Question 1:  James Baldwin delivered his address “A Talk to Teachers” in 1963 nearly 60 years ago. While terms, expressions, and allusions (Mr. Charlie and Miss Ann) may be dated, much of his address applies to today.  Choose two or three points that he makes that “fit” our world today.  Explain and argue why his ideas meet our times.  Be specific.

Question 2:  Alice Walker’s story “Everyday Use” deals with alienation in a family when a daughter returns home from university.  Walker’s story was written in 1973 at a time when Black Power took hold and people were examining and seeking their roots.  While Dee, the prodigal daughter, may be seen as unsympathetic, her character is a powerful presence by advocating for a Black culture not based on the American institution of slavery.  Write a defense of Dee’s position and use specific examples from the story to support your argument.

“A Talk to Teachers”
By James Baldwin

(Delivered October

1

6, 196

3

, as “The Negro Child – His Self-Image”; originally published in The Saturday Review, December

2

1,

1963, reprinted in The Price of the Ticket, Collected Non-Fiction 19

4

8-198

5

, Saint Martins 1985.)

Let’s begin by saying that we are living through a very dangerous time. Everyone in this room is in one way or another aware of that. We are in a
revolutionary situation, no matter how unpopular that word has become in this country. The society in which we live is desperately menaced, not by
Khrushchev, but from within. To any citizen of this country who figures himself as responsible – and particularly those of you who deal with the minds and
hearts of young people – must be prepared to “go for broke.” Or to put it another way, you must understand that in the attempt to correct so many
generations of bad faith and cruelty, when it is operating not only in the classroom but in society, you will meet the most fantastic, the most brutal, and the
most determined resistance. There is no point in pretending that this won’t happen.

Since I am talking to schoolteachers and I am not a teacher myself, and in some ways am fairly easily intimidated, I beg you to let me leave that and go back
to what I think to be the entire purpose of education in the first place. It would seem to me that when a child is born, if I’m the child’s parent, it is my
obligation and my high duty to civilize that child. Man is a social animal. He cannot exist without a society. A society, in turn, depends on certain things
which everyone within that society takes for granted. Now the crucial paradox which confronts us here is that the whole process of education occurs within a
social framework and is designed to perpetuate the aims of society. Thus, for example, the boys and girls who were born during the era of the Third Reich,
when educated to the purposes of the Third Reich, became barbarians. The paradox of education is precisely this – that as one begins to become conscious
one begins to examine the society in which he is being educated. The purpose of education, finally, is to create in a person the ability to look at the world for
himself, to make his own decisions, to say to himself this is black or this is white, to decide for himself whether there is a God in heaven or not. To ask
questions of the universe, and then learn to live with those questions, is the way he achieves his own identity. But no society is really anxious to have that
kind of person around. What societies really, ideally, want is a citizenry which will simply obey the rules of society. If a society succeeds in this, that society
is about to perish. The obligation of anyone who thinks of himself as responsible is to examine society and try to change it and to fight it – at no matter what
risk. This is the only hope society has. This is the only way societies change.

Now, if what I have tried to sketch has any validity, it becomes thoroughly clear, at least to me, that any Negro who is born in this country and undergoes the
American educational system runs the risk of becoming schizophrenic. On the one hand he is born in the shadow of the stars and stripes and he is assured
it represents a nation which has never lost a war. He pledges allegiance to that flag which guarantees “liberty and justice for all.” He is part of a country in
which anyone can become president, and so forth. But on the other hand he is also assured by his country and his countrymen that he has never
contributed anything to civilization – that his past is nothing more than a record of humiliations gladly endured. He is assumed by the republic that he, his
father, his mother, and his ancestors were happy, shiftless, watermelon-eating darkies who loved Mr. Charlie and Miss Ann, that the value he has as a black
man is proven by one thing only – his devotion to white people. If you think I am exaggerating, examine the myths which proliferate in this country about
Negroes.

All this enters the child’s consciousness much sooner than we as adults would like to think it does. As adults, we are easily fooled because we are so

1

anxious to be fooled. But children are very different. Children, not yet aware that it is dangerous to look too deeply at anything, look at everything, look at
each other, and draw their own conclusions. They don’t have the vocabulary to express what they see, and we, their elders, know how to intimidate them
very easily and very soon. But a black child, looking at the world around him, though he cannot know quite what to make of it, is aware that there is a reason
why his mother works so hard, why his father is always on edge. He is aware that there is some reason why, if he sits down in the front of the bus, his father
or mother slaps him and drags him to the back of the bus. He is aware that there is some terrible weight on his parents’ shoulders which menaces him. And
it isn’t long – in fact it begins when he is in school – before he discovers the shape of his oppression.

Let us say that the child is seven years old and I am his father, and I decide to take him to the zoo, or to Madison Square Garden, or to the U.N. Building, or
to any of the tremendous monuments we find all over New York. We get into a bus and we go from where I live on 131st Street and Seventh Avenue
downtown through the park and we get in New York City, which is not Harlem. Now, where the boy lives – even if it is a housing project – is in an undesirable
neighborhood. If he lives in one of those housing projects of which everyone in New York is so proud, he has at the front door, if not closer, the pimps, the
whores, the junkies – in a word, the danger of life in the ghetto. And the child knows this, though he doesn’t know why.

I still remember my first sight of New York. It was really another city when I was born – where I was born. We looked down over the Park Avenue streetcar
tracks. It was Park Avenue, but I didn’t know what Park Avenue meant downtown. The Park Avenue I grew up on, which is still standing, is dark and dirty.
No one would dream of opening a Tiffany’s on that Park Avenue, and when you go downtown you discover that you are literally in the white world. It is rich –
or at least it looks rich. It is clean – because they collect garbage downtown. There are doormen. People walk about as though they owned where they are
– and indeed they do. And it’s a great shock. It’s very hard to relate yourself to this. You don’t know what it means. You know – you know instinctively –
that none of this is for you. You know this before you are told. And who is it for and who is paying for it? And why isn’t it for you?

Later on when you become a grocery boy or messenger and you try to enter one of those buildings a man says, “Go to the back door.” Still later, if you
happen by some odd chance to have a friend in one of those buildings, the man says, “Where’s your package?” Now this by no means is the core of the
matter. What I’m trying to get at is that by the time the Negro child has had, effectively, almost all the doors of opportunity slammed in his face, and there are
very few things he can do about it. He can more or less accept it with an absolutely inarticulate and dangerous rage inside – all the more dangerous
because it is never expressed. It is precisely those silent people whom white people see every day of their lives – I mean your porter and your maid, who
never say anything more than “Yes Sir” and “No, Ma’am.” They will tell you it’s raining if that is what you want to hear, and they will tell you the sun is shining
if that is what you want to hear. They really hate you – really hate you because in their eyes (and they’re right) you stand between them and life. I want to
come back to that in a moment. It is the most sinister of the facts, I think, which we now face.

There is something else the Negro child can do, to. Every street boy – and I was a street boy, so I know – looking at the society which has produced him,
looking at the standards of that society which are not honored by anybody, looking at your churches and the government and the politicians, understand that
this structure is operated for someone else’s benefit – not for his. And there’s no reason in it for him. If he is really cunning, really ruthless, really strong –
and many of us are – he becomes a kind of criminal. He becomes a kind of criminal because that’s the only way he can live. Harlem and every ghetto in
this city – every ghetto in this country – is full of people who live outside the law. They wouldn’t dream of calling a policeman. They wouldn’t, for a moment,
listen to any of those professions of which we are so proud on the Fourth of July. They have turned away from this country forever and totally. They live by

2

their wits and really long to see the day when the entire structure comes down.

The point of all this is that black men were brought here as a source of cheap labor. They were indispensable to the economy. In order to justify the fact that
men were treated as though they were animals, the white republic had to brainwash itself into believing that they were, indeed, animals and deserved to be
treated like animals. Therefor it is almost impossible for any Negro child to discover anything about his actual history. The reason is that this “animal,” once
he suspects his own worth, once he starts believing that he is a man, has begun to attack the entire power structure. This is why America has spent such a
long time keeping the Negro in his place. What I am trying to suggest to you is that it was not an accident, it was not an act of God, it was not done by well-
meaning people muddling into something which they didn’t understand. It was a deliberate policy hammered into place in order to make money from black
flesh. And now, in 1963, because we have never faced this fact, we are in intolerable trouble.

The Reconstruction, as I read the evidence, was a bargain between the North and South to this effect: “We’ve liberated them from the land – and delivered
them to the bosses.” When we left Mississippi to come North we did not come to freedom. We came to the bottom of the labor market, and we are still
there. Even the Depression of the 1930’s failed to make a dent in Negroes’ relationship to white workers in the labor unions. Even today, so brainwashed is
this republic that people seriously ask in what they suppose to be good faith, “What does the Negro want?” I’ve heard a great many asinine questions in my
life, but that is perhaps the most asinine and perhaps the most insulting. But the point here is that people who ask that question, thinking that they ask it in
good faith, are really the victims of this conspiracy to make Negroes believe they are less than human.

In order for me to live, I decided very early that some mistake had been made somewhere. I was not a “nigger” even though you called me one. But if I was
a “nigger” in your eyes, there was something about you – there was something you needed. I had to realize when I was very young that I was none of those
things I was told I was. I was not, for example, happy. I never touched a watermelon for all kinds of reasons that had been invented by white people, and I
knew enough about life by this time to understand that whatever you invent, whatever you project, is you! So where we are no is that a whole country of
people believe I’m a “nigger,” and I don’t , and the battle’s on! Because if I am not what I’ve been told I am, then it means that you’re not what you thought
you were either! And that is the crisis.

It is not really a “Negro revolution” that is upsetting the country. What is upsetting the country is a sense of its own identity. If, for example, one managed to
change the curriculum in all the schools so that Negroes learned more about themselves and their real contributions to this culture, you would be liberating
not only Negroes, you’d be liberating white people who know nothing about their own history. And the reason is that if you are compelled to lie about one
aspect of anybody’s history, you must lie about it all. If you have to lie about my real role here, if you have to pretend that I hoed all that cotton just because I
loved you, then you have done something to yourself. You are mad.

Now let’s go back a minute. I talked earlier about those silent people – the porter and the maid – who, as I said, don’t look up at the sky if you ask them if it is
raining, but look into your face. My ancestors and I were very well trained. We understood very early that this was not a Christian nation. It didn’t matter
what you said or how often you went to church. My father and my mother and my grandfather and my grandmother knew that Christians didn’t act this way.
It was a simple as that. And if that was so there was no point in dealing with white people in terms of their own moral professions, for they were not going to
honor them. What one did was to turn away, smiling all the time, and tell white people what they wanted to hear. But people always accuse you of reckless

3

talk when you say this.

All this means that there are in this country tremendous reservoirs of bitterness which have never been able to find an outlet, but may find an outlet soon. It
means that well-meaning white liberals place themselves in great danger when they try to deal with Negroes as though they were missionaries. It means, in
brief, that a great price is demanded to liberate all those silent people so that they can breathe for the first time and tell you what they think of you. And a
price is demanded to liberate all those white children – some of them near forty – who have never grown up, and who never will grow up, because they have
no sense of their identity.

What passes for identity in America is a series of myths about one’s heroic ancestors. It’s astounding to me, for example, that so many people really appear
to believe that the country was founded by a band of heroes who wanted to be free. That happens not to be true. What happened was that some people left
Europe because they couldn’t stay there any longer and had to go someplace else to make it. That’s all. They were hungry, they were poor, they were
convicts. Those who were making it in England, for example, did not get on the Mayflower. That’s how the country was settled. Not by Gary Cooper. Yet
we have a whole race of people, a whole republic, who believe the myths to the point where even today they select political representatives, as far as I can
tell, by how closely they resemble Gary Cooper. Now this is dangerously infantile, and it shows in every level of national life. When I was living in Europe,
for example, one of the worst revelations to me was the way Americans walked around Europe buying this and buying that and insulting everybody – not
even out of malice, just because they didn’t know any better. Well, that is the way they have always treated me. They weren’t cruel; they just didn’t know
you were alive. They didn’t know you had any feelings.

What I am trying to suggest here is that in the doing of all this for 100 years or more, it is the American white man who has long since lost his grip on reality.
In some peculiar way, having created this myth about Negroes, and the myth about his own history, he created myths about the world so that, for example,
he was astounded that some people could prefer Castro, astounded that there are people in the world who don’t go into hiding when they hear the word
“Communism,” astounded that Communism is one of the realities of the twentieth century which we will not overcome by pretending that it does not exist.
The political level in this country now, on the part of people who should know better, is abysmal.

The Bible says somewhere that where there is no vision the people perish. I don’t think anyone can doubt that in this country today we are menaced –
intolerably menaced – by a lack of vision.

It is inconceivable that a sovereign people should continue, as we do so abjectly, to say, “I can’t do anything about it. It’s the government.” The government
is the creation of the people. It is responsible to the people. And the people are responsible for it. No American has the right to allow the present
government to say, when Negro children are being bombed and hosed and shot and beaten all over the Deep South, that there is nothing we can do about it.
There must have been a day in this country’s life when the bombing of the children in Sunday School would have created a public uproar and endangered
the life of a Governor Wallace. It happened here and there was no public uproar.

I began by saying that one of the paradoxes of education was that precisely at the point when you begin to develop a conscience, you must find yourself at
war with your society. It is your responsibility to change society if you think of yourself as an educated person. And on the basis of the evidence – the moral

4

and political evidence – one is compelled to say that this is a backward society. Now if I were a teacher in this school, or any Negro school, and I was
dealing with Negro children, who were in my care only a few hours of every day and would then return to their homes and to the streets, children who have
an apprehension of their future which with every hour grows grimmer and darker, I would try to teach them – I would try to make them know – that those
streets, those houses, those dangers, those agonies by which they are surrounded, are criminal. I would try to make each child know that these things are
the result of a criminal conspiracy to destroy him. I would teach him that if he intends to get to be a man, he must at once decide that his is stronger than this
conspiracy and they he must never make his peace with it. And that one of his weapons for refusing to make his peace with it and for destroying it depends
on what he decides he is worth. I would teach him that there are currently very few standards in this country which are worth a man’s respect. That it is up
to him to change these standards for the sake of the life and the health of the country. I would suggest to him that the popular culture – as represented, for
example, on television and in comic books and in movies – is based on fantasies created by very ill people, and he must be aware that these are fantasies
that have nothing to do with reality. I would teach him that the press he reads is not as free as it says it is – and that he can do something about that, too. I
would try to make him know that just as American history is longer, larger, more various, more beautiful and more terrible than anything anyone has ever said
about it, so is the world larger, more daring, more beautiful and more terrible, but principally larger – and that it belongs to him. I would teach him that he
doesn’t have to be bound by the expediencies of any given administration, any given policy, any given morality; that he has the right and the necessity to
examine everything. I would try to show him that one has not learned anything about Castro when one says, “He is a Communist.” This is a way of his
learning something about Castro, something about Cuba, something, in time, about the world. I would suggest to him that his is living, at the moment, in an
enormous province. America is not the world and if America is going to become a nation, she must find a way – and this child must help her to find a way to
use the tremendous potential and tremendous energy which this child represents. If this country does not find a way to use that energy, it will be destroyed
by that energy.

5

“Everyday

Use”
 

by
 Alice
 Walker
 

I
 will
 wait
 for
 her
 in
 the
 yard
 that
 Maggie
 and
 I
 made
 so
 clean
 and
 wavy
 yesterday
 afternoon.
 A
 yard
 like
 this
 
is
 more
 comfortable
 than
 most
 people
 know.
 It
 is
 not
 just
 a
 yard.
 It
 is
 like
 an
 extended
 living
 room.
 When
 the
 
hard
 clay
 is
 swept
 clean
 as
 a
 floor
 and
 the
 fine
 sand
 around
 the
 edges
 lined
 with
 tiny,
 irregular
 grooves,
 
anyone
 can
 come
 and
 sit
 and
 look
 up
 into
 the
 elm
 tree
 and
 wait
 for
 the
 breezes
 that
 never
 come
 inside
 the
 
house.
 

Maggie
 will
 be
 nervous
 until
 after
 her
 sister
 goes:
 she
 will
 stand
 hopelessly
 in
 corners,
 homely
 and
 ashamed
 
of
 the
 burn
 scars
 down
 her
 arms
 and
 legs,
 eying
 her
 sister
 with
 a
 mixture
 of
 envy
 and
 awe.
 She
 thinks
 her
 
sister
 has
 held
 life
 always
 in
 the
 palm
 of
 one
 hand,
 that
 “no”
 is
 a
 word
 the
 world
 never
 learned
 to
 say
 to
 her.
 

You’ve
 no
 doubt
 seen
 those
 TV
 shows
 where
 the
 child
 who
 has
 “made
 it”
 is
 confronted,
 as
 a
 surprise,
 by
 her
 
own
 mother
 and
 father,
 tottering
 in
 weakly
 from
 backstage.
 (A
 pleasant
 surprise,
 of
 course:
 What
 would
 they
 
do
 if
 parent
 and
 child
 came
 on
 the
 show
 only
 to
 curse
 out
 and
 insult
 each
 other?)
 On
 TV
 mother
 and
 child
 
embrace
 and
 smile
 into
 each
 other’s
 faces.
 Sometimes
 the
 mother
 and
 father
 weep,
 the
 child
 wraps
 them
 in
 
her
 arms
 and
 leans
 across
 the
 table
 to
 tell
 how
 she
 would
 not
 have
 made
 it
 without
 their
 help.
 I
 have
 seen
 
these
 programs.
 

Sometimes
 I
 dream
 a
 dream
 in
 which
 Dee
 and
 I
 are
 suddenly
 brought
 together
 on
 a
 TV
 program
 of
 this
 sort.
 
Out
 of
 a
 dark
 and
 soft.seated
 limousine
 I
 am
 ushered
 into
 a
 bright
 room
 filled
 with
 many
 people.
 There
 I
 
meet
 a
 smiling,
 gray,
 sporty
 man
 like
 Johnny
 Carson
 who
 shakes
 my
 hand
 and
 tells
 me
 what
 a
 fine
 girl
 I
 have.
 
Then
 we
 are
 on
 the
 stage
 and
 Dee
 is
 embracing
 me
 with
 tears
 in
 her
 eyes.
 She
 pins
 on
 my
 dress
 a
 large
 
orchid,
 even
 though
 she
 has
 told
 me
 once
 that
 she
 thinks
 orchids
 are
 tacky
 flowers.
 
 

In
 real
 life
 I
 am
 a
 large,
 big.boned
 woman
 with
 rough,
 man.working
 hands.
 In
 the
 winter
 I
 wear
 flannel
 
nightgowns
 to
 bed
 and
 overalls
 dur.ing
 the
 day.
 I
 can
 kill
 and
 clean
 a
 hog
 as
 mercilessly
 as
 a
 man.
 My
 fat
 
keeps
 me
 hot
 in
 zero
 weather.
 I
 can
 work
 outside
 all
 day,
 breaking
 ice
 to
 get
 water
 for
 washing;
 I
 can
 eat
 
pork
 liver
 cooked
 over
 the
 open
 fire
 minutes
 after
 it
 comes
 steaming
 from
 the
 hog.
 One
 winter
 I
 knocked
 a
 
bull
 calf
 straight
 in
 the
 brain
 between
 the
 eyes
 with
 a
 sledge
 hammer
 and
 had
 the
 meat
 hung
 up
 to
 chill
 
before
 nightfall.
 But
 of
 course
 all
 this
 does
 not
 show
 on
 television.
 I
 am
 the
 way
 my
 daughter
 would
 want
 me
 
to
 be:
 a
 hundred
 pounds
 lighter,
 my
 skin
 like
 an
 uncooked
 barley
 pancake.
 My
 hair
 glistens
 in
 the
 hot
 bright
 
lights.
 Johnny
 Carson
 has
 much
 to
 do
 to
 keep
 up
 with
 my
 quick
 and
 witty
 tongue.
 

But
 that
 is
 a
 mistake.
 I
 know
 even
 before
 I
 wake
 up.
 Who
 ever
 knew
 a
 Johnson
 with
 a
 quick
 tongue?
 Who
 can
 
even
 imagine
 me
 looking
 a
 strange
 white
 man
 in
 the
 eye?
 It
 seems
 to
 me
 I
 have
 talked
 to
 them
 always
 with
 
one
 foot
 raised
 in
 flight,
 with
 my
 head
 fumed
 in
 whichever
 way
 is
 farthest
 from
 them.
 Dee,
 though.
 She
 would
 
always
 look
 anyone
 in
 the
 eye.
 Hesitation
 was
 no
 part
 of
 her
 nature.
 

“How
 do
 I
 look,
 Mama?”
 Maggie
 says,
 showing
 just
 enough
 of
 her
 thin
 body
 enveloped
 in
 pink
 skirt
 and
 red
 
blouse
 for
 me
 to
 know
 she’s
 there,
 almost
 hidden
 by
 the
 door.
 

“Come
 out
 into
 the
 yard,”
 I
 say.
 

Have
 you
 ever
 seen
 a
 lame
 animal,
 perhaps
 a
 dog
 run
 over
 by
 some
 careless
 person
 rich
 enough
 to
 own
 a
 car,
 
sidle
 up
 to
 someone
 who
 is
 ignorant
 enough
 to
 be
 kind
 to
 him?
 That
 is
 the
 way
 my
 Maggie
 walks.
 She
 has
 
been
 like
 this,
 chin
 on
 chest,
 eyes
 on
 ground,
 feet
 in
 shuffle,
 ever
 since
 the
 fire
 that
 burned
 the
 other
 house
 to
 
the
 ground.
 

Dee
 is
 lighter
 than
 Maggie,
 with
 nicer
 hair
 and
 a
 fuller
 figure.
 She’s
 a
 woman
 now,
 though
 sometimes
 I
 forget.
 
How
 long
 ago
 was
 it
 that
 the
 other
 house
 burned?
 Ten,
 twelve
 years?
 Sometimes
 I
 can
 still
 hear
 the
 flames
 
and
 feel
 Maggie’s
 arms
 sticking
 to
 me,
 her
 hair
 smoking
 and
 her
 dress
 falling
 off
 her
 in
 little
 black
 papery
 
flakes.
 Her
 eyes
 seemed
 stretched
 open,
 blazed
 open
 by
 the
 flames
 reflected
 in
 them.
 And
 Dee.
 I
 see
 her
 
standing
 off
 under
 the
 sweet
 gum
 tree
 she
 used
 to
 dig
 gum
 out
 of;
 a
 look
 of
 concentration
 on
 her
 face
 as
 she
 
watched
 the
 last
 dingy
 gray
 board
 of
 the
 house
 fall
 in
 toward
 the
 red.hot
 brick
 chimney.
 Why
 don’t
 you
 do
 a
 
dance
 around
 the
 ashes?
 I’d
 wanted
 to
 ask
 her.
 She
 had
 hated
 the
 house
 that
 much.
 

I
 used
 to
 think
 she
 hated
 Maggie,
 too.
 But
 that
 was
 before
 we
 raised
 money,
 the
 church
 and
 me,
 to
 send
 her
 to
 
Augusta
 to
 school.
 She
 used
 to
 read
 to
 us
 without
 pity;
 forcing
 words,
 lies,
 other
 folks’
 habits,
 whole
 lives
 
upon
 us
 two,
 sitting
 trapped
 and
 ignorant
 underneath
 her
 voice.
 She
 washed
 us
 in
 a
 river
 of
 make.believe,
 
burned
 us
 with
 a
 lot
 of
 knowl
 edge
 we
 didn’t
 necessarily
 need
 to
 know.
 Pressed
 us
 to
 her
 with
 the
 serf’
 ous
 
way
 she
 read,
 to
 shove
 us
 away
 at
 just
 the
 moment,
 like
 dimwits,
 we
 seemed
 about
 to
 understand.
 

Dee
 wanted
 nice
 things.
 A
 yellow
 organdy
 dress
 to
 wear
 to
 her
 grad.uation
 from
 high
 school;
 black
 pumps
 to
 
match
 a
 green
 suit
 she’d
 made
 from
 an
 old
 suit
 somebody
 gave
 me.
 She
 was
 determined
 to
 stare
 down
 any
 
disaster
 in
 her
 efforts.
 Her
 eyelids
 would
 not
 flicker
 for
 minutes
 at
 a
 time.
 Often
 I
 fought
 off
 the
 temptation
 to
 
shake
 her.
 At
 sixteen
 she
 had
 a
 style
 of
 her
 own:
 and
 knew
 what
 style
 was.
 

I
 never
 had
 an
 education
 myself.
 After
 second
 grade
 the
 school
 was
 closed
 down.
 Don’t
 ask
 my
 why:
 in
 1927
 
colored
 asked
 fewer
 questions
 than
 they
 do
 now.
 Sometimes
 Maggie
 reads
 to
 me.
 She
 stumbles
 along
 
good.naturedly
 but
 can’t
 see
 well.
 She
 knows
 she
 is
 not
 bright.
 Like
 good
 looks
 and
 money,
 quickness
 passes
 
her
 by.
 She
 will
 marry
 John
 Thomas
 (who
 has
 mossy
 teeth
 in
 an
 earnest
 face)
 and
 then
 I’ll
 be
 free
 to
 sit
 here
 
and
 I
 guess
 just
 sing
 church
 songs
 to
 myself.
 Although
 I
 never
 was
 a
 good
 singer.
 Never
 could
 carry
 a
 tune.
 I
 
was
 always
 better
 at
 a
 man’s
 job.
 I
 used
 to
 love
 to
 milk
 till
 I
 was
 hooked
 in
 the
 side
 in
 ’49.
 Cows
 are
 soothing
 
and
 slow
 and
 don’t
 bother
 you,
 unless
 you
 try
 to
 milk
 them
 the
 wrong
 way.
 

I
 have
 deliberately
 turned
 my
 back
 on
 the
 house.
 It
 is
 three
 rooms,
 just
 like
 the
 one
 that
 burned,
 except
 the
 
roof
 is
 tin;
 they
 don’t
 make
 shingle
 roofs
 any
 more.
 There
 are
 no
 real
 windows,
 just
 some
 holes
 cut
 in
 the
 
sides,
 like
 the
 portholes
 in
 a
 ship,
 but
 not
 round
 and
 not
 square,
 with
 rawhide
 holding
 the
 shutters
 up
 on
 the
 
outside.
 This
 house
 is
 in
 a
 pasture,
 too,
 like
 the
 other
 one.
 No
 doubt
 when
 Dee
 sees
 it
 she
 will
 want
 to
 tear
 it
 
down.
 She
 wrote
 me
 once
 that
 no
 matter
 where
 we
 “choose”
 to
 live,
 she
 will
 manage
 to
 come
 see
 us.
 But
 she
 
will
 never
 bring
 her
 friends.
 Maggie
 and
 I
 thought
 about
 this
 and
 Maggie
 asked
 me,
 “Mama,
 when
 did
 Dee
 
ever
 have
 any
 friends?”
 

 
She
 had
 a
 few.
 Furtive
 boys
 in
 pink
 shirts
 hanging
 about
 on
 washday
 after
 school.
 Nervous
 girls
 who
 never
 
laughed.
 Impressed
 with
 her
 they
 worshiped
 the
 well.turned
 phrase,
 the
 cute
 shape,
 the
 scalding
 humor
 that
 
erupted
 like
 bubbles
 in
 Iye.
 She
 read
 to
 them.
 

When
 she
 was
 courting
 Jimmy
 T
 she
 didn’t
 have
 much
 time
 to
 pay
 to
 us,
 but
 turned
 all
 her
 faultfinding
 power
 
on
 him.
 He
 flew
 to
 marry
 a
 cheap
 city
 girl
 from
 a
 family
 of
 ignorant
 flashy
 people.
 She
 hardly
 had
 time
 to
 
recompose
 herself.
 

When
 she
 comes
 I
 will
 meet—but
 there
 they
 are!
 

Maggie
 attempts
 to
 make
 a
 dash
 for
 the
 house,
 in
 her
 shuffling
 way,
 but
 I
 stay
 her
 with
 my
 hand.
 “Come
 back
 
here,
 ”
 I
 say.
 And
 she
 stops
 and
 tries
 to
 dig
 a
 well
 in
 the
 sand
 with
 her
 toe.
 

It
 is
 hard
 to
 see
 them
 clearly
 through
 the
 strong
 sun.
 But
 even
 the
 first
 glimpse
 of
 leg
 out
 of
 the
 car
 tells
 me
 it
 
is
 Dee.
 Her
 feet
 were
 always
 neat.looking,
 as
 if
 God
 himself
 had
 shaped
 them
 with
 a
 certain
 style.
 From
 the
 
other
 side
 of
 the
 car
 comes
 a
 short,
 stocky
 man.
 Hair
 is
 all
 over
 his
 head
 a
 foot
 long
 and
 hanging
 from
 his
 chin
 

like
 a
 kinky
 mule
 tail.
 I
 hear
 Maggie
 suck
 in
 her
 breath.
 “Uhnnnh,
 ”
 is
 what
 it
 sounds
 like.
 Like
 when
 you
 see
 
the
 wriggling
 end
 of
 a
 snake
 just
 in
 front
 of
 your
 foot
 on
 the
 road.
 “Uhnnnh.”
 

Dee
 next.
 A
 dress
 down
 to
 the
 ground,
 in
 this
 hot
 weather.
 A
 dress
 so
 loud
 it
 hurts
 my
 eyes.
 There
 are
 yellows
 
and
 oranges
 enough
 to
 throw
 back
 the
 light
 of
 the
 sun.
 I
 feel
 my
 whole
 face
 warming
 from
 the
 heat
 waves
 it
 
throws
 out.
 Earrings
 gold,
 too,
 and
 hanging
 down
 to
 her
 shoul.ders.
 Bracelets
 dangling
 and
 making
 noises
 
when
 she
 moves
 her
 arm
 up
 to
 shake
 the
 folds
 of
 the
 dress
 out
 of
 her
 armpits.
 The
 dress
 is
 loose
 and
 flows,
 
and
 as
 she
 walks
 closer,
 I
 like
 it.
 I
 hear
 Maggie
 go
 “Uhnnnh”
 again.
 It
 is
 her
 sister’s
 hair.
 It
 stands
 straight
 up
 
like
 the
 wool
 on
 a
 sheep.
 It
 is
 black
 as
 night
 and
 around
 the
 edges
 are
 two
 long
 pigtails
 that
 rope
 about
 like
 
small
 lizards
 disappearing
 behind
 her
 ears.
 

“Wa.su.zo.Tean.o!”
 she
 says,
 coming
 on
 in
 that
 gliding
 way
 the
 dress
 makes
 her
 move.
 The
 short
 stocky
 fellow
 
with
 the
 hair
 to
 his
 navel
 is
 all
 grinning
 and
 he
 follows
 up
 with
 “Asalamalakim,
 my
 mother
 and
 sister!”
 He
 
moves
 to
 hug
 Maggie
 but
 she
 falls
 back,
 right
 up
 against
 the
 back
 of
 my
 chair.
 I
 feel
 her
 trembling
 there
 and
 
when
 I
 look
 up
 I
 see
 the
 perspiration
 falling
 off
 her
 chin.
 

“Don’t
 get
 up,”
 says
 Dee.
 Since
 I
 am
 stout
 it
 takes
 something
 of
 a
 push.
 You
 can
 see
 me
 trying
 to
 move
 a
 
second
 or
 two
 before
 I
 make
 it.
 She
 turns,
 showing
 white
 heels
 through
 her
 sandals,
 and
 goes
 back
 to
 the
 car.
 
Out
 she
 peeks
 next
 with
 a
 Polaroid.
 She
 stoops
 down
 quickly
 and
 lines
 up
 picture
 after
 picture
 of
 me
 sitting
 
there
 in
 front
 of
 the
 house
 with
 Maggie
 cowering
 behind
 me.
 She
 never
 takes
 a
 shot
 without
 mak’
 ing
 sure
 
the
 house
 is
 included.
 When
 a
 cow
 comes
 nibbling
 around
 the
 edge
 of
 the
 yard
 she
 snaps
 it
 and
 me
 and
 
Maggie
 and
 the
 house.
 Then
 she
 puts
 the
 Polaroid
 in
 the
 back
 seat
 of
 the
 car,
 and
 comes
 up
 and
 kisses
 me
 on
 
the
 forehead.
 

Meanwhile
 Asalamalakim
 is
 going
 through
 motions
 with
 Maggie’s
 hand.
 Maggie’s
 hand
 is
 as
 limp
 as
 a
 fish,
 
and
 probably
 as
 cold,
 despite
 the
 sweat,
 and
 she
 keeps
 trying
 to
 pull
 it
 back.
 It
 looks
 like
 Asalamalakim
 wants
 
to
 shake
 hands
 but
 wants
 to
 do
 it
 fancy.
 Or
 maybe
 he
 don’t
 know
 how
 people
 shake
 hands.
 Anyhow,
 he
 soon
 
gives
 up
 on
 Maggie.
 

“Well,”
 I
 say.
 “Dee.”
 

“No,
 Mama,”
 she
 says.
 “Not
 ‘Dee,’
 Wangero
 Leewanika
 Kemanjo!”
 

“What
 happened
 to
 ‘Dee’?”
 I
 wanted
 to
 know.
 

“She’s
 dead,”
 Wangero
 said.
 “I
 couldn’t
 bear
 it
 any
 longer,
 being
 named
 after
 the
 people
 who
 oppress
 me.”
 

“You
 know
 as
 well
 as
 me
 you
 was
 named
 after
 your
 aunt
 Dicie,”
 I
 said.
 Dicie
 is
 my
 sister.
 She
 named
 Dee.
 We
 
called
 her
 “Big
 Dee”
 after
 Dee
 was
 born.
 

“But
 who
 was
 she
 named
 after?”
 asked
 Wangero.
 

“I
 guess
 after
 Grandma
 Dee,”
 I
 said.
 

“And
 who
 was
 she
 named
 after?”
 asked
 Wangero.
 
 

“Her
 mother,”
 I
 said,
 and
 saw
 Wangero
 was
 getting
 tired.
 “That’s
 about
 as
 far
 back
 as
 I
 can
 trace
 it,”
 I
 said.
 
Though,
 in
 fact,
 I
 probably
 could
 have
 carried
 it
 back
 beyond
 the
 Civil
 War
 through
 the
 branches.
 

“Well,”
 said
 Asalamalakim,
 “there
 you
 are.”
 

“Uhnnnh,”
 I
 heard
 Maggie
 say.
 

“There
 I
 was
 not,”
 I
 said,
 “before
 ‘Dicie’
 cropped
 up
 in
 our
 family,
 so
 why
 should
 I
 try
 to
 trace
 it
 that
 far
 
back?”
 

He
 just
 stood
 there
 grinning,
 looking
 down
 on
 me
 like
 somebody
 inspecting
 a
 Model
 A
 car.
 Every
 once
 in
 a
 
while
 he
 and
 Wangero
 sent
 eye
 signals
 over
 my
 head.
 

“How
 do
 you
 pronounce
 this
 name?”
 I
 asked.
 

“You
 don’t
 have
 to
 call
 me
 by
 it
 if
 you
 don’t
 want
 to,”
 said
 Wangero.
 

“Why
 shouldn’t
 1?”
 I
 asked.
 “If
 that’s
 what
 you
 want
 us
 to
 call
 you,
 we’ll
 call
 you.”
 

 
.
 “I
 know
 it
 might
 sound
 awkward
 at
 first,”
 said
 Wangero.
 

“I’ll
 get
 used
 to
 it,”
 I
 said.
 “Ream
 it
 out
 again.”
 

Well,
 soon
 we
 got
 the
 name
 out
 of
 the
 way.
 Asalamalakim
 had
 a
 name
 twice
 as
 long
 and
 three
 times
 as
 hard.
 
After
 I
 tripped
 over
 it
 two
 or
 three
 times
 he
 told
 me
 to
 just
 call
 him
 Hakim.a.barber.
 I
 wanted
 to
 ask
 him
 was
 
he
 a
 barber,
 but
 I
 didn’t
 really
 think
 he
 was,
 so
 I
 didn’t
 ask.
 

“You
 must
 belong
 to
 those
 beef.cattle
 peoples
 down
 the
 road,”
 I
 said.
 They
 said
 “Asalamalakim”
 when
 they
 
met
 you,
 too,
 but
 they
 didn’t
 shake
 hands.
 Always
 too
 busy:
 feeding
 the
 cattle,
 fixing
 the
 fences,
 putting
 up
 
salt.lick
 shelters,
 throwing
 down
 hay.
 When
 the
 white
 folks
 poisoned
 some
 of
 the
 herd
 the
 men
 stayed
 up
 all
 
night
 with
 rifles
 in
 their
 hands.
 I
 walked
 a
 mile
 and
 a
 half
 just
 to
 see
 the
 sight.
 

Hakim.a.barber
 said,
 “I
 accept
 some
 of
 their
 doctrines,
 but
 farming
 and
 raising
 cattle
 is
 not
 my
 style.”
 (They
 
didn’t
 tell
 me,
 and
 I
 didn’t
 ask,
 whether
 Wangero
 (Dee)
 had
 really
 gone
 and
 married
 him.)
 

We
 sat
 down
 to
 eat
 and
 right
 away
 he
 said
 he
 didn’t
 eat
 collards
 and
 pork
 was
 unclean.
 Wangero,
 though,
 
went
 on
 through
 the
 chitlins
 and
 com
 bread,
 the
 greens
 and
 everything
 else.
 She
 talked
 a
 blue
 streak
 over
 the
 
sweet
 potatoes.
 Everything
 delighted
 her.
 Even
 the
 fact
 that
 we
 still
 used
 the
 benches
 her
 daddy
 made
 for
 the
 
table
 when
 we
 couldn’t
 effort
 to
 buy
 chairs.
 

“Oh,
 Mama!”
 she
 cried.
 Then
 turned
 to
 Hakim.a.barber.
 “I
 never
 knew
 how
 lovely
 these
 benches
 are.
 You
 can
 
feel
 the
 rump
 prints,”
 she
 said,
 running
 her
 hands
 underneath
 her
 and
 along
 the
 bench.
 Then
 she
 gave
 a
 sigh
 
and
 her
 hand
 closed
 over
 Grandma
 Dee’s
 butter
 dish.
 “That’s
 it!”
 she
 said.
 “I
 knew
 there
 was
 something
 I
 
wanted
 to
 ask
 you
 if
 I
 could
 have.”
 She
 jumped
 up
 from
 the
 table
 and
 went
 over
 in
 the
 corner
 where
 the
 
churn
 stood,
 the
 milk
 in
 it
 crabber
 by
 now.
 She
 looked
 at
 the
 churn
 and
 looked
 at
 it.
 

“This
 churn
 top
 is
 what
 I
 need,”
 she
 said.
 “Didn’t
 Uncle
 Buddy
 whittle
 it
 out
 of
 a
 tree
 you
 all
 used
 to
 have?”
 

“Yes,”
 I
 said.
 

“Un
 huh,”
 she
 said
 happily.
 “And
 I
 want
 the
 dasher,
 too.”
 

“Uncle
 Buddy
 whittle
 that,
 too?”
 asked
 the
 barber.
 

Dee
 (Wangero)
 looked
 up
 at
 me.
 

“Aunt
 Dee’s
 first
 husband
 whittled
 the
 dash,”
 said
 Maggie
 so
 low
 you
 almost
 couldn’t
 hear
 her.
 “His
 name
 
was
 Henry,
 but
 they
 called
 him
 Stash.”
 

“Maggie’s
 brain
 is
 like
 an
 elephant’s,”
 Wangero
 said,
 laughing.
 “I
 can
 use
 the
 chute
 top
 as
 a
 centerpiece
 for
 
the
 alcove
 table,”
 she
 said,
 sliding
 a
 plate
 over
 the
 chute,
 “and
 I’ll
 think
 of
 something
 artistic
 to
 do
 with
 the
 
dasher.”
 

When
 she
 finished
 wrapping
 the
 dasher
 the
 handle
 stuck
 out.
 I
 took
 it
 for
 a
 moment
 in
 my
 hands.
 You
 didn’t
 
even
 have
 to
 look
 close
 to
 see
 where
 hands
 pushing
 the
 dasher
 up
 and
 down
 to
 make
 butter
 had
 left
 a
 kind
 of
 
sink
 in
 the
 wood.
 In
 fact,
 there
 were
 a
 lot
 of
 small
 sinks;
 you
 could
 see
 where
 thumbs
 and
 fingers
 had
 sunk
 
into
 the
 wood.
 It
 was
 beautiful
 light
 yellow
 wood,
 from
 a
 tree
 that
 grew
 in
 the
 yard
 where
 Big
 Dee
 and
 Stash
 
had
 lived.
 

After
 dinner
 Dee
 (Wangero)
 went
 to
 the
 trunk
 at
 the
 foot
 of
 my
 bed
 and
 started
 rifling
 through
 it.
 Maggie
 
hung
 back
 in
 the
 kitchen
 over
 the
 dishpan.
 Out
 came
 Wangero
 with
 two
 quilts.
 They
 had
 been
 pieced
 by
 
Grandma
 Dee
 and
 then
 Big
 Dee
 and
 me
 had
 hung
 them
 on
 the
 quilt
 ftames
 on
 the
 ftont
 porch
 and
 quilted
 
them.
 One
 was
 in
 the
 Lone
 Stat
 pattetn.
 The
 other
 was
 Walk
 Around
 the
 Mountain.
 In
 both
 of
 them
 were
 
scraps
 of
 dresses
 Grandma
 Dee
 had
 wotn
 fifty
 and
 more
 years
 ago.
 Bits
 and
 pieces
 of
 Grandpa
 Jattell’s
 Paisley
 
shirts.
 And
 one
 teeny
 faded
 blue
 piece,
 about
 the
 size
 of
 a
 penny
 matchbox,
 that
 was
 from
 Great
 Grandpa
 
Ezra’s
 unifotm
 that
 he
 wore
 in
 the
 Civil
 War.
 

“Mama,”
 Wangro
 said
 sweet
 as
 a
 bird.
 “Can
 I
 have
 these
 old
 quilts?”
 

I
 heard
 something
 fall
 in
 the
 kitchen,
 and
 a
 minute
 later
 the
 kitchen
 door
 slammed.
 

“Why
 don’t
 you
 take
 one
 or
 two
 of
 the
 others?”
 I
 asked.
 “These
 old
 things
 was
 just
 done
 by
 me
 and
 Big
 Dee
 
from
 some
 tops
 your
 grandma
 pieced
 before
 she
 died.”
 

“No,”
 said
 Wangero.
 “I
 don’t
 want
 those.
 They
 are
 stitched
 around
 the
 borders
 by
 machine.”
 

“That’ll
 make
 them
 last
 better,”
 I
 said.
 

“That’s
 not
 the
 point,”
 said
 Wangero.
 “These
 are
 all
 pieces
 of
 dresses
 Grandma
 used
 to
 wear.
 She
 did
 all
 this
 
stitching
 by
 hand.
 Imag’
 ine!”
 She
 held
 the
 quilts
 securely
 in
 her
 atms,
 stroking
 them.
 

“Some
 of
 the
 pieces,
 like
 those
 lavender
 ones,
 come
 ftom
 old
 clothes
 her
 mother
 handed
 down
 to
 her,”
 I
 said,
 
moving
 up
 to
 touch
 the
 quilts.
 Dee
 (Wangero)
 moved
 back
 just
 enough
 so
 that
 I
 couldn’t
 reach
 the
 quilts.
 
They
 already
 belonged
 to
 her.
 

“Imagine!”
 she
 breathed
 again,
 clutching
 them
 closely
 to
 her
 bosom.
 

“The
 ttuth
 is,”
 I
 said,
 “I
 promised
 to
 give
 them
 quilts
 to
 Maggie,
 for
 when
 she
 matties
 John
 Thomas.”
 

 
.
 She
 gasped
 like
 a
 bee
 had
 stung
 her.
 

“Maggie
 can’t
 appreciate
 these
 quilts!”
 she
 said.
 “She’d
 probably
 be
 backward
 enough
 to
 put
 them
 to
 
everyday
 use.”
 

“I
 reckon
 she
 would,”
 I
 said.
 “God
 knows
 I
 been
 saving
 ’em
 for
 long
 enough
 with
 nobody
 using
 ’em.
 I
 hope
 she
 
will!”
 I
 didn’t
 want
 to
 bring
 up
 how
 I
 had
 offered
 Dee
 (Wangero)
 a
 quilt
 when
 she
 went
 away
 to
 college.
 Then
 
she
 had
 told
 they
 were
 old~fashioned,
 out
 of
 style.
 

“But
 they’re
 priceless!”
 she
 was
 saying
 now,
 furiously;
 for
 she
 has
 a
 temper.
 “Maggie
 would
 put
 them
 on
 the
 
bed
 and
 in
 five
 years
 they’d
 be
 in
 rags.
 Less
 than
 that!”
 

“She
 can
 always
 make
 some
 more,”
 I
 said.
 “Maggie
 knows
 how
 to
 quilt.”
 

Dee
 (Wangero)
 looked
 at
 me
 with
 hatred.
 “You
 just
 will
 not
 under.stand.
 The
 point
 is
 these
 quilts,
 these
 
quilts!”
 

“Well,”
 I
 said,
 stumped.
 “What
 would
 you
 do
 with
 them7”
 

“Hang
 them,”
 she
 said.
 As
 if
 that
 was
 the
 only
 thing
 you
 could
 do
 with
 quilts.
 

Maggie
 by
 now
 was
 standing
 in
 the
 door.
 I
 could
 almost
 hear
 the
 sound
 her
 feet
 made
 as
 they
 scraped
 over
 
each
 other.
 

“She
 can
 have
 them,
 Mama,”
 she
 said,
 like
 somebody
 used
 to
 never
 winning
 anything,
 or
 having
 anything
 
reserved
 for
 her.
 “I
 can
 ‘member
 Grandma
 Dee
 without
 the
 quilts.”
 

I
 looked
 at
 her
 hard.
 She
 had
 filled
 her
 bottom
 lip
 with
 checkerberry
 snuff
 and
 gave
 her
 face
 a
 kind
 of
 dopey,
 
hangdog
 look.
 It
 was
 Grandma
 Dee
 and
 Big
 Dee
 who
 taught
 her
 how
 to
 quilt
 herself.
 She
 stood
 there
 with
 her
 
scarred
 hands
 hidden
 in
 the
 folds
 of
 her
 skirt.
 She
 looked
 at
 her
 sister
 with
 something
 like
 fear
 but
 she
 
wasn’t
 mad
 at
 her.
 This
 was
 Maggie’s
 portion.
 This
 was
 the
 way
 she
 knew
 God
 to
 work.
 

When
 I
 looked
 at
 her
 like
 that
 something
 hit
 me
 in
 the
 top
 of
 my
 head
 and
 ran
 down
 to
 the
 soles
 of
 my
 feet.
 
Just
 like
 when
 I’m
 in
 church
 and
 the
 spirit
 of
 God
 touches
 me
 and
 I
 get
 happy
 and
 shout.
 I
 did
 some.thing
 I
 
never
 done
 before:
 hugged
 Maggie
 to
 me,
 then
 dragged
 her
 on
 into
 the
 room,
 snatched
 the
 quilts
 out
 of
 Miss
 
Wangero’s
 hands
 and
 dumped
 them
 into
 Maggie’s
 lap.
 Maggie
 just
 sat
 there
 on
 my
 bed
 with
 her
 mouth
 open.
 

“Take
 one
 or
 two
 of
 the
 others,”
 I
 said
 to
 Dee.
 

But
 she
 turned
 without
 a
 word
 and
 went
 out
 to
 Hakim~a~barber.
 

“You
 just
 don’t
 understand,”
 she
 said,
 as
 Maggie
 and
 I
 came
 out
 to
 the
 car.
 

 
.
 “What
 don’t
 I
 understand?”
 I
 wanted
 to
 know.
 

“Your
 heritage,”
 she
 said,
 And
 then
 she
 turned
 to
 Maggie,
 kissed
 her,
 and
 said,
 “You
 ought
 to
 try
 to
 make
 
something
 of
 yourself,
 too,
 Maggie.
 It’s
 really
 a
 new
 day
 for
 us.
 But
 from
 the
 way
 you
 and
 Mama
 still
 live
 
you’d
 never
 know
 it.”
 

She
 put
 on
 some
 sunglasses
 that
 hid
 everything
 above
 the
 tip
 of
 her
 nose
 and
 chin.
 

Maggie
 smiled;
 maybe
 at
 the
 sunglasses.
 But
 a
 real
 smile,
 not
 scared.
 After
 we
 watched
 the
 car
 dust
 settle
 I
 
asked
 Maggie
 to
 bring
 me
 a
 dip
 of
 snuff.
 And
 then
 the
 two
 of
 us
 sat
 there
 just
 enjoying,
 until
 it
 was
 time
 to
 go
 
in
 the
 house
 and
 go
 to
 bed.