Anthology of literature of Self Discovery: Racial Attitudes - Term Paper Example

? Anthology of literature of Self –Discovery: Racial Attitudes Introductory Overview Self-discovery is one of the most covered themes in many literature materials in American society. This anthology explores the major theme of self-discovery with concentration on the theme of racial attitudes. Major artists in poetry, short stories and songs have handled racial attitudes. This anthology will explore six pieces on racial attitudes that have been reflected in American literature since the 18th century. Three poems, two short stories and one song are covered in this collection. The three poems that this collection will constitute include, Still I Rise by Maya Angelou , Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane  by Etheridge Knight and Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person Could Believe in the War Between Races by Lorna Dee Cervantes. The Short Stories that this anthology features are After You, My Dear Alphonse by Shirley Jackson, The Test by Angelica Gibbs and The Lesson by Toni Cade Bambara. Those who are considered to be from the other races relate all these pieces as they reflect on racial discrimination attitudes in the US. The authors and artists who have been chosen are some of the most famous modern American writers. The theme of racial discrimination was chosen because it fits in the context of self-discovery in the American perspective. The issues of race were fought vigorously by activists in the American society from the in the years before 1970’s. Writers and authors were some of the people on the forefront of breaking the racial divide amongst the black and the whites. Over time, racial discrimination in public has been wiped. However, there is still an existing crop of individuals who hold racial prejudices in the United States. This has become more dangerous than the Jim Crow era where many people died. Racial discrimination against American Asians, Latino Americans and black Americans is still very common. This anthology tries to bring back the history of the fight against racial attitudes in the United States. The purpose of choosing these pieces is because they carry a strong message that will remind Americans on the attitudes and dangers of racial attitudes in the nation’s history. The Lesson is a story told from the perspective of the protagonist, narration. Sylvia is a young African American girl, strong resolve, bright, and the understandable leader of a group of friends. Sylvia is college educated when she comes back to his economically deprived district on weekends and takes the local kids on field expeditions of a sort. On the particular trip, she lets the kids experience their first journey in a cab to a toy store in Manhattan. The story is a lesson to Sylvia who is smart and tries to show the kids the power of money. The attitude by the black society of self discovery through education is shown by Sylvia. The power of Money is the great divide between the have and the Have not’s as portrayed by Bambara. Main Body Still I Rise by Maya Angelou is a poem with themes of racism and discrimination experienced by women and her ancestors through the course of slavery and racial discrimination. Angelou paints a picture of a woman who is different from other slaves as she stands tall and she will not let anyone or anything or anyone put her down. She is who she is and will not let anyone pull her down. In this poem, the attitudes that come out clearly are the attitudes against racial injustices. Angelou portrays that even in racial discrimination, racial attitudes can be overcome by positive attitudes. These positive attitudes that Angelou encourages are geared towards self discovery of those who are oppressed. Knight’s conception of Hard Rock as a Black legendary hero is triumphant. Hard Rock has represents the Black man within and beyond prison walls who has ultimately been broken by the overriding forces in a cruel society. To the poet, Hard Rock had been the essence of what the African American man views as his liberty, which was being his own man. Now, the detainees hear that he had altered as the prison structure had imposed a lobotomy upon him. The attitudes that are reflected in this poem are those of a strong man who has been broken down by other oppressive forces. The racist had killed the liberty of the black man according to Knight. The strong attitudes of the Black man have been killed by overpowering forces. In this poem, Knight reminds his audience to remember their liberty and not to let it die. A poem like this arouses self-discovery in the readers. Cervantes writes this poem after her friend, novelist who is the “young white man” in this poem, questioned, “How can you, an intelligent well-read person, believe in the war between races?” Cervantes was so bothered by the query and even became angry and with his question humming in her, she speaks out loudly on her attitudes on racism while highlighting the experience of racism. The experience of racism is clear in this poem. In this poem, Cervantes portrays her attitudes on racism. Her path to self-rediscovery is clearly shown in the poem as she answers the sarcastic question before her. The experience of racial discrimination is clearly In “After You, My Dear Alphonse" Jackson tells the story of Mrs. Wilson, who welcomes her son Johnny and his friend, Boyd, an African American boy. Boyd and Johnny are warmly welcomed but Mrs. Wilson goes on to ask Boyd questions about his family on a racially based tone. She assumes that they boy comes from a poor family as he is black. The conversation in the story portrays the misconceptions and attitudes of Whites or blacks due to racism. Boyd is clever and answers the entire questions in a witty way. A reader will be inclined to note that racial misconceptions are misleading. The path to self-discovery in the story is outlined in Mrs Wilsons interaction with Boyd. The test is a racially charged article by Angelica Gibbs. In the Test, Marian a young black girl, who has just graduated from college, is accompanied by Mrs. Erickson, a white woman, to her second driving test. Marian had already flunked the first test because the white inspector failed her while she was taking the test. In her second attempt, the inspector is still white but looks wiser. He however goes on taking about black people in a derogatory manner until Marian cannot take it anymore. She loses her patience and at last, she ends up stopping the white inspector in his comments. This leads to her failure. The attitudes of the white racists against blacks are shown in this story and in doing so; Gibbs opens up the platform of another hot racial discussion. The black people are denied opportunities in this setting. Self Discovery by Marian leads to her failure in getting a drivers license. The attitudes on racial injustice are quite evident in the Story. Conclusion The six pieces of literature that the anthology assembles have very strong thematic relationships that revolve around racial discrimination. Through these pieces, the readers will go on a self-discovery journey that will remind them the ills of segregation. The articles will remind Americans about the bumpy ride on which liberty and freedom was founded. To those who are racially abused, these pieces will create positive attitudes that will encourage them to embrace new heights. In conclusion, these articles have reminded me of the pain and suffering that people went through to attain racial equality. My attitudes against racial profiling have been rediscovered. POEMS STILL I RISE BY MAYA ANGELOU Maya Angelou- Biographical Sketch Maya Angelou is one of the most renowned American writers and human rights champion. Dr Maya Angelou was born in St Louis Missouri in 1928. She is widely celebrated world wide as a feminist champion, a black activist, a writer, a poet, educator, actress, historian and filmmaker. She has won numerous accolades for her works. Her childhood and part of adulthood were quite hard as she experienced rape and racial discrimination. One of her most famous pieces is the poem, I know why the caged the bird sings. As a widely travelled, feminist and civil rights activists, Dr Angelou Speaks Spanish, French, Arabic, Italian and Fanti. Her interaction with Malcolm x influenced her work greatly on racism. She has served in two presidential committees. Her deep roots in activism reflect itself in her poetry and other works. She is a renowned educator and a revered feminist champion (Bloom, 2002). STILL I RISE You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. HARD ROCK RETURNS TO PRISON FROM THE HOSPITAL FOR THE CRIMINAL INSANE  BY ETHERIDGE KNIGHT Etheridge Knight- Biography Etheridge Knight was born in Corinth, Mississippi in 1931. He spent most of her childhood in Paducah, Kentucky. During his childhood, he experienced a hard, destitute upbringing. Her served in the Korean war as a paramedic before he was injured and returned back to the US. While back in the US Knight went back to drug addiction, which had started before his enlistment. Due to depression and disillusionment, Knight was arrested for a theft that he committed to sustain his drug addiction. From 1960 to 1968, he was imprisoned at Indiana State Prison. It was while in prison that Knight discovered his poetic talent. The prison gave him an audience that could listen to his work. Prison was to greatly influence his work. His first book, Poems from Prison, was published in 1968 to coincide with his release from prison. Other titles under his name include, Black Voices from Prison, was (1970), Belly Song and Other Poems(1973), and Born of a Woman: New and Selected Poems (1980). Knight Succumbed to lung cancer in 1991 at an Indianapolis hospital (Klein, 2000).  Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane  Hard Rock / was / "known not to take no shit From nobody," and he had the scars to prove it: Split purple lips, lumbed ears, welts above His yellow eyes, and one long scar that cut Across his temple and plowed through a thick Canopy of kinky hair. The WORD / was / that Hard Rock wasn't a mean nigger Anymore, that the doctors had bored a hole in his head, Cut out part of his brain, and shot electricity Through the rest. When they brought Hard Rock back, Handcuffed and chained, he was turned loose, Like a freshly gelded stallion, to try his new status. And we all waited and watched, like a herd of sheep, To see if the WORD was true. As we waited we wrapped ourselves in the cloak Of his exploits: "Man, the last time, it took eight Screws to put him in the Hole." "Yeah, remember when he Smacked the captain with his dinner tray?" "He set The record for time in the Hole--67 straight days!" "Ol Hard Rock! man, that's one crazy nigger." And then the jewel of a myth that Hard Rock had once bit A screw on the thumb and poisoned him with syphilitic spit. The testing came, to see if Hard Rock was really tame. A hillbilly called him a black son of a bitch And didn't lose his teeth, a screw who knew Hard Rock From before shook him down and barked in his face. And Hard Rock did nothing. Just grinned and looked silly, His eyes empty like knot holes in a fence.  And even after we discovered that it took Hard Rock Exactly 3 minutes to tell you his first name, We told ourselves that he had just wised up, Was being cool; but we could not fool ourselves for long, And we turned away, our eyes on the ground. Crushed. He had been our Destroyer, the doer of things We dreamed of doing but could not bring ourselves to do, The fears of years, like a biting whip, Had cut deep bloody grooves Across our backs POEM FOR THE YOUNG WHITE MAN WHO ASKED ME HOW I, AN INTELLIGENT, WELL-READ PERSON COULD BELIEVE IN THE WAR BETWEEN RACES BY LORNA DEE CERVANTES Lorna Dee Cervantes- Biography Lorna Dee Cervantes was born in 1954 in San Francisco California. Cervantes has been considered as the greatest Native American poet of the last forty years. Her writing circumvents her feministic and activism views. In her youth, Cervantes was never allowed to speak any other language except English by her parents who wanted to avoid racism that was very prominent in her community. She has worked as a lecturer in various universities. Her famous works include Ciento: 100 100-Word Love Poems (2011), DRIVE: The First Quartet, From the Cables of Genocide: Poems on Love and Hunger (1991), Emplumada (1981), Red Dirt (co-editor), a cross-cultural poetry journal, Mango (founder), a literary review, Unsettling America: An Anthology of Contemporary Multicultural Poetry (eds. Maria Mazziotti Gillan and Jennifer Gillan, 1994), No More Masks! An Anthology of Twentieth-Century Women Poets (ed. Florence Howe, 1993) and After Aztlan: Latino Poets of the Nineties (ed. Ray Gonzalez,1992), (Cervantes, 2006). Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person Could Believe in the War Between Races In my land there are no distinctions. The barbed wire politics of oppression have been torn down long ago. The only reminder of past battles, lost or won, is a slight rutting in the fertile fields. In my land people write poems about love, full of nothing but contented childlike syllables. Everyone reads Russian short stories and weeps. There are no boundaries. There is no hunger, no complicated famine or greed. I am not a revolutionary. I don’t even like political poems. Do you think I can believe in a war between races? I can deny it. I can forget about it when I’m safe, living on my own continent of harmony and home, but I am not there. I believe in revolution because everywhere the crosses are burning, sharp-shooting goose-steppers round every corner, there are snipers in the schools… (I know you don’t believe this. You think this is nothing but faddish exaggeration. But they are not shooting at you.) I’m marked by the color of my skin. The bullets are discrete and designed to kill slowly. They are aiming at my children. These are facts. Let me show you my wounds: my stumbling mind, my “excuse me” tongue, and this nagging preoccupation with the feeling of not being good enough. These bullets bury deeper than logic. Racism is not intellectual. I cannot reason these scars away. Outside my door there is a real enemy who hates me. I am a poet who yearns to dance on rooftops, to whisper delicate lines about joy and the blessings of human understanding. I try. I go to my land, my tower of words and bolt the door, but the typewriter doesn’t fade out the sounds of blasting and muffled outrage. My own days bring me slaps on the face. Every day I am deluged with reminders that this is not my land and this is my land. I do not believe in the war between races but in this country there is war. SHORT STORIES AFTER YOU, MY DEAR ALPHONSE BY SHIRLEY JACKSON Shirley Jackson- Biography Shirley Jackson was born in San Francisco in 1916 in a middle-class family, She later on Moved to New York with His father where she attended Rochester and Syracuse university. While at Syracuse, she worked as an editor for the University Paper. It was while working here that her skills as a writer were horned. Her poor health and heavy smoking lead to her premature death at the age of 49. Before her death, Jackson was working on her Novel Come with me. Jackson’s style of writing has always been considered as wide due to the varying topics and styles that she used in her works. Her writing varied from short story fiction and nonfiction, horror books and essay. Her influence and writing style can be seen clearly in the writings of Richard Matheson and Stephen King. Some of Her famous works include, The Road Through the Wall, 1948  Hangsaman, 1951  The Bird's Nest, 1954  The Sundial, 1958 and We Have Always Lived in the Castle, 1962 (Bloom, 2001). After You, My Dear Alphonse Mrs. Wilson was just taking the gingerbread out of the oven when she heard Johnny outside talking to someone. “Johnny,” she called, “you’re late. Come in and get your lunch.” “Just a minute, Mother,” Johnny said. “After you, my dear Alphonse.” “After you, my dear Alphonse,” another voice said. “No, after you, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said. Mrs. Wilson opened the door. “Johnny,” she said, “you come in this minute and get your lunch. You can play after you’ve eaten.” Johnny came in after her, slowly. “Mother,” he said, “I brought Boyd home for lunch with me. “Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson thought for a moment. “I don’t believe I’ve met Boyd. Bring him in, dear, since you’ve invited him. Lunch is ready.” “Boyd!” Johnny yelled. “Hey, Boyd, come on. “I’m coming. Just got to unload this stuff.” “Well, hurry, or my mother’ll be sore.” “Johnny, that’s not very polite to either your friend or your mother,” Mrs. Wilson said. “Come sit down, Boyd.” As she turned to show Boyd where to sit, she saw he was a Negro boy, smaller than Johnny but about the same age. His arms were loaded with split kindling wood. “Where’ll I put this stuff, Johnny?” he asked. Mrs. Wilson turned to Johnny. “Johnny,” she said, “what is that wood?” “Dead Japanese,” Johnny said mildly. “We stand them in the ground and run over them with tanks.” “How do you do, Mrs. Wilson?” Boyd said. “How do you do, Boyd? You shouldn’t let Johnny make you carry all that wood. Sit down now and eat lunch, both of you. “Why shouldn’t he carry the wood, Mother? It’s his wood. We got it at his place.” “Johnny,” Mrs. Wilson said, “go on and eat your lunch.” “Sure,” Johnny said. He held out the dish of scrambled eggs to Boyd. “After you, my dear 2 Alphonse.” “After you, my dear Alphonse,” Boyd said. “After you, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said. They began to giggle. “Are you hungry, Boyd?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “Yes, Mrs. Wilson.” “Well, don’t you let Johnny stop you. He always fusses about eating, so you just see that you get a good lunch. There’s plenty of food here for you to have all you want.” “Thank you, Mrs. Wilson.” “Come on, Alphonse,” Johnny said. He pushed half the scrambled eggs on to Boyd’s plate. Boyd watched while Mrs. Wilson put a dish of stewed tomatoes beside his plate. “Boyd don’t eat tomatoes, do you, Boyd?” Johnny said. “Doesn’t eat tomatoes, Johnny. And just because you don’t like them, don’t say that about Boyd. Boyd will eat anything.” “Bet he won’t,” Johnny said, attacking his scrambled eggs. “Boyd wants to grow up and be a big strong man so he can work hard,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I’ll bet Boyd’s father eats stewed tomatoes.” “My father eats anything he wants to,” Boyd said. “So does mine,” Johnny said. “Sometimes he doesn’t eat hardly anything. He’s a little guy, though. Wouldn’t hurt a flea.” “Mine’s a little guy, too,” Boyd said. “I’ll bet he’s strong, though,” Mrs. Wilson said. She hesitated. “Does he . . . work?” “Sure,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s father works in a factory.” “There, you see?” Mrs. Wilson said. “And he certainly has to be strong to do that—all that lifting and carrying at a factory.” “Boyd’s father doesn’t have to,” Johnny said. “He’s a foreman.” Mrs. Wilson felt defeated. “What does your mother do, Boyd?” “My mother?” Boyd was surprised. “She takes care of us kids.” “Oh. She doesn’t work, then?” “Why should she?” Johnny said through a mouthful of eggs. “You don’t work.” “You really don’t want any stewed tomatoes, Boyd?” “No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said. “No, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson, no, thank you, Mrs. Wilson,” Johnny said. “Boyd’s sister’s going to work, though. She’s going to be a teacher.” “That’s a very fine attitude for her to have, Boyd.” Mrs. Wilson restrained an impulse to pat Boyd on the head. “I imagine you’re all very proud of her?” “I guess so,” Boyd said. “What about all your other brothers and sisters? I guess all of you want to make just as much of yourselves as you can. “There’s only me and Jean,” Boyd said. “I don’t know yet what I want to be when I grow up. “We’re going to be tank drivers, Boyd and me,” Johnny said. “Zoom.” Mrs. Wilson caught Boyd’s glass of milk as Johnny’s napkin ring, suddenly transformed into a tank, plowed heavily across the table. “Look, Johnny,” Boyd said. “Here’s a foxhole. I’m shooting at you.” Mrs. Wilson, with the speed born of long experience, took the gingerbread off the shelf and placed it carefully between the tank and the foxhole. “Now eat as much as you want to, Boyd,” she said. “I want to see you get filled up.” “Boyd eats a lot, but not as much as I do,” Johnny said. “I’m bigger than he is.” “You’re not much bigger,” Boyd said. “I can beat you running.” Mrs. Wilson took a deep breath. “Boyd,” she said. Both boys turned to her. “Boyd, Johnny has some suits that are a little too small for him, and a winter coat. It’s not new, of course, but there’s lots of wear in it still. And I have a few dresses that your mother or sister could probably use. Your mother can make them over into lots of things for all of you, and I’d be very happy to give them to you. Suppose before you leave I make up a big bundle and then you and Johnny can take it over to your mother right away. Her voice trailed off as she saw Boyd’s puzzled expression. “But I have plenty of clothes, thank you,” he said. “And I don’t think my mother knows how to sew very well, and anyway I guess we buy about everything we need. Thank you very much though.” “We don’t have time to carry that old stuff around, Mother,” Johnny said. “We got to play tanks with the kids today.” Mrs. Wilson lifted the plate of gingerbread off the table as Boyd was about to take another piece. “There are many little boys like you, Boyd, who would be grateful for the clothes someone was kind enough to give them.” 4 “Boyd will take them if you want him to, Mother,” Johnny said. “I didn’t mean to make you mad, Mrs. Wilson,” Boyd said. “Don’t think I’m angry, Boyd. I’m just disappointed in you, that’s all. Now let’s not say anything more about it.” She began clearing the plates off the table, and Johnny took Boyd’s hand and pulled him to the door. “‘Bye, Mother,” Johnny said. Boyd stood for a minute, staring at Mrs. Wilson’s back. “After you, my dear Alphonse,” Johnny said, holding the door open. “Is your mother still mad?” Mrs. Wilson heard Boyd ask in a low voice. “I don’t know,” Johnny said. “She’s screwy sometimes.” “So’s mine,” Boyd said. He hesitated. “After you, my dear Alphonse.” THE TEST BY ANGELICA GIBBS Angelica Gibbs- Biography Angelica Gibbs was born in 1915 in New York. Her Life was hard and she struggled throughout her life. Her passion and the hard life made her one of the greatest unpublished short story writer. Angelica Gibbs is considered as a solo artist. Much of her work has published in the New York Times in the 1940s. Her most renowned work is The Test. Angelica Gibbs avoided public limelight for most of her writing career. Her work has been acclaimed to be feministic and at the same time full of social activism. Her other works include, Murder Between Drinks", published by W. Morrow & Company, 1932"Punch with Care", published in The New Yorker on 17 February 1940,"The Test", published in The New Yorker on 15 June 1940, "Marella", published in The New Yorker on 20 July 1940, "Initiation", published in The New Yorker on 21 December 1940, "Pilgrimage", published in The New Yorker on 30 August 1941, "Onward & Upward with the Arts", published in The New Yorker on 13 February 1943, "Madam President General Mrs. O'Byrne", published in Life (magazine) on 17 November 1947, "Absolute Frontier", published in The New Yorker on 27 December 1947, "One Sweet Little Business", published in The New Yorker on 31 July 1948 and "We Visit Mr. & Mrs. North", published in McCalls (magazine), October 1954 (Goodman, 1983).s The Test On the afternoon Marian took her second driving test, Mrs Ericson went with her. 'It's probably better to have someone a little older with you,' Mrs Ericson said as Marian slipped into the driver's seat beside her. 'Perhaps last time your Cousin Bill made you nervous, talking too much on the way.' 'Yes, Ma'am,' Marian said in her soft unaccented voice. 'They probably do like it better if a white person shows up with you.' 'Oh, I don't think it's that,' Mrs Ericson began, and subsided after a glance at the girl's set profile. Marian drove the car slowly through the shady suburban streets. It was one of the first hot days of June, and when they reached the boulevard they found it crowded with cars headed for the beaches. 'Do you want me to drive?' Mrs Ericson asked. 'I'll be glad to if you're feeling jumpy.' Marian shook her head. Mrs Ericson watched her dark, competent hands and wondered for the thousandth time how the house had ever managed to get along without her, or how she had lived through those earlier years when her household had been presided over by a series of slatternly white girls who had considered housework demeaning and the care of children an added insult. 'You drive beautifully, Marian,' she said. 'Now, don't think of the last time. Anybody would slide on a steep hill on a wet day like that.' 'It takes four mistakes to flunk you,' Marian said. 'I don't remember doing all the things the inspector marked down on my blank.' 'People say that they only want you to slip them a little something,' Mrs Ericson said doubtfully. 'No,' Marian said. 'That would only make it worse, Mrs Ericson. I know.' The car turned right, at a traffic signal, into a side road and slid up to the curb at the rear of a short line of parked cars. The inspectors had not arrived yet. 'You have the papers?' Mrs. Ericson asked. Marian took them out of her bag: her learner's permit; the car registration, and her birth certificate. They settled down to the dreary business of waiting. 'It will be marvellous to have someone dependable to drive the children to school everyday,' Mrs Ericson said. Marian looked up from the list of driving requirements she had been studying. 'It'll make things simpler at the house, won't it?'she said. 'Oh, Marian,' Mrs Ericson exclaimed, 'if I could only pay you half of what you're worth!' 'Now, Mrs Ericson,' Marian said firmly. They looked at each other and smiled with affection. Two cars with official insignia on their doors stopped across the street. The inspectors leaped out, very brisk and military in their neat uniforms. Marian's hands tightened on the wheel. 'There's the one who flunked me last time,' she whispered, pointing to a stocky, self-important man who had begun to shout directions at the driver at the head of the line. 'Oh, Mrs Ericson.' 'Now, Marian,' Mrs Ericson said. They smiled at each other again, rather weakly. The inspector who finally reached their car was not the stocky one but a genial, middle-aged man who grinned broadly as he thumbed over their papers. Mrs Ericson started to get out of the car. 'Don't you want to come along?' the inspector asked. 'Mandy and I don't mind company.' Mrs Ericson was bewildered for a moment. 'No,' she said, and stepped to the curb. 'I might make Marian self-conscious. She's a fine driver, Inspector.' 'Sure thing,' the inspector said, winking at Mrs Ericson. He slid into the seat beside Marian. 'Turn right at the corner, Mandy-Lou.' From the curb, Mrs Ericson watched the car move smoothly up the street. The inspector made notations in a small black book. 'Age?' he inquired presently, as they drove along. 'Twenty-seven.' He looked at Marian out of the corner of his eye. 'Old enough to have quite a flock of pickaninnies, eh?' Marian did not answer. 'Left at this corner,' the inspector said, 'and park between that truck and the green Buick.' The two cars were very close together, but Marian squeezed in between them without too much manoeuvering. 'Driven before, Mandy-Lou?' the inspector asked. 'Yes, sir. I had a license for three years in Pennsylvania.' 'Why do you want to drive a car?' 'My employer needs me to take her children to and from school.' 'Sure you don't really want to sneak out nights to meet some young blood?' the inspector asked. He laughed as Marian shook her head. 'Let's see you take a left at the corner and then turn around in the middle of the next block,' the inspector said. He began to whistle 'Swanee River.' 'Make you homesick?' he asked. Marian put out her hand, swung around neatly in the street, and headed back in the direction from which they had come. 'No,' she said. 'I was born in Scranton, Pennsylvania.' The inspector feigned astonishment. 'You-all ain't Southern?' he said. 'Well, dog my cats if I didn't think you-all came from down yondah.' 'No sir,' Marian said. 'Turn onto Main Street here and let's see how you-all does in heavier traffic.' They followed a line of cars along Main Street for several blocks until they came in sight of a concrete bridge which arched high over the railroad tracks. 'Read that sign at the end of the bridge,' the inspector said. '"Proceed with caution. Dangerous in slippery weather,"' Marian said. 'You-all sho can read fine,' the inspector exclaimed. 'Where d'you learn to do that, Mandy?' 'I got my college degree last year,' Marian said. Her voice was not quite steady. As the car crept up the slope of the bridge the inspector burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he could scarcely give his next direction. 'Stop here,' he said, wiping his eyes, 'then start 'er up again. Mandy got her degree, did she? Dog my cats!' Marian pulled up beside the curb. She put the car in neutral, pulled on the emergency, waited a moment, and then put the car into gear again. Her face was set. As she released the brake her foot slipped off the clutch pedal and the engine stalled. 'Now, Mistress Mandy,' the inspector said, 'remember your degree.' 'Damn you!" Marian cried. She started the car with a jerk. The inspector lost his joviality in an instant. 'Return to the starting place, please,' he said, and made four very black crosses at random in the squares on Marian's application blank. Mrs Ericson was waiting at the curb where they had left her. As Marian stopped the car the inspector jumped out and brushed past her, his face purple. 'What happened?' Mrs Ericson asked, looking after him with alarm. Marian stared down at the wheel and her lip trembled. 'Oh, Marian, again?' Mrs. Ericson said. Marian nodded. 'In a sort of different way,' she said, and slid over to the right-hand side of the car. THE LESSON BY TONI CADE BAMBARA Toni Cade Bambara- Biography Toni Cade Bambara was born in 1939 as Miltona Mirkin Cade in Harlem. She later on adopted the name Bambara from Her great ancestors. She is remembered as novelist, short fiction writer, essayist, filmmaker, lecturer, and educator. She studied in the US, Italy and France and this was a great influence in her writings. She worked as a social investigator and this made her to gain a lot of firsthand experience on issues to do with race and society. Her teaching abilities also made her one of the greatest black essayist on issues of education. Bambaras writings have been highly influenced by the teachings of Garveyites, Muslims, Pan-Africanists and Communists. In her short fiction, Bambara tries to pinpoint the society to the ills that are brought by race and other forms of discrimination. Her other famous works include, the short story, The Sea Birds are Still Alive, (1977), The novel, The Salt Eaters(1980),  Deep Sightings and Rescue Mission (1996) which was published posthumously. Toni Bambara succumbed to colon cancer in 1995 after many years as a successful script writer, author, social rights activist and educator (Annas & Rosen, 2007). The Lesson Back in the days when everyone was old and stupid or young and foolish and me and Sugar were the only ones just right, this lady moved on our block with nappy hair and proper speech and no makeup. And quite naturally we laughed at her, laughed the way we did at the junk man who went about his business like he was some big-time president and his sorry-ass horse his secretary. And we kinda hated her too, hated the way we did the winos who cluttered up our parks and pissed on our handball walls and stank up our hallways and stairs so you couldn't halfway play hide-and-seek without a goddamn gas mask. Miss Moore was her name. The only woman on the block with no first name. And she was black as hell, cept for her feet, which were fish-white and spooky. And she was always planning these boring-ass things for us to do, us being my cousin, mostly, who lived on the block cause we all moved North the same time and to the same apartment then spread out gradual to breathe. And our parents would yank our heads into some kinda shape and crisp up our clothes so we'd be presentable for travel with Miss Moore, who always looked like she was going to church though she never did. Which is just one of the things the grownups talked about when they talked behind her back like a dog. But when she came calling with some sachet she'd sewed up or some gingerbread she'd made or some book, why then they'd all be too embarrassed to turn her down and we'd get handed over all spruced up. She'd been to college and said it was only right that she should take responsibility for the young ones' education, and she not even related by marriage or blood. So they'd go for it. Specially Aunt Gretchen. She was the main gofer in the family. You got some ole dumb shit foolishness you want somebody to go for, you send for Aunt Gretchen. She been screwed into the go-along for so long, it's a blood-deep natural thing with her. Which is how she got saddled with me and Sugar and Junior in the first place while our mothers were in a la-de-da apartment up the block having a good ole time. So this one day Miss Moore rounds us all up at the mailbox and it's puredee hot and she's knockin herself out about arithmetic. And school suppose to let up in summer I heard, but she don't never let up. And the starch in my pinafore scratching the shit outta me and I'm really hating this nappy-head bitch and her goddamn college degree. I'd much rather go to the pool or to the show where it's cool. So me and Sugar leaning on the mailbox being surly, which is a Miss Moore word. And Flyboy checking out what everybody brought for lunch. And Fat Butt already wasting his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich like the pig he is. And Junebug punchin on Q.T.'s arm for potato chips. And Rosie Giraffe shifting from one hip to the other waiting for somebody to step on her foot or ask her if she from Georgia so she can kick ass, preferably Mercedes'. And Miss Moore asking us do we know what money is like we a bunch of retards. I mean real money, she say, like it's only poker chips or monopoly papers we lay on the grocer. So right away I'm tired of this and say so. And would much rather snatch Sugar and go to the Sunset and terrorize the West Indian kids and take their hair ribbons and their money too. And Miss Moore files that remark away for next week's lesson on brotherhood, I can tell. And finally I say we oughta get to the subway cause it's cooler an' besides we might meet some cute boys. Sugar done swiped her mama's lipstick, so we ready. So we heading down the street and she's boring us silly about what things cost and what our parents make and how much goes for rent and how money ain't divided up right in this country. And then she gets to the part about we all poor and live in the slums which I don't feature. And I'm ready to speak on that, but she steps out in the street and hails two cabs just like that. Then she hustles half the crew in with her and hands me a five-dollar bill and tells me to calculate 10 percent tip for the driver. And we're off. Me and Sugar and Junebug and Flyboy hangin out the window and hollering to everybody, putting lipstick on each other cause Flyboy a faggot anyway, and making farts with our sweaty armpits. But I'm mostly trying to figure how to spend this money. But they are fascinated with the meter ticking and Junebug starts laying bets as to how much it'll read when Flyboy can't hold his breath no more. Then Sugar lays bets as to how much it'll be when we get there. So I'm stuck. Don't nobody want to go for my plan, which is to jump out at the next light and run off to the first bar-b-que we can find. Then the driver tells us to get the hell out cause we there already. And the meter reads eighty-five cents. And I'm stalling to figure out the tip and Sugar say give him a dime. And I decide he don't need it bad as I do, so later for him. But then he tries to take off with Junebug foot still in the door so we talk about his mama something ferocious. Then we check out that we on Fifth Avenue and everybody dressed up in stockings. One lady in a fur coat, hot as it is. White folks crazy. "This is the place, " Miss Moore say, presenting it to us in the voice she uses at the museum. "Let's look in the windows before we go in." "Can we steal?" Sugar asks very serious like she's getting the ground rules squared away before she plays. "I beg your pardon," say Miss Moore, and we fall out. So she leads us around the windows of the toy store and me and Sugar screamin, "This is mine, that's mine, I gotta have that, that was made for me, I was born for that," till Big Butt drowns us out. "Hey, I'm goin to buy that there." "That there? You don't even know what it is, stupid." "I do so," he say punchin on Rosie Giraffe. "It's a microscope." "Whatcha gonna do with a microscope, fool?" "Look at things." "Like what, Ronald?" ask Miss Moore. And Big Butt ain't got the first notion. So here go Miss Moore gabbing about the thousands of bacteria in a drop of water and the somethinorother in a speck of blood and the million and one living things in the air around us is invisible to the naked eye. And what she say that for? Junebug go to town on that "naked" and we rolling. Then Miss Moore ask what it cost. So we all jam into the window smudgin it up and the price tag say $300. So then she ask how long'd take for Big Butt and Junebug to save up their allowances. "Too long," I say. "Yeh," adds Sugar, "outgrown it by that time." And Miss Moore say no, you never outgrow learning instruments. "Why, even medical students and interns and," blah, blah, blah. And we ready to choke Big Butt for bringing it up in the first damn place. "This here costs four hundred eighty dollars," say Rosie Giraffe. So we pile up all over her to see what she pointin out. My eyes tell me it's a chunk of glass cracked with something heavy, and different-color inks dripped into the splits, then the whole thing put into a oven or something. But for $480 it don't make sense. "That's a paperweight made of semi-precious stones fused together under tremendous pressure," she explains slowly, with her hands doing the mining and all the factory work. "So what's a paperweight?" asks Rosie Giraffe. "To weigh paper with, dumbbell," say Flyboy, the wise man from the East. "Not exactly," say Miss Moore, which is what she say when you warm or way off too. "It's to weigh paper down so it won't scatter and make your desk untidy. " So right away me and Sugar curtsy to each other and then to Mercedes who is more the tidy type. "We don't keep paper on top of the desk in my class," say Junebug, figuring Miss Moore crazy or lyin one. "At home, then," she say. "Don't you have a calendar and a pencil case and a blotter and a letter-opener on your desk at home where you do your homework?" And she know damn well what our homes look like cause she nosys around in them every chance she gets. "I don't even have a desk," say Junebug. "Do we?" "No. And I don't get no homework neither," says Big Butt. "And I don't even have a home," say Flyboy like he do at school to keep the white folks off his back and sorry for him. Send this poor kid to camp posters, is his specialty. "I do," says Mercedes. "I have a box of stationery on my desk and a picture of my cat. My godmother bought the stationery and the desk. There's a big rose on each sheet and the envelopes smell like roses." "Who wants to know about your smelly-ass stationery," say Rosie Giraffe fore I can get my two cents in. "It's important to have a work area all your own so that . . ." "Will you look at this sailboat, please," say Flyboy, cuttin her off and pointin to the thing like it was his. So once again we tumble all over each other to gaze at this magnificent thing in the toy store which is just big enough to maybe sail two kittens across the pond if you strap them to the posts tight. We all start reciting the price tag like we in assembly. "Hand-crafted sailboat of fiberglass at one thousand one hundred ninety-five dollars." "Unbelievable," I hear myself say and am really stunned. I read it again for myself just in case the group recitation put me in a trance. Same thing. For some reason this pisses me off. We look at Miss Moore and she lookin at us, waiting for I dunno what. "Who'd pay all that when you can buy a sailboat set for a quarter at Pop's, a tube of glue for a dime, and a ball of string for eight cents? It must have a motor and a whole lot else besides," I say. "My sailboat cost me about fifty cents." "But will it take water?" say Mercedes with her smart ass. "Took mine to Alley Pond Park once," say Flyboy. "String broke. Lost it. Pity." "Sailed mine in Gentral Park and it keeled over and sank. Had to ask my father for another dollar." "And you got the strap," laugh Big Butt. "The jerk didn't even have a string on it. My old man wailed on his behind." Little Q.T. was staring hard at the sailboat and you could see he wanted it bad. But he too little and somebody'd just take it from him. So what the hell. "This boat for kids, Miss Moore?" "Parents silly to buy something like that just to get all broke up," say Rosie Giraffe. "That much money it should last forever," I figure. "My father'd buy it for me if I wanted it." "Your father, my ass," say Rosie Giraffe getting a chance to finally push Mercedes. "Must be rich people shop here," say Q.T. "You are a very bright boy," say Flyboy. "What was your first clue?" And he rap him on the head with the back of his knuckles, since Q.T. the only one he could get away with. Though Q.T. liable to come up behind you years later and get his licks in when you half expect it. "What I want to know is," I says to Miss Moore though I never talk to her, I wouldn't give the bitch that satisfaction, "is how much a real boat costs? I figure a thousand'd get you a yacht any day." "Why don't you check that out," she says, "and report back to the group?" Which really pains my ass. If you gonna mess up a perfectly good swim day least you could do is have some answers. "Let's go in," she say like she got something up her sleeve. Only she don't lead the way. So me and Sugar turn the corner to where the entrance is, but when we get there I kinda hang back. Not that I'm scared, what's there to be afraid of, just a toy store. But I feel funny, shame. But what I got to be shamed about? Got as much right to go in as anybody. But somehow I can't seem to get hold of the door, so I step away from Sugar to lead. But she hangs back too. And I look at her and she looks at me and this is ridiculous. I mean, damn, I have never ever been shy about doing nothing or going nowhere. But then Mercedes steps up and then Rosie Giraffe and Big Butt crowd in behind and shove, and next thing we all stuffed into the doorway with only Mercedes squeezing past us, smoothing out her jumper and walking right down the aisle. Then the rest of us tumble in like a glued-together jigsaw done all wrong. And people lookin at us. And it's like the time me and Sugar crashed into the Catholic church on a dare. But once we got in there and everything so hushed and holy and the candles and the bowin and the handkerchiefs on all the drooping heads, I just couldn't go through with the plan. Which was for me to run up to the altar and do a tap dance while Sugar played the nose flute and messed around in the holy water. And Sugar kept givin me the elbow. Then later teased me so bad I tied her up in the shower and turned it on and locked her in. And she'd be there till this day if Aunt Gretchen hadn't finally figured I was lyin about the boarder takin a shower. Same thing in the store. We all walkin on tiptoe and hardly touchin the games and puzzles and things. And I watched Miss Moore who is steady watchin us like she waitin for a sign. Like Mama Drewery watches the sky and sniffs the air and takes note of just how much slant is in the bird formation. Then me and Sugar bump smack into each other, so busy gazing at the toys, 'specially the sailboat. But we don't laugh and go into our fat-lady bump-stomach routine. We just stare at that price tag. Then Sugar run a finger over the whole boat. And I'm jealous and want to hit her. Maybe not her, but I sure want to punch somebody in the mouth. "Watcha bring us here for, Miss Moore?" "You sound angry, Sylvia. Are you mad about something?" Givin me one of them grins like she tellin a grown-up joke that never turns out to be funny. And she's lookin very closely at me like maybe she plannin to do my portrait from memory. I'm mad, but I won't give her that satisfaction. So I slouch around the store bein very bored and say, "Let's go." Me and Sugar at the back of the train watchin the tracks whizzin by large then small then gettin gobbled up in the dark. I'm thinkin about this tricky toy I saw in the store. A clown that somersaults on a bar then does chin-ups just cause you yank lightly at his leg. Cost $35. I could see me askin my mother for a $35 birthday clown. "You wanna who that costs what?" she'd say, cocking her head to the side to get a better view of the hole in my head. Thirty-five dollars could buy new bunk beds for Junior and Gretchen's boy. Thirty-five dollars and the whole household could go visit Grand-daddy Nelson in the country. Thirty-five dollars would pay for the rent and the piano bill too. Who are these people that spend that much for performing clowns and $1000 for toy sailboats? What kinda work they do and how they live and how come we ain't in on it? Where we are is who we are, Miss Moore always pointin out. But it don't necessarily have to be that way, she always adds then waits for somebody to say that poor people have to wake up and demand their share of the pie and don't none of us know what kind of pie she talking about in the first damn place. But she ain't so smart cause I still got her four dollars from the taxi and she sure ain't gettin it Messin up my day with this shit. Sugar nudges me in my pocket and winks. Miss Moore lines us up in front of the mailbox where we started from, seem like years ago, and I got a headache for thinkin so hard. And we lean all over each other so we can hold up under the draggy ass lecture she always finishes us off with at the end before we thank her for borin us to tears. But she just looks at us like she readin tea leaves. Finally she say, "Well, what did you think of F.A.0. Schwarz?" Rosie Giraffe mumbles, "White folks crazy." "I'd like to go there again when I get my birthday money," says Mercedes, and we shove her out the pack so she has to lean on the mailbox by herself. "I'd like a shower. Tiring day," say Flyboy. Then Sugar surprises me by sayin, "You know, Miss Moore, I don't think all of us here put together eat in a year what that sailboat costs." And Miss Moore lights up like somebody goosed her. "And?" she say, urging Sugar on. Only I'm standin on her foot so she don't continue. "Imagine for a minute what kind of society it is in which some people can spend on a toy what it would cost to feed a family of six or seven. What do you think?" "I think," say Sugar pushing me off her feet like she never done before cause I whip her ass in a minute, "that this is not much of a democracy if you ask me. Equal chance to pursue happiness means an equal crack at the dough, don't it?" Miss Moore is besides herself and I am disgusted with Sugar's treachery. So I stand on her foot one more time to see if she'll shove me. She shuts up, and Miss Moore looks at me, sorrowfully I'm thinkin. And somethin weird is goin on, I can feel it in my chest. "Anybody else learn anything today?" lookin dead at me. I walk away and Sugar has to run to catch up and don't even seem to notice when I shrug her arm off my shoulder. "Well, we got four dollars anyway," she says. "Uh hun." "We could go to Hascombs and get half a chocolate layer and then go to the Sunset and still have plenty money for potato chips and ice cream sodas." "Uh hun." "Race you to Hascombs," she say. We start down the block and she gets ahead which is O.K. by me cause I'm going to the West End and then over to the Drive to think this day through. She can run if she want to and even run faster. But ain't nobody gonna beat me at nuthin. References Annas, P J & Rosen, R.D. (2007). Bambara, T C. “The Lesson.” Literature and society: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, Nonfiction. 4thEdition. Upper Saddle River, N.J 2007. P. 647-653 Angelica Gibbs. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~wikenosh/gibbs/ Bloom, H. (2002) Maya Angelou. New York: Infobase Publishing Bloom, H. (2001). Shirley Jackson.. New York: Infobase Publishing Cervantes, L.D. (2006). Drive: the first quartet. Texas:Wings Press Goodman, E.B. (1983). World best Short Story. New York: Random House Klein, S. (2000) “Knight, Etheridge.” American National Biography Online. February 2000. American Council of Learned Societies. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://www.anb.org/articles/16/16-00931.html Lorna Dee Cervantes Biography. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://lornadice.blogspot.com/ Shirley Jackson Biography Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://shirleyjackson.org/ Maya Angelou Biography. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://mayaangelou.com/bio/ McCullough, K. (1982). “Communication and Excommunication: An Interview with Etheridge Knight.” Callaloo 14/15 Feb.-May 1982: 2-10. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://www.jstor.org Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-i-rise/ Hard Rock Returns to Prison from the Hospital for the Criminal Insane by Etheridge Knight Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15411 Poem for the Young White Man Who Asked Me How I, an Intelligent, Well-Read Person Could Believe in the War Between Races By Lorna Dee Cervantes. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://xicanopoetrydaily.wordpress.com/2008/06/26/poem-for-the-young-white- man-who-asked-me-how-i-an-intelligent-well-read-person-could-believe-in-the-war- between-race After You, My Dear Alphonse by Shirley Jackson. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://sphstigers.org/ourpages/users/jasher/Bootcamp/AfterYouAlphonse.pdf The Test by Angelica Gibbs. Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~wikenosh/gibbs/test.htm The Lesson by Toni Cade Bambara.Retrieved April 10th 2012 from http://cai.ucdavis.edu/gender/thelesson.html Read More