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One summer day my father sent me to buy wire for our farm.At 16，I liked1 better than driving our truck，2 this time I was not happy.My father had told me I’d have to ask for credit(赊账) at the store.Sixteen is a3age，when a young man wants respect，not charity.It was 1976，and the ugly4 of racial discrimination was5 a fact of life.I’d seen my friends ask for credit and then stand，head down，while the store owner6 whether they were “good for it.” I knew black youths just like me who were7 like thieves by the store clerk each time they went into a grocery.My family was8.We paid our debts.But before harvest，cash was short.Would the store owner9 us?At Davis’s store，Buck Davis stood behind the cash desk，talking to a farmer.I nodded10 I passed him on my way to the hardware shelves.When I brought my11 to the cash desk，I said12，“I need to put this on credit.”The farmer gave me an amused，distrustful13.But Buck’s face didn’t change.“Sure，” he said14.“Your daddy is15 good for it.” He16 to the other man.“This here is one of James Williams’s sons.”The farmer nodded in a neighborly17.I was filled with pride.James Williams’s son.Those three words had opened a door to an adult’s respect and trust.That day I discovered that the good name my parents had18 brought our whole family the respect of our neighbors.Everyone knew what to19 from a Williams: a decent person who kept his word and respected himself20 much to do
