Beware of the magazine people. They may be coming for you.

I wish I had saved a copy of the ad that changed my life. Sometimes when I think about it, I wonder what would have happened if I’d never stumbled upon it that day in Seventeen magazine. It might have been an ad for Clairol Herbal Essences Shampoo, Midol, or Bobbie Brooks- I don’t recall. One thing I do remember: the ad was purely aspirational. The image had nothing to do with the product being sold.  

In the picture was a girl about my age with long, dark hair- like mine. She is sitting in a bean bag in her bedroom reading- again, something I did every day. Behind her is a modern Scandinavian bookcase, tall and neatly designed with open, square shelves that reach the ceiling. And in the bookcase… the life I wanted. Pictures of friends, a princess telephone, horseback riding (or tennis) trophies, books, pom-poms, an album cover, a stuffed animal, a sleek vase filled with bright paper flowers, a cool bubble lamp, more books- neatly arranged- this girl obviously had the life I coveted.  I must have spent hours looking at that photo- it is so engraved in my memory.

It was probably patterned on the same principal as those massive wall illustrations I had as a toddler with a “country” scene on one side and a “city” scene on the other. Instead of picking out the ducks, chickens, tractors, taxis, airplanes, and fire trucks; however, I scrutinized this tableau for brand names, models, and titles, anything to reinforce my dream of perfection.

And there’s the problem. Perfection doesn’t exist. Tell that to my thirteen-year-old heart.

Not the ad, but the idea is similar.

For years after I had a recurring fantasy- or nightmare- depending on how my neurotic ego was satisfied that day. I dreamt the “magazine people” would soon arrive to photograph a day in my life. I fretted, “What will they see?”  So I decorated, cleaned, and arranged. I purchased a down comforter and an Italian duvet cover. I built a beautiful house on the Intracoastal Waterway with a sunset view. I drove a dark blue Mazda Miata convertible, and I had my hair cut by the best stylist in town. I coordinated my Christmas gift wrap with matching ribbons so as not to clash with my tastefully decorated living room, even though one of my cats once ate enough ribbon to have to be rushed to the vet. I wore only the finest clothes, and I was careful to have my suits professionally altered to suit my boxy frame. Once, soon after reuniting with Mama Shirley, I felt so obliged to prepare a gourmet meal for Mother Joyce and Papa John, I literally made myself so ill that I had to excuse myself from Christmas dinner with a fever of 102 degrees.

In short, those damn magazine people never came, but I knocked myself out working for them.

Girls (you know who you are), don’t make your Aunt Freda’s mistake. Look at that magazine picture. Say, “That’s nice.” But don’t aspire to things you only imagine might satisfy, and don’t trust that the things you see are things you really need. Whatever you do, don’t measure your success or happiness by those things. Trust me, it won’t work. Mama Shirley, always quick to break it down, says, “Don’t judge the insides by the outsides.”Now that I think about it, the girl in that picture never owned any of that stuff, either. I wonder whatever happened to her.

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Reflections on race: just call me “that white lady”

Note to Attorney General Eric Holder: I am a middle-aged white American woman, born and raised in the South, and I am not afraid to discuss issues of race in America. So I am not a coward, but I do remember that old saw, “fools rush in where angels fear to tread.” If blogging on the thorny issue of race indicates I’m a fool, then I plead “no contest.”

The summer I graduated from college I was in no mood to move back home to Raleigh to live with my folks. I had a brand new love, an apartment in Carrboro where I could spend hours alone with said new love, a teaching job lined up in Winston-Salem (or so I thought, see January 25, 2009 post), and a desire to squeeze out what bit of spontaneity I could before stepping later that summer into the “real” world of work. Problem was, I needed a job to fund my freedom. After my brief stint as a waitress the summer after my sophomore year, I realized I had neither the coordination (I once spilled tea on my father) nor the aptitude (I was fired after two weeks on the job) for food service, so I looked into the  Chapel Hill Parks and Recreation department’s summer camp programs. Sure enough, there was a full-time  job with my name on it:  arts and crafts teacher. I halfheartedly had hoped I could dodge the responsibility of teaching until fall, “but,” I thought, “What’s so hard about arts and crafts?” After all, I had held a similar counselor’s post three summers prior at tony Camp Seafarer. Of course, my students would be a little different from the Seafarer campers, whose folks shelled out as much money for a five-week camp session as my parents had spent for my entire year’s tuition at UNC.

This time, my summer arts and crafts job was to be spent teaching day campers at two city community centers; in other words, my students would be primarily from low-income families. I was asked during my interview if working with large numbers of low-wealth or minority children would “be a problem” for me. “Not at all,” I bluffed. I supposed this question was used on all recent UNC graduates to weed out the weak-kneed. “This will be a challenge,” I thought, “but surely since it is a day camp, there will be a mixed group of campers and counselors.” After all, with the university right in town, I imagined being something of a cultural pioneer in a forest of diversity.

The first day I reported to work at the Hargraves Center, I discovered my vision of diversity was a pipe dream. In fact, I was the only Caucasian in the whole facility, which had something like four hundred campers, ages five to sixteen, and a staff of thirty-some counselors. I stood out like a Q-tip in a chocolate box.  “Hey, who that white lady?” one young camper shouted when his group was delivered to their first arts and crafts class. “Shhh! Hush your mouth!” his counselor scolded. “She’s your arts and crafts teacher.” “Ooooh” he squealed, “art and craft!! What that?” After numerous introductions that pretty much followed a similar script, I began to feel a little like the punchline in someone else’s joke.

Kids are kids, and soon I got in synch with the “art and craft” lessons. We told folk tales and made paper-bag puppets to act out the stories. The children decorated their brown bags with glue, glitter, and the tiny bit of yarn I could scrounge. There were plenty of paper and crayons, I had discovered, but not much else in the supplies department. We also made crayon-resist designs, designed African masks, and painted a giant mural as a stage backdrop for the final assembly. Throughout the weeks, we went to see E.T. at least once a week. Each time the kids returned from the film, they feverishly sketched the creature who wanted to “phone home” over and over until they had perfected the alien.

But it was mainly I who felt like an alien during the brief times I was not with a group of children. Most of the counselors had grown up together in the tight-knit Chapel Hill and Carrboro African-American community, and they all seemed to know each other from way back when. They were never deliberately unkind to me, but I frequently felt like a nerd with my preppy clothes, long, shiny hair, and unhip suburban speech. Whenever I talked to other counselors, I noticed how they cocked their heads to one side and wore a concentrated, almost quizzical expression suggesting they were listening to someone from another country speaking in a broken accent. I realized the other counselors and I had little common frames of reference; incredibly, not one of them was attending or even was planning to attend UNC- the university for which the town of Chapel Hill seemed to exist.  In the summer of 1982 I was listening to The Police, Steve Winwood, and The Pretenders. They were listening to the Gap Band, Patrice Rushen, and James Ingram. I was embarrassed to admit I owned the Paul McCartney album “Tug of War,” which featured the song, “Ebony and Ivory,” universally mocked by the other counselors. At least we agreed on one thing: we all hated Hall and Oates. I began to realize what a small segment of popular culture my taste actually occupied. I also discovered something else- being such a standout in the crowd wasn’t fun. There was nowhere to hide. When my presence was requested, people went looking for “that white lady.” It was never a problem to find me. Sometimes I wished I had at least one other white person to talk to- but no such luck. I was the token Caucasian with nowhere to hide.

Once or maybe twice a week, I reported to Lincoln Center, a much smaller facility, to teach a class or two. It was there I met Ms. Craven (not her real name). A plump young African-American woman, even shorter than I am, she was older than most of the counselors at the Hargraves Center and was working on a Master’s Degree at North Carolina A & T State University in Greensboro. Her “people” and my “people” hailed from neighboring small towns in eastern North Carolina. Moreover, she enjoyed sharing her perspective on matters of race with me, something I appreciated after my self-imposed isolation at the Hargraves Center. I would often find myself hanging out at Lincoln Center with Ms. Craven after work; her childhood stories were fascinating. Her father had been in the military, and her experience as often the only black kid in class seemed to mirror my experience at Hargraves Center. She also knew many of the counselors’ and campers’ personal stories, which she sometimes shared. Her insights helped to shine a little light on people whose behavior often confounded me. Ms. Craven, though only several years my senior, was a wisely spiritual person, and I loved to hear her talk about her version of Christianity- where people of every color and walk of life were all children in the eyes of God. I shared with her my adoption story, which she seemed very interested in hearing. “See, Freda,” she said one afternoon, “you already understand a little something about feeling different from everyone else.” She was right. Only my “difference” was always worn on the inside- not nearly as visible as when I was the white spot on a colorful canvas.

The last day of summer camp at the Hargraves Center featured skits, songs, and performances by campers. The highlight, however, was a gospel sing-along. There was a robed church choir, a rocking piano, drum, and bass trio, and there was Ms. Craven on the front row- her round robed body swaying and clapping. Pretty soon the entire room was on its collective feet, clapping, swaying, and singing hymns I didn’t know the words to. But it didn’t matter; for the first time that summer I had forgotten my skin color.

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Persistent Memory: Fifth Grade

First Semester

The first day of fifth grade I insisted on wearing my hair in what Mother Joyce and I called a peacock bun. She would brush the hair high up on my head and pull it into a ponytail. Starting at the end, she would roll the ponytail into a large “sausage” of hair.  She’d then pin the bottom and ends of the sausage neatly to my head. The result looked something like a peacock’s fanning tail, with feathery wisps of hair framing my bespectacled face. Of course, I thought my updo was very chic and mature- a signal I wanted very much to send to my classmates. But more than anything else I wanted to impress my new teacher, a young woman just out of college- a first year teacher! Rumor was this new teacher, Mrs. Burkett (not her real name) was tall, slim, and attractive. I fantasized she also would be hip, smart, and beautiful, and I wanted her to know I could be her protégé.

Despite the late summer heat I wore a dark purple print dress that nearly suffocated me in its high peasant collar and long sleeves. At least my ubiquitous saddle oxfords and knee socks were comfortable enough. As Mrs. Burkett explained class rules and procedures in what seemed like slow-motion, I noticed her heavy southern accent. My ears were naturally accustomed to hearing a drawl, but Mrs. Burkett seemed to put extra syllables in every word. “Girr-els,” she said, “will only be allay-ood to the rey-estroo-um one at a tiy-em.” She was indeed tall, thin, and pale as a sheet.  Her brown hair was neatly swept into a Marlo Thomas-style flip, which framed her huge brown eyes and square face. She looked like a doe, or possibly a Joan Walsh Anglund character. I wasn’t sure what to think, but one thing I quickly learned: too much talking was definitely not “allay-ood” in Mrs. Burkett’s class. This could mean trouble for a chatterbox like me.

Mrs. Burkett apparently had thought long and hard about her system of punishment, because she was prepared from the first day of school to enforce this system. I thought maybe she was very fond of laws and discipline  because her husband was a soldier in Vietnam. A name written on the chalkboard was a warning, and each infraction thereafter meant a check would be added beside the offender’s name. Each check also meant the offender would have to spend ten minutes after school- torture to us kids who cherished the trek through wooded backyards and the nearby creek winding our way home through suburban North Hills. Worse, each subsequent check beside a name would add an extra ten minutes- up to an entire hour! Checks could be issued for many types of infractions: missing homework, not having school supplies, disrespect, running in line, or talking out of turn. This last item was indeed my nemesis. I always had trouble keeping my mouth closed, and it didn’t help that Mrs. Burkett insisted on speaking so slowly and asking such easy questions one-at-a-time. Worse, she never seemed to see my raised hand- even if no one else knew the answer! By late September I had stayed after school a half-dozen times for talking. Once I’d stayed so long I was late for my piano lesson- a big no-no for my strict old piano teacher. As the year settled into a routine, I began to sense something else about Mrs. Burkett- something I had never encountered before- even from a strict old teacher like Mrs. Gamble (not her real name), who’d once made the entire class stand in line for a paddling for making a mess in the cafeteria. No, I began to get a feeling that Mrs. Burkett just didn’t like me, even though I really wanted her to.

My first inkling came one October day when the class was nominating boys to serve as crossing guards on the School Safety Patrol. This job carried the responsibility of assisting kids at crosswalks and intersections by raising and lowering a large yellow-and-black flag . Guards were always upperclassmen, fifth and sixth graders. They wore reflective vests, and they also had the added cachet of leaving class five minutes before the bell at the end of each day. Only top students were allowed to become crossing guards; and since my grades had always been good, I couldn’t understand why this job only went to boys. “Mrs. Burkett, why aren’t there any girls on the School Safety Patrol?” I asked. “Wey-ell Freda, that job has always belonged to the boy-ees.” “Yes, but why can’t girls do it, too?” I pressed on. “Wey-ell,” she paused for a moment, “maybe the girr-els just aren’t stong enough to lift up that flay-ug.” I groaned in protest and blurted out, “Mrs. Burkett, I picked up my fourth grade teacher last year! I’m strong as any boy!” This was true, a few boys and I had tested our prowess by picking up our tiny fourth grade teacher, also a good sport. “Are you a women’s libber, Freda?” The class snickered.

Then there was the adoption incident. One day Mrs. Burkett asked the class for kids who were adopted to raise their hands. I thought this question was somewhat silly; by the time I reached fifth grade all us kids knew who was adopted and who wasn’t. Besides that, I had always been somewhat proud of being adopted, especially since my parents told me how they were “chosen,” and how difficult it was for just anyone to adopt. There were at least fifty parents waiting for every single baby, they said. And I was still a little embarrassed to admit that until kindergarten I had thought all babies were “chosen” for their families as my younger brother and I were. In fact, I thought everybody had to go pick up their babies at a “baby place,”  just like we had done from the Greensboro Children’s Home Society when we went there to bring home my brother. So when Mrs. Burkett posed that question to the class, I raised my hand. Of course, I was the only one; I was accustomed to that. Then Mrs. Burkett announced, “Oh Freda! So YOU’RE adopted! I guess your parents can always take you bay-uck if they don’t want you anymore!” The kids laughed, but I didn’t think it was funny at all. I dismissed her comment as plain stupid, as I was beginning to consider her, but it did make me wonder. Had my parents ever thought about taking me back? Did they ever wish another baby had been “selected” for them instead of me? I sure seemed a potential source of trouble these days, always having to stay after school for talking too much. What if my parents didn’t want me anymore? What would I do?

Midterm

By Christmas I was beginning to feel a bit evil, and I began to see the advantage of having a friend in class like Judy Paisley (not her real name), who didn’t like Mrs. Burkett, either. Judy wasn’t a very good student, but she was fun to pal around with, and she was very good in sports. She hadn’t liked Mrs. Burkett’s explanation about the Safety Patrol, either. In fact, she had a reputation for being tough, which I admired. We often found ourselves together after school, too, and since Mrs. Burkett usually excused herself after the first ten minutes, sometime it left us the better part of an hour to play. “What are you in for today, Judy?” I’d always ask. “Um, not having my homework,” she’d answer. “How about you?” “Same as always, talking.” I’d answer. So we’d usually sit for ten minutes while I helped her with homework. After Mrs. Burkett left, we’d quickly pull out our yo-yos or some string and begin to practice our tricks. She taught me how to “walk the dog.” If we were feeling lucky we’d take out our “clackers,” two noisy acrylic balls suspended on string, and play with those for awhile, while one stood watch near the door.

One day Judy and I had an extra-long detention, which led to a discussion of a particular classmate who was one of Mrs. Burkett’s “pets.” This girl, Trish Tate (not her real name), could be a royal pain. She had gotten Judy in trouble for telling Mrs. Burkett she was cheating on a pop quiz. I began to eye Trish skeptically. Why was she always tattling on other kids? I wondered. I knew I was a loudmouth, but never a tattletale. I recalled the day in fourth grade when Trish had gotten two boys in trouble by telling the teacher they’d had a water fight in the bathroom. Judy suggested we give Trish a taste of her own medicine. So we hatched a plot. We would lure Trish into walking home from school with us. Judy knew where there were two chain link fences which separated two back yards. We would suggest this route as a shortcut to Trish, then pin her between the two fences, where we would get to rough her up a bit. I liked the idea, but was worried about hurting Trish in any way. My parents were accustomed to having a blabbermouth daughter, but not a bully. Trish assured me we’d scare her, that’s all. So the appointed day and hour arrived, and Trish agreed to walk home with us. This feat had been surprisingly easy to accomplish. Apparently Trish didn’t have many friends who wanted to walk home with her. As we entered the gap in the fences between the two yards, Judy walked in first, Trish second, and I followed last. Judy stopped midway, and our work began.

Judy went first. “Trish, do you know why we wanted you to walk with us?” Trish had no clue. “Because you need to learn a lesson, and we’re here to teach you!” Trish turned to face me quizically. I didn’t move, but I also didn’t quite know what to say. Judy continued, “Why do you always tell on people? Why can’t you just mind your own business? You made me stay after school because you told the teacher I was cheating.” “But you were,” Trish said timidly. Judy was getting worked up. “That doesn’t matter,” she said, getting very close to her face, “I’m sick and tired of people like you- goody-goodies- who think you’re better than everybody else.” This struck a chord with me. I had helped Trish with her homework, and I’d seen how hard it was for her to do even simple things like contractions. “Trish,” now I was feeling meanness creep in. “How long have we been friends?” Trish thought for a moment. “Since we were in kindergarten at St. Timothy’s, I guess?” “Wrong,” I said. “It’s never. Nobody likes you, Trish, and neither do I.  I just pretend to like you ’cause I felt sorry for you, because you don’t have any friends. And if you ever, EVER tell on anyone else again, I’ll tell everybody Judy and I beat you up! Do you want the world to know THAT?” “No,” she said. I could see tears in her eyes. “So what, then?” Judy leaned in close to Trish. Their noses almost touched. “So I’ll leave you alone,” Trish said meekly. Judy slowly walked to the edge of the gap in the fences. She stopped just short of the opening. I could tell Trish wanted to run away. “What’s that again?” I yelled it this time. “I promise not to tell on you anymore!” Trish choked on a sob. Judy stepped aside ever so slightly, letting Trish past, but not before giving her a sharp shove as she began to run away. As Trish sped across the yard, my heart racing as fast as she ran, I began to wonder, “Have I turned into a bully?”

Second Semester

After Christmas I vowed to return to school a new woman. From Santa I had received a poncho, Carl Sandburg’s biography of Abraham Lincoln, and some socks. I also had gotten an adult coin collecting set: a kit that included a coin valuation book, some albums for my Lincoln cents, a magnifying loupe, a set of cardboard coin holders, tweezers, and some coin tubes. From my mother, however, I received the gift I’d been yearning for since school had begun: my first bra. When school resumed I was pleasantly surprised at some changes the fifth grade teachers had decided to make. No longer would my class spend all day with Mrs. Burkett; instead, we would begin “switching” classes for Language and Math. I would have Miss Black (not her real name) for Language every morning for two hours with the other good readers. Finally, it seemed, school began to click into place, as it always had in my past. Even though the S.R.A. Reading kits were nothing more than boring boxes of story-cards with multiple choice quizzes on each story, I relished Miss Black at least allowed us to talk and move around the room every once in awhile. Mrs. Burkett, too, seemed to have relaxed some after the holiday. By early spring, she had actually brought her Simon and Garfunkel album to school and played it for the class.

One day Miss Black’s and Mrs. Burkett’s Language classes were watching a filmstrip together, as we sometimes did. Some kids were allowed to sit on the floor, and Mrs. Burkett asked the girls, as she often did during filmstrips, for volunteers to scratch her back. I raised my hand offhandedly, never expecting to be chosen, but on this occasion she called my name. I almost jumped out of my chair. I gingerly approached her at her desk, where I scratched and scratched until the end of the filmstrip. I figured Mrs. Burkett’s gesture must have meant I had finally won her favor. Days passed, and on another occasion Miss Block’s and Mrs. Burkett’s students had a spelling bee one Friday morning. I was excited, since I was usually one of the top spellers. The action began slowly at first, but soon the competition was fast and furious as spellers began missing words. Finally, there were four of us left, then three. Mrs. Burkett gave the word: shepherd. I spelled it. “No, Freda, I’m sorry. You’re ee-in-correct.” I knew I had spelled it correctly, and I protested. “Now Freda, see-ince you’re so smart, spell it agay-in.” I spelled it again, correctly. “No, that’s wro-ung.” “I’m NOT WRONG!” I shouted, writing it on notebook paper as I called out the letters. “See? It is S-H-E-P-H-E-R-D!” I held up the paper to make my point. “Wro-ung!” she shouted back “its S-H-E-P-A-R-D!” I looked around for someone, anyone, to save me. Miss Black, unfortunately, was out of the room for a smoke break, so there was no one. I huffed back to my chair, utterly demoralized.

After school that day Mrs. Burkett continued her conversation. “Now Freda, I will not have you being rude and sassy!” “But Mrs. Burkett, you spelled shepherd wrong. You spelled it s-h-e-p-a-r-d.” There was a pause. “No, Freda, you’re wrong. That’s how YOU spelled it!” This took the cake. Now she was turning her poor spelling against me. “Mrs. Burkett, you’re not fair! That’s NOT how I spelled it and you KNOW it! YOU’RE the one who spelled it that way! I wrote it down! I have witnesses!” This last comment was obviously too much. “FREDA ZEH! YOU are lying.” Now it was my turn. “Mrs. Burkett, MY MOTHER is a school supervisor! I’ll tell HER about this and I’ll let HER decide who’s lying!” That was it. She told me to go home, which I did in record time. All the while I knew the clock was ticking as I prepared myself for the inevitable phone call I knew Mother Joyce would receive later that night.

Three days later Mrs. Burkett arrived at my parents’ home at 4:30 in the afternoon. Mom had to leave work early to be home by that time, so I knew she wouldn’t be in the best mood. I had tried in my most sensible voice to explain to her what had happened during the spelling bee- even producing the sheet of notebook paper with the word, “shepherd,” I’d written- as evidence. Mrs. Burkett rang the front doorbell, and Mom dismissed me to my bedroom, she said, “at least for the first part of our conference.” I went upstairs and closed my door, but strained against it to try to overhear what they were saying. Finally after about fifteen minutes I had given up, so I went back to the “S” volume of my World Books and was re-reading the article on spiders when I heard Mother Joyce call my name. “Freda, could you join us in the living room?” “Sure, Mom, I’ll be right down.” My heart was pounding so hard I could feel my chest rattle. As I walked into the living room, Mrs. Burkett and my mother were each drinking a cup of coffee. They seemed pretty relaxed. “This is a good sign,” I thought.

“Freda, Mrs. Burkett tells me you are a very bright student,” my Mom began. Mrs. Burkett picked up as if on cue. “Yay-yes, Freda, you are soo smart. I just luh-ve having you in my clay-uss.” Something seemed wrong; Mrs. Burkett never acted this nice, even when our principal Mr. Mallette was visiting class. Mom continued, “Freda, I think Mrs. Burkett has something to tell you.” Mrs. Burkett said, “Freda, I’m soo sorry I didn’t give you credit for spelling that word riy-ught. Your mom showed me you’d written it day-oun, and I didn’t give you credit for spelling it riy-ught. I’m sooo sorrr-ry.” “That’s okay,” I said. Much later, I realized she’d failed to apologize for spelling it incorrectly herself , accusing me of her mistake, and then calling me a liar, but Mom continued. “But Freda, we may have another problem here, a much larger problem.” I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about. “Mrs. Burkett says you popped her bra.” “I WHAT?” I was aghast. “Yay-yes, when you were scratching my back during the filmstee-ip.” Mom added in a measured tone, “Now Freda, we understand you are a developing girl, and you may have curiosity about adults and their bodies, but it is unacceptable to play with your teacher’s bra.” “But, Mom! I…” I pleaded before she interrupted me, “I think you owe your teacher an apology.” I was utterly vanquished. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Burkett, for popping your bra,” I lied, gritting my teeth to hold back tears. “Oh Freda, thay-unk you for your apology. I forgee-ive you.”

Year End

As the school year spun to a close, the kids in Mrs. Burkett’s class were upbeat. Next year we’d be in sixth grade- at the top of the school after six long years at E.C. Brooks Elementary. President Nixon was allowing the U.S. table tennis team to go to China that spring, which prompted everyone to go around yelling, “King Kong went to Hong Kong to play ping-pong with his ding-dong!” I certainly was getting antsy; the end of the year was in sight, and Lord willing, I would survive fifth grade. After the spelling bee I had tried my best to lay low and avoid saying much of anything to Mrs. Burkett unless absolutely necessary. Of course, this task was impossible; she was my teacher after all. Several instances cropped up to remind me Mrs. Burkett had not finished with me- yet.

First, there was the thumbtack Leslie Overman (not her real name)  put in my chair. I discovered her red-handed leaning over with a tack in her hand. When I caught her by surprise, she quickly blurted out, “Mrs. Burkett told me to do it! I swear!” “Yeah, right,” I glared at her, “sure.” but I wondered. Then there was a time the class was working on our Social Studies project about our chosen state. Mine was Wyoming. I was putting the finishing touches on my buffalo flag while Mrs. Burkett was walking by. “Freda,” she said as she patted my back, “thay-et’s verry nah-ice.” A few minutes later Stuart Brooks (not his real name) walked by my desk and cuffed me on the shoulder, hard. “Stuart!” I yelled. “What on earth?” He was laughing so hard he could hardly talk, “Can’t you read?” he said choking back laughter. I had no idea what was wrong with him. Soon after, two other boys did the same thing. Each said, exploding with yuks, “Can’t you READ?” I thought everybody had lost their minds. Finally, Tim Morrison whispered to me, “Your back, Freda, on your back” he pointed toward my back. I reached behind my back and pulled off a taped sign that read in Mrs. Burkett’s cursive script, “Hit Me.”

Finally, school was almost over. I had long finished all the S.R.A. kits and had also completed several projects with Tim and a few other kids on North Carolina birds, the Civil War, and had done an independent book report on the book, My Friend Flicka, as part of my Social Studies project. One day Mrs. Burkett told the class they could have free reading time and could sit anywhere they wanted. “ANYwhere?” I asked Mrs. Burkett, hoping to be sure. “Yay-yes, anywhere.”

I had spied the empty cabinet under the sink on several occasions. It appeared to have the width of a laundry basket and was at least twice as deep. This spot seemed a rather daring, independent, yet private place to carry on my reading, so I wedged myself into the cabinet, much to the delight of several onlookers, including Judy Paisley, who just shook her head and grinned. Of course, I had left the cabinet door cracked in order to have enough light to see, but I was otherwise cozy in my improvised book nook. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. No sooner than that, I also heard a tremendous commotion that sounded like a tornado had crashed into class- desks scraping, voices shouting- utter chaos! Alarmed, I shouted, “Hey! What’s going on?” More scraping and shouting. “LET ME OUT! WHAT’S HAPPENING!? LET ME OUT!!!” I panicked. I began kicking the door, which seemed to slam back each time I attempted to kick it open. Finally, with both legs, I pushed the door open with all my might. CRRRAACK! The hinges broke and wood splintered simultaneously as I kicked off the door. The sight was astonishing. The entire class, it appeared, had piled their chairs in front of the cabinet door. I could see kids jostling each other and laughing. In back stood Mrs. Burkett, leaning over with a huge ear-to-ear smile. I had no doubt what had happened. She’d told the class to do it.

The very last day of school, I recall, the students from our two fifth grade classes loaded into Miss Black’s room and sang along to the record player. Someone had brought a 45-r.p.m. single of the Three Dog Night hit, “Joy to the World,” which we belted out at full volume.

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Miss Zeh, why did you choose to become a teacher?

“Miss Zeh, why did you choose to become a teacher?”

That question was asked frequently when I interviewed for my first job teaching in the tiny mountain community in Stuart, Virginia, and two years later in coastal Carteret County, North Carolina. I don’t remember exactly how I answered it. With as much glibness and enthusiasm as I deemed necessary to win the job, I’m sure. But there was always a deeper answer to that question: one I didn’t even want to admit to myself, much less to an employer. Truth is, I really never wanted to become a teacher. I just was one.

If ever I was inspired to teach, I suppose it happened in my years of earliest adolescence- in fifth and sixth grade- when I was the subject of both the depths and heights of adult behavior toward children. In reality, by the time I was enrolled at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in the late 1970s teaching was a choice widely considered to belong to the dullest of the dull, squarest of the square- undergraduate Luddites. In that enlightened feminist era women purportedly were liberated from traditional professions like nursing and teaching, which were the antiquated roles “nice girls” played on their way to matrimony and motherhood. Smart girls majored in chemistry, political science, psychology, or business, not in teaching. In short, I saw myself as a relatively bright, enlightened girl, so I had qualms about majoring in a profession defined by the adage, “those who can’t, teach.”

UNC-Chapel Hill, 1982

Instead, I tried out a grab-bag of college majors. First, there was music. I was an above-average singer who could read music passably well. I also had a wide breadth of musical knowledge, having sung in choruses since I was seven or eight. I had taken piano lessons for many years, but was a pedestrian pianist, at best. The real problem, however, was most music majors did not leave UNC-Chapel Hill with a marketable skill, unless, of course, they were extremely talented, which I was not. And weren’t those gifted musicians already attending prestigious conservatories like Juilliard, Berklee, or Oberlin? I also figured rock and roll, my first love, was not exactly the type of music one prepared for in college, as there were no course offerings on British Invasion, Glam Rock, or New Wave; (I’m told there are now!) and since I had no desire to be destitute, I struck out music as a choice. Then there were art and English, both passions, but the same reasoning seemed to apply to both. What would I do after graduation? I had a brief flirtation with art history, but by that time I had already loaded my plate with English classes, so strike that, too. Then there was journalism. This profession had always been appealing to me. Even on my junior high newspaper staff I pursued investigative journalism, i.e., exposés on the school’s dress code, and in-depth feature articles on Elton John and David Bowie, my musical idols. Unfortunately, by time to declare my major, I had wasted most of my sophomore year pursuing a boy- a Texas grad student- who had broken my heart and to my thinking at that time, had ruined my G.P.A. in the process. J-school at UNC was, and still is, quite competitive, and after my shabby sophomore performance I didn’t have the nerve to pester my folks for summer school tuition money to bolster my flagging grades.

So I arrived upon education as a refuge of  last resort. The  funny thing was, teaching came effortlessly to me. I had already been a popular camp counselor, YMCA trainee, and Sunday School leader. Kids in my neighborhood had always seemed to latch onto me; and, of course, my mother’s work as school supervisor had been part of the ether in my house. I hated that my great aunt and grandmother- both who had taught school for years- always presumed I’d end up in a classroom, but Mother Joyce assured me they’d just been insightful about my “gift.” Education coursework- although rather dry and boring- held enough interest to keep me motivated; especially after the threat my parents had issued after my sophomore year- to withhold tuition payment should my love life distract me from the bottom line: good grades.

Student teaching, by comparison, was gravy- it was both fun and mentally challenging. The kids loved me; I loved them, and my student teaching supervisors gave me rave reviews. After the second week, my cooperating teacher left her fourth grade class each morning and let me teach for the rest of the day. Somehow my personality- part ham-bone, part pit-boss, part actress, part know-it-all, part cheerleader, and part benevolent dictator- seemed well-suited for the job. It wasn’t that I chose to have these traits; I had always had them. Teaching just rewarded me for being myself. And that’s how I chose teaching.

How I became a teacher is another story, one that was shaped by my childhood history as a student and by my years working with hundreds of students.

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Persistent Memory: Summer, 1970

St. Louis, July, 1970

My entire family: Mother Joyce, Papa John, Brother Don and my grandmother, MaMae, was going on our first family cross-country car trip during summer vacation in late July, and I had only one request: to bring my encyclopedias. That way, I reasoned, I could learn more about each state while we were driving through it.  As Dad packed the car, I lugged my entire set of World Books downstairs, ready to go. Although the Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight was plenty spacious, Mom wasn’t too happy about hauling three adults, two children, luggage, picnic supplies, and thirty encyclopedias, so we struck a deal. Since our ultimate destination was St. Louis, I calculated on taking at least the following: T (Tennessee), K (Kentucky), W (West Virginia), O (Ohio), I (Indiana and possibly Illinois), M (Missouri and Maryland), N (North Carolina), P (Pennsylvania),  and V (Virginia). So we settled on those nine volumes, plus my cyclograph- sort of a “see and say” for older kids- and a couple of Time-Life Books on archaeology.

There were picnics and road stops. I fondly recall stopping at a quaint country church near Bowling Green, Kentucky, where a creek my brother and I splashed in meandered through the churchyard. That summer, I was infatuated with Underwood Deviled Ham and mustard sandwiches. I must have eaten dozens of those sandwiches, made on white Wonder Bread, over the course of the trip. As we motored, I loved comparing speed limits in the various states we visited. Near Mammoth Cave we stopped at an Esso station with an impressive collection of road maps. Even though stints in the car between Louisville, St. Louis, and Terre Haute seemed interminable, we sang frequently along the way. I perfected my rendition of B.J. Thomas’ hit, “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on my Head,” complete with horn solos. I thought I was Grammy material.

When we finally arrived back in Raleigh, it was nearly time for school to begin- my fifth grade year. I was ready to share my worldly knowledge with the neighborhood. Several kids were attending a summer arts camp at E.C. Brooks, and informed me there would be a talent show on the last day of camp. Fancying myself something of a chanteuse, I put on my peasant-style, black and white checkered, Sunday School dress and arrived that Friday to wow an audience of perhaps fifteen unsuspecting underclassmen with my best B.J. Thomas impersonation. I think I was awarded the “best singer” prize, but as I recall, every kid won some award.

As summer waned I bummed around the neighborhood, hanging out with pals. One hot August afternoon a friend and I trekked over the hills to a neighbor’s house where my brother often played. As my brother, his friend, and his friend’s little brother, a toddler, ran around their backyard, my pal and I watched the little kids from the patio, bored. Then the neighbors’ granddad appeared, he was looking after the children while their parents were at work, and he struck up a conversation. The old guy babbled on about “school in the old days” and such, but at least he broke up the boredom, so we politely put up with his rambling. Soon he was asking questions about the new school year, and we perked up a bit, as the new year was imminent. “And what do they teach in school these days?” he inquired, and I ticked off the usual: reading, spelling, math, social studies, music, art, science… “What about sex education?” My friend and I looked at each other nervously and giggled. “Well yes, I volunteered knowledgeably, “they teach it in health when you’re in seventh grade, but I already know all about that because my mom gave me this book called “A Doctor Talks to 9 to 12 Year Olds.”

Next thing I remember he had pulled me onto his lap, and he touched my rump, “oh, you have a big one,” he said, as he placed my hand on his pants pocket. I recall his flushed face and stubble blocking my view from my friend as we continued our “chat.” Soon my friend was on his lap, and although I cannot recall much more, I remember vividly running back to my yard with my friend and asking each other, “what the hell was that all about?” We concluded we’d better tell our parents. I remember later that evening as my mom made a late dinner, I attempted to describe this “conversation” I’d had with my brother’s friend’s grandfather, to my mother, who said pointedly, “Nelda Miller (a neighborhood mother) says he’s a dirty old man, so you need to stay away from him.” End of conversation.

Many years later when visiting my folks, my mother and I were catching up on random neighborhood gossip: who had moved, who had gotten married, when she mentioned the name of this old man. He had recently died, she informed me. “Good,” I said, “I hope he rots in hell.” “FREDA!” she replied, shocked, “why on earth would you say such a thing?” “Because he molested me when I was ten years old, Mom, don’t you remember? I told you about it.” “Freda, I remember no such thing,” she said earnestly. Looking back, I believe her. Mother Joyce, who’d always placed such high value on honesty, would not have forgotten nor fudged on such a shocking revelation from her ten-year-old daughter. After all, it was she who had always told me the truth about anything I wanted to know, including the story of my adoption, which she’d shared from the first time I asked, “where do babies come from?”

Perhaps even a ten-year-old with a college-level vocabulary had no adequate words to describe what was unknowable to her at that time: some adults are very, very bad. That topic couldn’t be found easily in my encyclopedias, although I would continue to learn more about that subject later throughout that fifth grade school year.

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The Persistence of Memory

Dali, The Persistence of Memory, 1931

Salvador Dali’s most famous painting is called “the Persistence of Memory.”  This image has been so widely reproduced it is practically iconic: watch faces melt over objects in an eerily shadowed, austere foreground. Although the distant landscape of golden cliffs and ocean is bathed in an autumn-like light, it seems inaccessible and remote.  Meanwhile, stopped clocks drape limply over oddly random object fragments: a dead tree, a human face- or is it something else? It is not surprising Dali’s painting coincided with the era of Freudian psychoanalysis. The lasting impression created by Dali’s jarring image suggests unconscious dreams, where both time and perception are fluid. Set against a haunting incomplete landscape, Dali’s message seems clear: what we think we remember may be partially accessible, but removed from time and place, memories become soft, fluid. They melt into our consciousness and become part of our personal environment.

So this memory begins, set against old photographs, journal entries, Facebook reconnections with childhood classmates, and no fewer than two earlier essays on this topic written at various times in my career as a student and school administrator. I return to my fifth grade year at E.C. Brooks Elementary School.  Now, an observer of my own landscape, I can describe only the melted images of that ten-year-old child and the events which shaped her adult self.

E.C. Brooks Elementary School, 1971

I was both fearless and vulnerable, so passionate about life I could hardly count everything I wanted to do in a single day. My clock radio, perpetually tuned to popular music WKIX-AM, awakened me each morning with a personal serenade. It might have been Smokey Robinson and the Miracles “Tears of a Clown,” Badfinger’s “Come and Get It,” or Three Dog Night’s “Joy to the World.” Music played continuously in my mind, whether it was in the air or not. My fifth grade teacher, a young woman freshly graduated from college, played Simon and Garfunkel’s album, Bookends, to the class. Soon “Mrs. Robinson” and “At the Zoo” became my music, too.

The summer before fifth grade I decided to become an expert in something. I was aware it wouldn’t be the piano, despite a couple of years of piano lessons. My Uncle Edward, a veteran of  swap meets, collected old coins. So being something of a history buff, I decided to become a coin collector. I convinced my parents to give me a coin collecting kit that Christmas. By spring I had amassed an impressive number of Morgan silver dollars. Sometimes my classmate Tim Morrison and I would compare the relative condition and value of our treasured coins.

Ebullient and nerdy, I was both a know-it-all and a voracious reader who could spell almost anything. I ploughed through the fifth grade reading text and by midyear, some of my classmates and I were introduced to S.R.A. Reading Kits. An early developer, it was the only time in my life I was as tall as most of my classmates. Likewise, I had become keenly curious about my body. By the time Mother Joyce casually dropped the booklet, “A Doctor Talks to 9 to 12 Year Olds,” on my bedroom floor where I lay reading one afternoon, I had already clandestinely perused the booklet well enough to have committed whole passages to memory. In fact, I had shared the diagrams and line illustrations of developing bodies with several of my buddies. I may have been one of few ten-year-olds who knew the proper Latin names and pronunciation of both male and female secondary sex characteristics.  Once I had even corrected my teacher’s spelling of the word “shepard” during a class spelling bee. Of course, the correct spelling is s-h-e-p-h-e-r-d.

Nothing, it seemed, was beyond my grasp. Except, of course, for the events I experienced throughout that year- one of the most persistent years within my own memory.

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Fascinated by Fractals

I love words, but sometimes words won’t do. Particularly in times of stress or conflict I like to muse on random beauty. That is the attraction of fractals– those disobedient patterns found everywhere in nature and the universe- they defy the laws of classical geometry, are impartial to time, place, or size, yet they display a consistent harmony in their astonishing similarities. They are at once arbitrary and understandable. I believe fractals are evidence of divine creativity.  Can you guess the identity of these images? Enjoy in peace.

From top to bottom: Amazon river and its tributaries from space; Blood vessels and capillaries magnified many times; Cloud-to-cloud lightning; Crab Nebula, first observed in 1054 by Chinese astronomers; Tree branches showing dendritic growth patterns; Rilles on Titan, one of Saturn’s moons; Photomontage by artist Ahmed ibn Ibrahim

 

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My Cool Raleigh Ten-Speed Bike

The year was 1973, and all I wanted for my thirteenth birthday was to be cool. Nothing was working favorably in that direction, it seemed. I constantly misplaced my wire-rimmed glasses in my bean bag chair when I’d  take them off to peruse World Book Encyclopedias and accidentally sit on them, squashing them into strange shapes which I then wore on my face- all cockeyed. I was forever losing my retainer in the school cafeteria, leaving the appliance on my lunch tray. My father had once gone to school and retrieved not one, but three retainers that had ended up in the trash. They had been rescued and placed in the school’s lost and found by cafeteria workers accustomed to seeing such objects in the trash at Carroll Jr. High. Then I had begged my mother to enroll me in the John Robert Powers School of Modeling after the unfortunate cheerleading tryout incident, but after taking me there to tour the facility had deemed it “too expensive.” I figured she must have thought I was a lost cause. No amount of money would make me tall, willowy, well-groomed and popular like Ginger, who was the epitome of seventh-grade cool.  No, coolness didn’t apply to kids like me-  chubby, myopic geeky kids. I was doomed to be uncool.

Then my friend Kelly got a 10-speed bike for Christmas, and I got the idea what was necessary to be cool was a bike. And not just any bike either, a 10-speed bike. In the run-up to my birthday that spring I began peddling the concept to my parents I really needed a ten-speed bike, a proper, safe, road bike to provide transportation to and from school. I neglected to mention anything about a 10-speed bike boosting my coolness factor, but I calculated that line of reasoning wouldn’t advance my cause, so I went with the safety route, sure to touch their pragmatic sensibilities. I assured them a bicycle would eliminate the need for me ever to bum a ride to school again. They seemed warm to the notion, and one day my father suggested we go to Sears after school to look at bikes. Mortified, I would have none of it. Kelly’s bike was a Raleigh, a British-made beauty of elegant proportions. No, I explained emphatically, Sears or Schwinn did not produce the right type of bike. No domestic manufacturer, in fact, made adequate bicycles. “These days,” I explained, “only Europe makes a safe road bike.” My parents eyed me and each other skeptically, but I continued, “I think Flythe’s Bicycle Shop is the only place in town that carries the kind of bike I want- er- need.”

So the day in May finally arrived my dad drove me over to Flythe’s to check out the 10-speeds, and there they were:  sleek, curvy, well-engineered, gleaming with an insouciant air that suggested, “we are possibly too cool to be ridden by just anybody.”  Some were mounted from the ceiling, others were neatly arranged in rows, their downward-curved handlebars all facing the same direction. Dad and Mr. Flythe were friends, which I knew would help. As they chattered, I paced the rows, eyeing the price tags dubiously. These bikes- some well over $200- cost as much as used cars! I knew I had work to do. These bikes were top-drawer, no Huffys here,  just names like Gitane, Peugeot, and Motobecane.  Finally I found a corner of the store where the Raleigh bikes were standing. I immediately understood why Kelly’s parents had gone with Raleigh- they were at the lower end of the elite bicycle chain, most  just over $100. I figured this would be my start, so I settled on a deep-marine blue bike- just like Kelly’s. “Dad, what about this one?” I inquired demurely. “OK, well why don’t you try it?” I hopped aboard, and immediately there was a problem- the “sissy bar” was too high; this could cause injuries. “How about a girls’ bike?” Mr. Flythe suggested, we have several Schwinns over here.” “NO! I mean, No, Sir” I said. “I think maybe this other one.” I pointed at the last Raleigh bike in the lineup. “Oh, well, that’s a children’s bike” Mr. Flythe said. Other than being an inch or two shorter, I couldn’t see the difference. The thought of a girls’ bike sent a shudder; no cool person was riding anything but a boys’ bicycle, so I must also have a boys’ bicycle, regardless of my 5 foot 1 inch height and 26″ inseam. “OK Freda, try that one, if you like.” It was white, not nearly as beautiful as Kelly’s taller blue model, but it was a Raleigh. So I threw my leg over the sissy bar- still too tall- and claimed it was perfect.

That summer Kelly and I became road warriors, riding our bikes all over North Hills to the ball park or swim club. No matter my stumpy legs strained to pump up the hills in fifth gear, or I was constantly failing to put the bike into gear correctly causing a chain to dislodge suddenly and make my legs spin in crazy circles, or worst of all, that the damn sissy bar nearly cut me in half anytime I had to jump off the pedals suddenly- that bike was my passport to coolness and confidence.

School was set to begin late that summer, and I was starting eighth grade. Kelly was a year younger, so she’d be going to Carroll, too. Best of all, our parents had agreed we could ride our bikes to school together, which was all the permission needed to plan our strategy. All the cool kids we knew hung out after school at the Kwik Pik in nearby North Hills Plaza, where they’d meet over an Icee, share some jawbreakers, and bum cigarettes from the ninth graders.  The plan was to ride our bikes by the Kwik Pik after school to check out the action. I was excited, but nervous. I had gotten a new pair of aviator glasses over the summer, and I thought maybe I looked a little more hip. At least my mother was no longer pestering me to wear a skirt to school, as skirts and bicycles were incompatible. The only thing I had to remember was to keep a supply of rubber bands handy, as my bell bottom jeans frequently got caught in the chain.

The end of that first day of school finally arrived, and Kelly and I met to cruise over to the Kwik Pik. After several attempts to work the combination lock, I finally managed to disentangle my Raleigh from the bike rack. Then we were off. I puffed excitedly uphill in third gear. I wondered who’d be at the Kwik Pik. Would some of those YMCA swimmers be there? Maybe I’d see Joe or Bob… the possibilities made my heart race faster. In a minute we were pedaling smoothly over the paved parking lot. “I’ll put it in tenth gear,” I thought, “so I can really impress everyone with my speed.” Soon we were gliding by Kwik Pik. I could see kids sitting smoking, backs against the wall, holding Icees. Kelly called out to someone she knew. “Oh, this is cool,” I thought, waving to a group of smokers and squinting to make out who was there.

Then suddenly….. SSSPPLLATTT!  The bike had jumped a curb and I lay sprawled over the hood of a parked car. Dazed, I pulled myself off the car and reached instinctively for my glasses, which were hanging on my face by one twisted arm. My bike! Oh no! I surveyed the damage. The curved handlebars were now sitting at the three o’clock position, the chain had popped, and maybe the front wheel had been knocked off its frame a little, I couldn’t tell. “FREDA!! Are you alright???” I barely heard Kelly calling from a distance. “Yeah, I’m fine” I yelled back casually as I yanked the handlebars back to twelve o’clock. Then I felt a sudden throbbing pain in my right leg just below the knee; an angry knot was already pounding. Limping as little as I could muster, I loped with my bike over to the Kwik Pik. The eyes of the kids sitting there smoking regarded me coolly, looked away, and then went back to their conversations. My moment of cool had been short-lived.

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Gimme that bad kid, Part Three

I knew DeVon Hughes (not his real name) would eventually be in my class from the first day I heard Assistant Principal John Doe (see prior post) mention his name. “Mark my words, THAT ONE’LL be an axe-murderer!” Mr. Doe pronounced. Doe’s prognostication ricocheted down the halls of the elementary school as fast as a proverbial speeding bullet, due in part to DeVon launching a temper tantrum of such epic proportions that he left a classroom in shambles, a bunch of kids stunned speechless, and a teacher so terrified she’d threatened to quit “if anything ever happened like that again.” Even Mr. Doe seemed awed by DeVon’s ability to foment controversy and chaos, and the worst part was this: Doe didn’t know how to stop him.

DeVon was African-American, but untouchable, by Doe’s standards. The reason: DeVon’s father was not absent; to the contrary, DeVon’s father was according to some, all too present, and had earned a reputation as a hothead. The word used in the teachers’ lounge, as I recall, was “militant,” which is cracker code for the sort of black man one would mess with only if (1) you are crazy or (2) have a large- presumably white-robed- mob behind you for reinforcement. DeVon’s father was the director of a local non-profit agency, which meant he was constantly having to deal with white folks who’d rather he just go away. Rumor was Mr. Hughes had actually set fire once to a facility that he’d come into a dispute with. The charge had never been proven. Not only was DeVon’s father a tour de force, but DeVon’s mother was a high school guidance counselor, which meant she had credibility within school circles. Consequently, DeVon’s troubles could not be dealt with through intimidation, paddling, bullying, or the other tactics Doe typically used to quell “rebellious” black kids.

All of this rankled Mr. Doe beyond measure. A black kid with a temper as bad as his own, and an attitude to match. That’s why I knew DeVon would be mine, since Doe had gone on record that I needed some time “in the trenches” to earn those “boot marks” principals were supposed to have. Looking back, I must admit I was nervous about teaching DeVon, for two reasons. One, he had indisputably ruined a classroom, the evidence was clear: overturned desks, thrown chairs, ripped bulletin boards, smashed supplies. I wasn’t especially afraid DeVon would hurt me, but I did fear a similar display could destroy whatever sense of security and safety other students and their parents might have with my classroom. I was also aware that my failure to prevent another outburst from DeVon meant I would have to deal with John Doe, which I was absolutely determined not to do. So the stage was set before the actors were set to appear.

Finally next fall I welcomed DeVon to my classroom. DeVon was a slight, wiry child with bright, animated features, finely arched eyebrows, an impressive vocabulary, and the driest sense of humor I had ever encountered in a fifth grader. He smiled very little unless he was offering a witticism, sometimes in the middle of a class discussion. Example:

Me: [to the class] “So what do you think it meant in that sentence when the author said Jim was precocious?”

DeVon: “Don’t you mean perspicacious?”

Me: “No, I meant precocious, but thank you for having perspicacity to make that point.”

Needless to say, the other ten-year-olds sat there, dumbstruck. Sometimes these moments made me laugh to myself when I saw their bewildered faces staring at us. It was as though we were playing tennis in a different league; the class would lob the ball when suddenly- SMASH! DeVon would send a salvo over the net, and- CRASH! I would meet his shot with an overhead smash. The class was our gallery, heads moving side to side with each verbal parry. I felt like Billie Jean King during these moments.

Other times were tough. DeVon’s superior language skills masked an inability to read the emotions of his peers.  DeVon was clearly a stranger in a strange land. An African-American kid whose highly-educated parents didn’t socialize much within the small, historically isolated African-American coastal community. DeVon must have felt like a misfit, particularly with his quirky bookishness, fondness for X-Men comics, and unpredictable moods. Quick to pick up on a slight, real or perceived, DeVon would proclaim loudly, “Miss Zeh, THEY’RE PICKING ON ME AGAIN! I’M GOING TO HURT SOMEONE!!” Fortunately I discovered that quick removal from the source of DeVon’s irritation, followed by a quiet one-on-one talk was sufficient to allow him to regain his composure. During these times I discovered the extent to which DeVon, really a serious and very literal child by nature, struggled to fit in such a nuanced world, where neither his parents, teachers, or peers could offer much sympathy or guidance.

One thing DeVon loved to do, I noticed, was recite a speech or poem. So when I assigned some extra credit challenges he was quick to jump on the opportunity. I won’t forget his spot-on recital of Lincoln’s Gettysburg address or Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech. Even better, his performance impressed his classmates to applaud for him, which was one of the few times I remember seeing him smile. Then there was “Licensed to Ill,” the Beastie Boys album. He talked nonstop for days about this New York rap band. “But Miss Zeh, they’re white kids!” was his explanation why he should be allowed permission to bring the album to school. He figured I thought white kids didn’t curse. Finally the Friday afternoon came when DeVon brought the album. “OK, did you pick out one for me to hear that won’t embarrass either of us?” I asked.  “Yes ma’am!” “You Gotta Fight For Your Right to Party” never sounded better.

Endnote:  The axe-murderer prediction? Last time I heard of DeVon’s whereabouts was from his father. It was probably a dozen years after he’d been in my fifth grade class, and I was attending a meeting with some community leaders in my capacity as a school principal. I approached Mr. Hughes, who didn’t remember me, and inquired about DeVon. His stern expression brightened immediately. “You were one of his favorite teachers,” he said. “DeVon is studying for his Master’s Degree in engineering at N.C. State. He plans to become an officer in the military.”

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