Read Online An American Story by Debra J. Dickerson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Debra J. Dickerson
Tags: Fiction
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rules, I did accept them as a fact of life and focused on mastering, rather than resisting, them.
If I was kept home with a cold, Iâd beg to go to school; if extra credit was offered, I went for it. I was always tracked Group I, always got Eâs (Excellent), even in conduct and citizenship; and I was never, ever sent to the principalâs office. Learning was everything.
It was books that did it to me. In every spare moment, I begged permission to light out for the neighborhood library, grimy and substandard even then but a treasure room to me. I can remember it pulling me, even across full-humidity, scorching St. Louis summer middays. Standing in the foyer looking in at all the books and maps and encyclopedias and microfiche and Dewey decimals, I felt a giddy rush of pleasure.
I was always the star of the reading program: the only name in ink, mine was always first on the bulletin-board rankings. Following it was what looked like an intergalactic explosion. Many stars (all gold, even during my week of chicken pox) followed it; the librarians had given up on neatness and snuggled them in wherever they could.
Hours later, Iâd struggle home with my load of hardbacks and fan my new books out in front of me. Iâd open each book and sniff the pages. Most of them hadnât been opened in years; these had an intoxicating, loamy smell I craved almost as much as the printed words themselves.
I rubbed my face in them and imagined that undiscovered tombs had this smell, the smell of papyrus scrolls inscribed with the musings of ancients, lost under shifting desert sands. The places I encountered in these books were no less otherworldly to me. Going to the library was like happening upon the keys to the enemyâs storehouse. I couldnât believe they just gave them to me.
ââ
I would lay the books out alphabetically by title, then alphabetically by authorâs name, next by publication date (I adored the administrative fine print in books), finally by subject matter. The ritual complete, I solemnly eenie-meenie-miney-moed to see which went first. Back against the door, drunk with anticipation, Iâd dive into
The Once and Future King
or
The House of the Seven Gables.
4933 Terry Avenue slipped farther and farther away.
THE PROMISED LAND
I wanted gifted school so badly I couldnât sleep at night. Much as I loved school, I had come to dislike Benton. The classes had long since ceased to be challenging; the teachers resented me because I corrected them and asked questions they couldnât answer; the other kids hated me. I was such a nebbish, even my own siblings had taken to disowning me in public. But my father didnât want me going to school with whites and my mother opposed busing. She also wouldnât allow me to skip any grades, primarily, I believe, because it offended her sense of order. But I begged and begged and begged.
I wanted that special knowledge to which only whites had access. I knew that if I stayed at Benton, stayed in my neighborhood, Iâd only know what whites wanted me to know. If I went to their school, though, Iâd know what they knew. This was not a political act. I wasnât concerned that black people in general gain access to this special knowledge. I didnât intend to work for revolution or to help my people or cure cancer. I just wanted more.
In the end, I wore my parents out with my begging. They let me go. I left black north St. Louis and began my many years of long bus commutes. At nine, starting in the fifth grade, I went from an entirely black world to being one of only a handful of blacks, for the first time a practical rather than just a statistical minority. Gifted school was wonderful. Gifted school was awful.
At Wade Elementary, the classwork was as rewarding as I could have hoped; Harvard Law School included, I have yet to have a more intellectually stimulating experience. Early in the fifth grade, Miss Albrecht brought
If I was kept home with a cold, Iâd beg to go to school; if extra credit was offered, I went for it. I was always tracked Group I, always got Eâs (Excellent), even in conduct and citizenship; and I was never, ever sent to the principalâs office. Learning was everything.
It was books that did it to me. In every spare moment, I begged permission to light out for the neighborhood library, grimy and substandard even then but a treasure room to me. I can remember it pulling me, even across full-humidity, scorching St. Louis summer middays. Standing in the foyer looking in at all the books and maps and encyclopedias and microfiche and Dewey decimals, I felt a giddy rush of pleasure.
I was always the star of the reading program: the only name in ink, mine was always first on the bulletin-board rankings. Following it was what looked like an intergalactic explosion. Many stars (all gold, even during my week of chicken pox) followed it; the librarians had given up on neatness and snuggled them in wherever they could.
Hours later, Iâd struggle home with my load of hardbacks and fan my new books out in front of me. Iâd open each book and sniff the pages. Most of them hadnât been opened in years; these had an intoxicating, loamy smell I craved almost as much as the printed words themselves.
I rubbed my face in them and imagined that undiscovered tombs had this smell, the smell of papyrus scrolls inscribed with the musings of ancients, lost under shifting desert sands. The places I encountered in these books were no less otherworldly to me. Going to the library was like happening upon the keys to the enemyâs storehouse. I couldnât believe they just gave them to me.
ââ
I would lay the books out alphabetically by title, then alphabetically by authorâs name, next by publication date (I adored the administrative fine print in books), finally by subject matter. The ritual complete, I solemnly eenie-meenie-miney-moed to see which went first. Back against the door, drunk with anticipation, Iâd dive into
The Once and Future King
or
The House of the Seven Gables.
4933 Terry Avenue slipped farther and farther away.
THE PROMISED LAND
I wanted gifted school so badly I couldnât sleep at night. Much as I loved school, I had come to dislike Benton. The classes had long since ceased to be challenging; the teachers resented me because I corrected them and asked questions they couldnât answer; the other kids hated me. I was such a nebbish, even my own siblings had taken to disowning me in public. But my father didnât want me going to school with whites and my mother opposed busing. She also wouldnât allow me to skip any grades, primarily, I believe, because it offended her sense of order. But I begged and begged and begged.
I wanted that special knowledge to which only whites had access. I knew that if I stayed at Benton, stayed in my neighborhood, Iâd only know what whites wanted me to know. If I went to their school, though, Iâd know what they knew. This was not a political act. I wasnât concerned that black people in general gain access to this special knowledge. I didnât intend to work for revolution or to help my people or cure cancer. I just wanted more.
In the end, I wore my parents out with my begging. They let me go. I left black north St. Louis and began my many years of long bus commutes. At nine, starting in the fifth grade, I went from an entirely black world to being one of only a handful of blacks, for the first time a practical rather than just a statistical minority. Gifted school was wonderful. Gifted school was awful.
At Wade Elementary, the classwork was as rewarding as I could have hoped; Harvard Law School included, I have yet to have a more intellectually stimulating experience. Early in the fifth grade, Miss Albrecht brought
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