ yet;
should’na been baptized!”, the little old woman would go on and on gossiping with one of the
other sisters. That’s exactly what happened to many a young black child in the South. Baptism
was a statement – not just an act. It was an acknowledgement to all who watched the ritual of the
ceremony, that the child had reached the age at which s/he was now responsible to God for
his/her actions. The baptized child was expected to understand that “the wages of sin is death”
and that s/he is “saved by the grace of God”. The child must know in his/her heart that Jesus
Christ died for his/her sins. It was a serious matter that included both the confession of sin and
the profession of faith. And no child was ever baptized if it was not believed that the child was
“ready” for the baptismal process.
Now, I had watched these ceremonies time and time again. And I had heard my Mother and
Father pray and confess their faith in God and Jesus Christ; I knew that nothing would please
my Father more than my baptism. He had always taught us that while he enjoyed living here on
earth, his greatest desire was to meet Jesus – and he wanted all of us to be there in heaven
together on that “Great Day”. I did not understand the true meaning of my Father’s words
because I could not visualize or “see” God; I believed in Him even loved Him but I could not see
Him. But then I saw a lot of different things in my young life, many of which it would be much
later before I understood.
My Mother, Ina Clark, was a housemaid for a white family while Dad worked on his own farm.
Dad prided himself in the fact that although he had many children, with hard work and
determination he had been able to provide his family with as much as if not more than most of
his black neighbors and some of the white ones, too! And he was proud of his freedom and his
heritage; he was not afraid to tell any man, white or black, what he felt. He refused to be just
another sharecropper; and with that refusal was an even greater disdain for subservience. When
my Mother would ask him why he would not go to work for the man for whom she worked my
Dad would say, “Now why would I want to work for him, Ina?” “Why, he barely has as much as
we do; he’s just another common man – like me. If I was going to work for somebody it would
be someone who had more than me; someone who could help me to better myself.” Although
my Dad meant every word he said he really meant no disrespect for the white man; he was just
stating the facts. He truly believed that a person should constantly strive to better himself. This
kind of verbiage or “talk” was often misconstrued by both blacks and whites as displaying
disrespectful arrogance.
In those days Southern white gentlemen feared such an educated black man. Any black person
who stood up for his beliefs was considered arrogant, needing to be taught a lesson. Now I
always heard everything; I watched every move that my Dad made. One night when it was pitch
dark I saw men in white robes come to our house -- not the kind that I saw at the baptismal
ceremony but the hooded kind that are used to hide the face of the wearer. These men came for
my Dad; they called for him, “Come on out, Jim!”. He was not afraid; he walked outside to meet
them. I peered through the window afraid to breathe --frightened at the thought of what might
happen, as they took my Dad away. I overheard my Mother and others later say that those men
beat him because he was considered a boasting “nigger” – a nonconformist. That night when
Dad returned home I heard him tell Mom that he had been given an ultimatum – “Leave now!”
My Dad had been exiled from our home. He thought all of his children were asleep – and all of
them were except me! I saw Dad when he came back all beaten up; I cried but not loudly enough
to be heard. I would have been punished if Mom and Dad discovered that I was eavesdropping
because children were not allowed to meddle in the business of grown folks. Anyway, I sneaked
back into my bed; the next morning Mom told us that Dad had gone to Savannah to work for a
while. The truth was that my Dad had been forced to flee -- back to his beloved Mother in
Savannah for refuge.
During the next several months my sisters, brothers and I would visit our Dad in Savannah
along-with my Mother. At one point Mother actually moved all of us to Savannah to be with
Dad. She found it difficult to stay away from the country that she loved so much – the people,
the way of life—she could not adjust to the city. And so she moved us all back to her home and
resumed working for the same white man as a housekeeper. In the meantime, Dad worked for
the shipyard in Savannah. He would travel back and forth between our home and Savannah,
spending as much time as possible with my Mother and all of us children, being careful not to be
seen by the men in white.
My Mother would cry constantly; she missed my Dad so much. She had never known the
identity of the men who beat her husband because their faces were hidden; but she suspected all
along that it might be the man for whom she worked. He was always fond of her; she was a
beautiful black woman who was respectful and loyal. Daily the man watched her, crying as she
worked diligently to complete the cleaning and washing she had been given. Finally he
approached her, “Ina, why are you crying”, he’d say. “It’s nothing”, she would reply. “Is it Jim?
Do you miss him that much?”, he would query. Still Mother would give no reply. “All right, if it
will put a smile on your face and stop you from crying you can tell him that he can come back.
But he’ll have to stay in his place and watch his mouth!”. “You hear me? Tell him he can come
back but he’d better watch his step!”, he said. “Yes, sir”, she said. The Clarks believed in the
importance of family. They had all been taught to take care of each other no matter what. It had
been several months since my Dad had lived at home; so all of us were elated when our Dad
returned home. It was a time for celebration. Life would finally be back to normal for a while;
however it would be years before Dad would move back into our home permanently.
We had no toilets except for the wooden out houses that were built in the back of the house; the
Clark outhouses had two seats. My big sister and I would always arrange to “go” at the same
time; neither of us was especially fond of going to the outhouse alone. “I’m so sick; I believe that
I’ll have to go in the hospital when I get older”, my sister said. “Why?” I asked. “I don’t know I
just feel it”, she replied. I loved my sister so much; I wanted nothing but the best for us both.
We were only a year apart and we did almost everything together; we were very close. I could
not bear the thought that something bad might happen to her; I always tried to reassure her.
“Don’t say that; you’ll get better”, I would say in a calm voice. You see even back then my faith
was so strong; I believed as I do now that all things are possible through God. I prayed daily
that my Dad would come home and God had answered my prayers so I knew that God could
heal any sickness my sister had, too. And because of this faith I was determined that I was ready
to be baptized.
It was May of 19 and 19; I wasn’t quite 7 years old when my parents let my sister and me spend
the week with Mammy. Mammy took us with her to a revival at Rock Hill Baptist Church. I
remember hearing the eloquent voice of the pastor, Rev. Berrien, under the revival tent calling all
sinners to Christ. I recall vividly how Rev. Berrien’s voice resounded back in those days. There
were no microphones, speakers, or pianos. The people just sang from the bottoms of their
hearts. You could hear them singing, “Free at Last, Free at Last. Thank God Almighty, I’m Free
at Last”. You could hear them for miles before you ever reached the tent, singing like voices from
heaven. As a child the distance seemed so far back then when in reality we had only walked
about a mile or two to the tent. Oh how they sang!
When the preacher called for sinners I felt something come over me; I did not understand it then
but it was the Holy Spirit. I could not sit still; I jumped up and before I knew it I had given the
preacher my hand. That night I gave my heart to Christ. That was in May of 1919. All of us who
joined the Church during the revival were scheduled to be baptized that following Sunday
morning -- bright and early at the pond nearby. When my Mother came to get us that Saturday
Mammy told her that I was going to be baptized. I never will forget it; my Mother looked at me
sternly and said, “No. Irene, you ain’t got nothin’ yet; you too young! I don’t wanna hear no mo
‘bout it! You too young!” In those days children respected and obeyed their parents. Even
though my faith was real I decided to be obedient and wait until God softened my Mother’s
heart. I prayed to God constantly asking Him to change her mind and He did.
In August of that year I went to a revival with my Mother at our Church, Dickey Grove Baptist
Church. Oh, how Rev. Ike Washington could preach, pray, and sing! This time I would join;
when he called it was as if God Himself had called out to me. Again, I could feel the presence of
the Holy Spirit and I could not sit still! I walked swiftly down to meet him, gave the preacher my
hand, and professed my belief in God and my savior, Jesus Christ. I’ve been serving Him ever
since that day! My Mother did not want me to join the first time; but the second time she saw the
Spirit move in me and allowed me to join. God answered my prayers. Reverend Ike
Washington baptized me, Irene Clark, at Dickey Grove Baptist Church in August of 1919.
By the time I was 10 years old I had begun composing papers for girls to read at Church
anniversaries. I started reading my own Church’s History at Dickey Grove Baptist Church’s
anniversary. My parents were proud of me; and I was just as proud as I am now to work and
serve God in the Church. I felt so blessed. What was so thrilling about it was that I was born in
1912 and the Church was built in 1913. I grew up with and in the Church; as I stood up each year
to read the Church’s History it was like reading about a part of my own life! At an early age I
began a circle of influence within the Church that in the years to come would be expanded
farther than I could have ever fathomed.
