33°F Cloudy 
"Momma," I says, "comma heah momma.
I seah da black mayen
down in deah big black hoe.
He is diggin down in theyah
and it is purty deep.
I seah a white mayen
standin ovah the hole
lookin down at him.
He has a white hat on his head
and he is shootin awdis
at dat litta boy down in theyah.
He caint be moya den ten year owed.
Momma ma heart it hurt to see it,
a little boy jist ten yeahs old
diggin dirt for a slice a bread,
is all he gits fom dat man.
I watch him give em da otha day.
Why he jist sit deah while dat litta boy
work his litta baby self
ah tired and all.
Momma, I think I gonna cry, momma,
I caint take it no longah,
he is my brothah, momma."
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You need to educate yourself about how the South is today, not durring reconstruction.
Dear Confederate_Yankee,
I would like to share how, "The boy in the hole" came about. One day, I was driving in my car here in Southern Florida, in the town where I have lived for 24 years. There has been a great transition over time. Many "mansions" have been built, and there has been an influx of people to take care of them. Some of these do not speak English. As these events occurred, I remembered what I was taught during a lecture in Southern Literature, on the aristocrat, the poor white and the yeoman farmer. On this day, it happened to be blistering hot. I was driving in my car and had stopped at a red light, at a very busy intersection. Something caught my eye, off to my right. There happened to be two men, one black and one white. The middle aged white man appeared to be a heavy equipment operator. He was sitting way up high and had a glass partition to protect him from outside "elements." The young black man was down inside a hole digging with a shovel. The "white hat" was watching him dig. And then I remembered, "God's Little Acre" by Erskine Caldwell. I looked at him and he looked at me, as I looked at the man in the hole. We both knew what I was thinking. I bowed my head and as I drove away, I said to myself, "I am going to write about what I just saw, someday. On another occasion, I saw a pile of black men tarring a rode that leads to many mansions, in 90-100 degree heat at 12 noon on a Sunday, and it bothered me, because I was going to church, and it did not seem right deep down in my heart. And maybe, just maybe they were getting paid for their work, but it still bothered me.
Janylee McGlinchy
The back story brings some clairity. I live in Atlanta and the same scene plays out here daily.