I was too afraid to say anything but, “Yes, ma’am.”
The next day we arrived at the swim meet late, missing my group of swimmers in the fifteen/sixteen age group. My coach insisted I be allowed to swim with the next group, the next age older. I could have just as easily crawled out of the gym. I knew she was including me in the race so our long drive would not be wasted, and she had no expectations whatsoever that I would come in anything but eighth—and only that because there were not nine lanes.
As I mounted the board, I quickly noticed that these girls with their skintight caps, goggles and Speedo suits were here to do one thing—kick my chocolate butt!
All of a sudden my grandma’s words rang in my head, Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
SPLASH!
Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
I was swimming harder than I’d ever swum before. As I drew my right arm back, I noticed I was tied with one person. I assumed we were battling for eighth place and I refused to finish dead last, so I added more kick on the last two hundred yards.
Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
I hit the wall and looked to the left and to the right for the swimmers who had beat me, but no one was there. They must have gotten out of the water already.
I raised my head to see my coach screaming hysterically. My eyes followed her pointing finger and I couldn’t believe what I saw. The other swimmers had just reached the halfway point of the pool! That day, at age fifteen, I broke the national seventeen/eighteen-year-old 400-freestyle record. I hung up my honorable mentions and replaced them with a huge trophy.
Back at Grandma’s, I laid my head on her lap and told her about our great race.
Lisa Nichols
Hand-Me-Down Love
Character is what you know you are, not what others think you have.
Marva Collins
It was a typical spring day in my local high school science class. Each student was to show proficiency in anatomy by dissecting a frog. We were called up in alphabetical order. My day was today, and I was ready for the task.
I wore my favorite power shirt—the one I knew I looked good in, the one everyone told me I looked good in. I had studied and was ready for the assignment. When my name was called I walked confidently to the front of the room, smiled to the class and grabbed the scalpel to begin the task.
A voice from the back of the room said, “Nice shirt.”
I beamed from ear to ear, when suddenly another voice from the back of the room said, “That shirt belonged to my Dad. Greg’s mother is our maid and she took that shirt out of a bag headed for the Salvation Army.”
My heart sank. I was speechless. It was probably one minute, but it felt like ten minutes of total emptiness and embarrassment in front of my peers. Vice President of Student Government, born with a gift of gab, I stood for the first time in my life speechless with nothing to say. As I looked to the left, another African American whose mother was also a maid, looked down; to my right, the only other African American in the class laughed out loud. I wanted to crawl into a hole.
My biology teacher asked me to begin the dissection. I stood speechless; he repeated the question. After total silence, he said, “Mr. Franklin, you may be seated. Your grade, a D.”
I don’t know which was more embarrassing, receiving the low mark or being found out. At home, I stuck the shirt in the back of the closet. My mom found the shirt and brought it to the front. This time I put it in the middle of the closet. Again, she moved it to the front.
A few weeks passed and my mom asked why had I not worn the shirt. I responded, “I just don’t like it anymore.”
She pressed with more questions. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I had been raised to tell the truth. I explained what had happened in front of the whole class.
Mom sat in total silence while tears fell from her eyes. Then she stood and called her employer, “I will no longer work for your family,” she told him, and asked for an apology for the incident at school. My mom was quiet for the rest of the day. At dinner, where she was typically the life of the family, Mom was totally quiet. After the kids were down for the night, I stood outside my mom and dad’s door to hear what was going on.
In tears, Mom shared her humiliation with my dad— how she had quit her job and how embarrassed she felt for me. She said she couldn’t clean anymore; she knew her life’s purpose was something greater.
“What do you want to do?” Dad asked.
“Teach children,” she answered with sudden clarity.
“You have no education.” Dad pointed out.
With conviction she said, “Well, that’s what I want to do, and I am going to find a way to make it happen.”
The next morning she met with the personnel manager at the Board of Education, who thanked her for her interest but told her without an education she could not teach school. That evening Mom, a mother of seven children and a high school graduate far removed from school, shared with us her new plans to attend the university.
Mom started her studies by taking nine hours. She spread her books at the dining room table, studying right along with the rest of us.
After her first semester, she immediately went back to the personnel manager and asked for a teaching assignment. Again she was told, “Not without an education.”
Mom went back to school the second semester, took six more hours and again went back to the personnel manager.
He said, “You are serious, aren’t you? I think I have a position for you as a teacher’s assistant. This opportunity is dealing with children who are mentally challenged, slow learners with, in many cases, little to no chance of learning. This is the highest area of teacher turnover due to sheer frustration.”
Mom leaped at the opportunity.
She got us kids ready for school in the morning, went to work and came home and fixed dinner. I knew it was tough, but it is what she wanted to do and she did it with so much love. For almost five years my Mom was a teacher’s assistant at the Starkey Special Education Center. Then, after three teacher changes during that five-year period, the personnel manager and the principal showed up in her classroom one day.
The principal said, “We have watched you and admired your diligence over the last five years. We have watched how you interact with the children and how they interact with you. We’ve talked to the other teachers, and we are all in agreement that you should be the teacher of this class.”
My mom spent twenty-plus years with the Wichita Public School System. Through her career, she was voted Teacher of the Year for both her work with the Special Olympics and the special education center. All of this came about because of the thoughtless comment made in the classroom that day.
It has been said children learn not from what you say, but what you do. Mom showed me how to look challenging situations in the face and never give up.
As for me, my biology teacher approached me as I gathered my books to leave the classroom that day. He said, “I know this was a tough day for you, but I will give you a second chance on the assignment tomorrow.”
I showed up, dissected the frog, and he changed my grade from a D to a B. I challenged him for an A, but he said, “You should have gotten it right the first time. It would be unfair to others.”
As I grabbed my books and walked toward the door, he said, “Do you think you are the only one who has had to wear used clothes? Do you think you are the only one who has grown up poor?”
I responded with an assured, “Yes!”
My teacher put his arm around me and shared his story of growing up during the depression, and how on his graduation day he was laughed at because he did not have enough money for a cap and gown. He showed up with the same pants and shirt he wore to school every day.
He said, “I know how you felt; my heart went out to you. But you know something, kid? I
have faith in you. I think you are going to be something special. I can feel it in my heart.”
I was speechless again. Both of us were fighting back the tears, but I felt the love from him—a white man reaching out to a young black student who had been bussed across town.
I went on to become President of the Student Body, and my teacher was my mentor. Before I opened assembly, I would always look for him and he would give me a thumbs up—a secret only he and I shared.
It was at that point I realized that we are all the same— different colors, different backgrounds, but many of our experiences are the same. We all want to be happy; we all want great things in life. My teacher and my mother showed me that it’s not what you wear, your education or your money, but what’s in your heart that counts.
Greg Franklin
The Fragile Eight
Hold a true friend with both hands.
African Proverb
“Please,” appealed the principal. “Nobody can handle him. Please take him.”
It was the fall of 1987, in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She stood in the spacious hall with Brad Earlewine, the new D-Level special education teacher, discussing eight-year-old Roscoe Williams. This child’s aggressive behavior seemed devoid of sensitivity and reason, yet he was so likable. The veteran principal couldn’t understand the boy.
Roscoe was a hyperactive, severely learning-disabled child with a communication disorder. He couldn’t walk down a hall without causing trouble. He was a whirl of motion; a tiny, black-bespectacled tempest in a teapot. A spindly-legged catastrophe dressed in a Superman cape. There was talk about a behavior disorder condition to add to the baggage he was already carrying.
After batteries of tests, Roscoe was placed in Earlewine’s class. The minute the pair looked at each other, there was a certain magic, like two elements combining, both stimulating and challenging each other. Single, caring and gentle, Earlewine held a degree in special education and even trained for the priesthood.
A maverick to tradition, he looked for ways to get inside his kids’ heads, trying to find a key. His eight “Fragile Ds” as he soon called them, provided his first experience at this level. The bunch had it all. Some were orphans, some sexually abused. Some were full of rage, some immeasurable sorrow. Some possessed every kind of handicap, even genius imprisoned by mixed-up neurology. Like human pincushions stuck with dozens of fluttering labels, they were often the butt of cruel jokes.
“We just don’t stand being called names!” he instructed his kids hotly. “Face up to them! Be brave. Don’t take it!”
But they took it.
He taught the three Rs, placing each child on an individualized program of studies, but after weeks he couldn’t find the spark. One day he thought of his beloved, crusty old uncle who’d taught him chess.
Unorthodox? he mused. Yeah. Why not! It’s worth a shot.
He brought a children’s chess book to class and began reading the fairytale-like myths that explained the basics. Within a week, the Fragiles, especially Roscoe, gobbled up everything. Earlewine purchased boards for school and sent one home with each kid. While they all showed real promise with the game, Roscoe was the bold, tactical player.
A few weeks later, Earlewine, an adept player, realized that the boy was thinking five to seven moves ahead after only the barest of instruction. Roscoe started studying his teacher’s moves and beat him five times in a row.
Something else began to happen in that portable classroom as well. The Fragiles were changing. As they grasped more and more chess, a newfound courage began to emerge. They were absorbed, more confident, purposeful and even proud.
Earlewine began a before-school chess club. Dozens of kids flocked in, to be taught and played by the Fragiles. It was only a matter of time before the little team began beating junior- and senior-high chess clubs. Boldly, Earlewine entered the whole team in the chess nationals to be held in Albuquerque where eight hundred top U.S. kids would assemble for the challenge.
Tiny Roscoe Williams became America’s newest junior chess champion. Sitting atop four telephone books, he beat a large junior-high boy who never knew what happened until the checkmate. Newspaper reporters stared incredulously when Earlewine explained that his Fragiles, dressed in hand-decorated school Ts instead of classy wool blazers with team crests, were D-level special education students.
Saturday, February 11, 1989, dawned sunny after many days of snow and rain. Roscoe, full of starch and vinegar, hopped onto his bike, to deliver candy for the chess club’s recent fund-raiser. Laughing at a friend, he looked back over his shoulder, and sailed right through the stop sign. There was a screech of brakes and a horrible thud.
Roscoe hit the side of the automobile, rolled over the hood, flew thirty feet through the air, and struck the median with the right side of his head.
A week later Earlewine was finally allowed to see his young student. Roscoe’s face was unrecognizable. His body was there, but it was a hollow shell more dead than alive. Earlewine joined the ancient practice of the laying-on of hands by adding his white hands to a dozen black ones, all members of the Pilgrim’s Rest Church, who touched the bandaged broken lump under the covers. Voices sang old spirituals that rose and floated softly into the beautiful Southwest’s burgeoning spring evenings.
Roscoe was transferred to the Carrie Tingley Hospital for Crippled Children, unable to move or talk. He was tube-fed because of mouth sutures and fractured teeth. It looked as if he was going to keep his eyes, but mental functioning was almost zero.
At school, Earlewine set up a tape recording station where the Fragiles could make daily personal messages to their friend.
“Please come back, we miss you,” they’d record. “Do you remember me?”
The teacher asked that the videotapes of past chess matches be played twenty-four hours a day. He sneaked kids to the bedside. One day, Earlewine brought a chessboard and set it up in front of the zombie that was Roscoe. By now, Roscoe’s eyes were open, but no recognition, no spark, no life was living within.
“Okay, Buddy,” the teacher began, “when I hold my hand over a piece, and you see a move you want to make, blink your eyes.”
Earlewine touched pieces one at a time, pointing to all the possible moves, looking up and waiting. On the last choice, he detected the barest twitch.
“He’s awake!” the teacher ran hollering down the hall.
Nobody believed him, but Earlewine didn’t give up.
Finally released home, one day Roscoe said, “Uh-huh,” his old stock phrase. But he made little progress past that. When authorities wanted to put him in a training school for the mentally handicapped, Earlewine demanded his student back.
“I can do this! My kids can do this,” he beseeched. “Give us two weeks. Please.”
The Fragiles cut Roscoe’s food. They fed him, toileted him. They never left his side, nor did they stop talking to him or wrapping him in their arms. Earlewine told the kids they had to believe Roscoe was in there, and he would return. Every one of them surrounded their friend with such patient compassion and such unending tenderness that one day there was a spark in his eyes—just the barest flash of memory.
“You remember!” they cheered.
“Uh-huh,” he chuckled.
And the remembering continued. Things flooded back in torrents. Through the days, their old Roscoe came back for longer and longer periods, and so did the sparkle and even the two-step. The kids supplied missing pieces anytime he needed them. The little group of barrio kids and their very special teacher never broke the circle of kind and gentle caring, praise and celebrations. They simply willed him, loved him back to life.
In the spring of 1990, the Fragiles, including Roscoe, went to the Kansas City Nationals, a chess tournament that attracted one thousand players. The boy who was loved back to health won a gold medal and placed tenth in the nation.
Isabel Bearman Bucher
[AUTHOR’S NOTE: Roscoe and Brad Earlewine are still close. Every cou
ple of months, they meet and set up the board. Roscoe volunteers time teaching chess to kids in after school programs, and Brad still dazzles his students with the game of Kings.]
A Hardworking Man’s Hand
A dream doesn’t become a reality through magic; it takes sweat, determination and hard work.
Colin L. Powell
When I was eight years old, I started UNEEC (Urban Neighborhood Economic Enterprise Club), an investment club designed to help kids in the neighborhood turn our ideas and hobbies into bona fide businesses. We didn’t have much—we lived in one of Chicago’s poorest neighborhoods, the kind with more trash than trees and where people are so poor, hurt and frustrated that they begin to hurt themselves and others. I dreamed at night of getting my momma out of this place. I decided that, even if I had to work day and night, I would do whatever it took—my momma wouldn’t grow old waiting to get out of this neighborhood. I had a dream to make it out one day, and I knew that all a kid needed, even an inner-city kid, was a dream.
I had been selling products door to door since I was four. I’d accompanied my mother to business meetings since I was five. At six, I made my own business cards that said, “Farrah Gray, Future 21st Century CEO.” By eight, I knew that it takes hard work to create a business, but I didn’t yet know quite how much hard work.
My first job as leader of UNEEC was to find a place to meet. I spent days calling just about every hotel in Chicago before a local Ramada Inn owner gave us a small room to meet in every Saturday for two hours, with free pizza and soda. We were on our way—now all I needed was to find us all a ride.
All the members lived in the same neighborhood, but most of our parents didn’t own cars. Mostly they used public transportation. I let my fingers do the walking in the phone book to find a taxicab company that could help us out with the free rides to and from the Ramada Inn. Nobody would help; lots of people laughed at me. It was a great lesson in business, because I was learning never to give up.
Then someone suggested the airport shuttles, which were even better than taxis because you could fit all eleven or twelve of us kids in one van. After a lot of rejections, I finally reached an owner-driver who listened to my story very attentively. He recognized my age from my voice; I recognized his general age range because his voice and speech were similar to my “old school” relatives.
Chicken Soup for the African American Soul Page 11