A sharecropper grabbing a bite in Clarksdale, Mississippi in 1937.
The sun was beginning to set over the fields of Clarksdale, casting long shadows that stretched across the cracked earth like dark fingers grasping for something that wasn’t there. A man, muscles taut from years of work, sat on the rough-hewn steps of a weather-beaten shack, a bowl of something simple held between calloused hands. He was a sharecropper, the kind of man who’d known hard work since the day he could walk, whose life was measured not in years but in the yield of the soil, the weight of the cotton, the unrelenting heat of the Mississippi sun.
