1. What is controversy and why do we usually “let sleeping dogs lie”?
A civilization in which there is not a continuous controversy about important issues is on the way to totalitarianism and death.
Robert Maynard Hutchins
The Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary defines controversy as “a discussion marked especially by the expression of opposing views.” Etymologically speaking, this word means “turned against” (contro: against, versus: “turned”). Both in its denotation and origin, the word is closely connected to conflict or dispute. It might be the negative connotation often associated with these words that makes most teachers shy away from an inclusion of so-called “controversial issues” in the language curriculum.
Nevertheless, conflict is a fact of life. Human beings are all different, have diverse life experiences, values and perceptions of reality and, therefore, dissimilar ideas. When confronting opposing views, conflict arises. This is not necessarily negative, even though several teachers may shudder at the very thought of this confrontation taking place inside their classrooms.
They are not to be blamed, though. Conflict avoidance is at the very core of the educational system. The creation of the school as an institution in modern times was strongly linked to the project of amalgamating the various cultures within the recently created nation-states (Narodowski, 1994). In essence, schools had the primary purpose of providing people with a sense of belonging based on a common history, ideology and lifestyle. Thus, the difference had to be uprooted.
As a result of this political scheme, the curriculum has been construed as a set of neutral contents and classroom procedures. However, a parallel curriculum can be said to exist, namely that which is left out, disregarded due to its level of controversy. As Cherrin (1993:1) explains, this "evaded curriculum" refers to “matters central to the lives of students, but touched on only briefly, if at all, in most schools. Evaded topics include sexism, race and ethnic discrimination, class stratification, homophobia, and reproductive rights.”
For many decades – and above all during the military dictatorship in our country – teachers have been trained to exclude issues with the potential for controversy. In other words, educators are expected to “let sleeping dogs lie” and to teach the allegedly neutral topics in the official curriculum. Unfortunately, if we choose to do so, we are missing the great chance of educating future citizens who can express their views and listen to conflicting ideas in search of a more democratic society.
2. The “evaded curriculum” in English language teaching
In selecting controversial issues to tackle with an adolescent class, teachers need to take into consideration not only students’ interests, but also their maturity level. Otherwise, the topic can be discussed, but the depth of the debate might prove insufficient as regards its impact on students’ personal, social and cognitive development.
The table below summarizes some of the topics which can be considered “controversial” and which are usually absent or tangentially mentioned in the school curriculum. As has been argued before (Auerbach, 1995, Pennycook, 2001, Paz & Quinterno, 2009), every methodology, approach or classroom technique has to be adapted to the local context and the particular group of adolescents we are teaching. In this case, our selection of topic will depend on both learner interests and needs, and the possibilities and limitations the school and the community offer.
MEDICAL ISSUES
Euthanasia.
Abortion.
Addictions. Smoking, drinking and drug consumption and addiction.
Medical use of marihuana.
Mental illnesses.
Genetic manipulation. Designer babies.
Contraception methods. Sex education.
Young paternity or maternity. Unexpected pregnancies.
Eating disorders. Anorexia and bulimia. Body image.
Sale of human organs.
SOCIAL AND POLITICAL ISSUES
Poverty and richness. Distribution of Wealth.
Illegal immigration.
Media control and freedom. Media imperialism. Censorship.
The military coup.
Systems of government. Economic systems. Globalization.
Unemployment.
Equal access to education, health and housing.
Revolutions, utopias and dystopias.
Prisons.
Crime and punishment. Death penalty.
Integration of people with different capabilities.
War.
GENDER ISSUES
Homosexuality. Lesbianism. Transvestism. Transsexuals and sex-change operations. Transgender.
Gender violence. Sexual abuse.
Heterosexuality. Expected roles of men and women.
Single-parent families.
Same-sex marriage. Gay adoption.
TRANSCENDENTAL ISSUES
Religion. Faith and fanaticism. Atheism. God’s existence.
Self-help as a personal religion.
Death.
Life after death.
3. Methodological orientations to use controversial issues with adolescent learners
Dealing with controversial issues might turn out to be counterproductive if students and teacher do not abide by certain principles. Even though these guidelines can be a further source of controversy and, therefore, negotiable, it is important to compromise on certain ground rules to be followed with a view to developing both respect and responsibility when speaking to and about others. For the sake of clarity, these methodological guidelines have been divided into three categories: a) those regarding learners and their values; b) those regarding teacher roles; and c) those regarding classroom management.
3.1. Regarding learners and their values
Discussing controversial issues may imply questioning one’s or other people’s system of values. Contrary to what many people might believe, values are not universal, but socio-culturally and historically defined. As Bindé et al (2006) have explained, the conception of values is different depending on the historical period and the community we choose to study. Therefore, referring to “values” as an absolute term shows an ethnocentric perspective which both validates hegemonic views and beliefs and, at the same time, discredits those ideas and cultural products of non-mainstream groups, thus generating a process of “Othering” of the wrongly called minorities.
Bearing this in mind can help us teachers and learners feed on the various perspectives present in the class, without preconceived “correct” answers to transcendental questions. If, as facilitators, we are not ready to accept an alternative and often conflicting system of values (or hopefully, many of them all together in the same class), we had better deal with topics with which we can feel safe. Otherwise, by imposing moral and “generally accepted” values on our learners, we are pretending to be democratic and open-minded, thus making our students victims of the worst kind of pedagogical perversion.
3.2 Regarding teacher roles
The following chart shows the different roles you can adopt while discussing controversial issues. Even though it is not comprehensive – as is the case with any classification –, this table can help us reflect on some of the available options. Our choice might be influenced by the nature of the topic, the school where we work, the learners’ background and previous knowledge on the theme, the level of conflict the topic usually entails, the divergence which might exist between learners’ views and our own, students’ maturity level, or students’ interlanguage, among other factors.
Neutral Chair
Facilitator adopts role of impartial chairperson of a discussion group
Stated Commitment
Facilitator always makes known his/her views during the discussion
Balanced Approach
Facilitator presents students with wide range of alternative views and materials
Challenging Consensus
Facilitator consciously and openly takes up an opposite position to that expressed by students or resource materials
Stradling et al, 1984 as cited in Wilkins, 2008
Another important point to consider when choosing a role is the stage students are at in the development of critical thinking skills and the handling of conflict. At the beginning, our participation might be deemed necessary even by learners themselves, who need both support and limits. Later on, we can move aside and let a student lead, for instance, a discussion. Little by little, we can develop both autonomy and interdependence, which are essential traits in any democratic society.
3.3. Regarding classroom management
In order for students and teacher to critically and seriously deal with a polemical issue, there needs to be an atmosphere of respect and a responsible attitude. Respect does not mean tolerance, since the latter implies that the one who “tolerates” is in a superior position to the one who is “tolerated.” Respect, in this context, has to do with accepting the fact that a myriad of contrasting views coexist in this world. Both teacher and learners need to be open-minded enough to critically assess their ideas in the light of those which seem to be contradictory. Questioning our own ideas and deciding whether to maintain them or not would mean respecting both ourselves and others.
Responsibility, as applied here, would mean exactly what the elements in the word imply: response-ability. As participants in discussions – and later in society – we need to understand when and how we can respond to other people’s ideas or actions. In the context of controversy, we need to develop the ability to use appropriate strategies to exchange views without hurting other people’s feelings or discrediting their ideas a priori.
First, in order to conduct discussions with respect and responsibility, knowledge is fundamental. It is paramount for students to make informed comments on the issues and not just to express their gut feelings or stereotyped answers. It is the role of education, in fact, to challenge overgeneralizations, sweeping statements and stereotypes commonly present in everyday discourse. After all, one of the pillars of discrimination is ignorance, and as a consequence, fear of the unknown.
Second, the facilitator needs to keep the discussion on track. More often than not, students or teachers get carried away and wander off the main topic under discussion. As a class, one important rule to learn is that contributions have to be relevant to the topic we are tackling. It is a good idea not to simply disregard off-subject interventions, but first to ask the speaker to explain the connection, and if he or she is unsuccessful, to show him or her why these are not strictly connected to the theme.
A third factor related to respect and responsibility is the amount and form of participation. It usually happens that some students, because of their language level or personality traits, participate more actively than others. It is important to let them participate freely, but it is also vital to have an even participation of the class. To limit those who dominate the discussion, you may signal the fact that they will have just two more interventions by using yellow and red “participation cards,” or any other concrete object. They need to learn to respect other people’s ideas as well, and this can only be done by listening to them actively. Besides, the class must find an agreed-upon way to participate. Brainstorm other possibilities other than raising hands or saying “me.” Learning how to snatch a turn respectfully is essential for a democratic exchange of any ideas.
In sum, it is essential to negotiate a set of ground rules you can follow during discussions. You may choose to be the facilitator yourself or let a leaner play the role, but, whoever performs this task needs to make sure the rules are respected. Here is an example of guidelines you can use with your learners.
DISCUSSION GUIDELINES
· Always listen carefully, with an open mind, to the contributions of others;
· Ask for clarification when you don't understand a point someone has made;
· If you challenge others' ideas, do so with evidence and appropriate logic;
· Always criticise ideas or positions, not people;
· If others challenge your ideas, be willing to change your mind if they demonstrate errors in your logic or use of the facts;
· Explain the relevance of issues that you mention when their relevance might not be obvious to others in the class;
· If others have made a point with which you agree, only repeat it when you have something new or important to add;
· Be respectful of turn taking. Let other people talk. Participation must be even;
· Above all, respect the beliefs of others, even if they differ from yours.
Adapted from “The Guided Discussion” in CTL, Number 12, February 1992
It is also paramount to allow students to self-assess their performance not only in connection with their use of English, but also regarding their respect for the guidelines agreed upon. The guidelines above might be used as a checklist students can use after finishing a debate. They can write from 1 to 5 (1 being “always” and 5 being “never”) the number that best represents how often they think they have respected the principles of classroom discussion.
4. Material selection
The following mindmap shows just an example of material you can use to deal with the theme of abortion. Note that the choice of texts and activities aims at discussing various aspects of the problem from different perspectives. When selecting the material for a unit of work, we need to bear in mind that all the different “voices” on the issue are given a chance to be “heard.”
LEVEL: INTERMEDIATE
AGE GROUP: 17-YEAR-OLDS
SONGS:
“Sally’s Pigeons” by Cyndi Lauper
“Papa Don’t Preach” by Madonna
SHORT STORIES:
“Hills Like White Elephants” by Ernest Hemingway
“The Abortion” by Alice Walker
READING
Abortion: Are you pro-life or pro-choice?
(from Taboos and Issues)
SPEAKING
Role play based on Madonna’s song
Debate
Talk show with assigned roles
Short Story Discussions
LISTENING
“Sex Education”
http://www.elllo.org/english/ToughStuff/TS001-SexEducation.htm
“Abortion in India”
http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/learningenglish/news/words/general/991118.shtml
WRITING
Opinion Piece
“In-Someone’s-Shoes” Narrative
Responding to the Short Stories
VIDEO
“The Abortion War”
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E-aAEYqGPWM)
“Speak Out - Episode 11”
(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EeY4r-mZXlw&feature=related)
GRAMMAR AND LEXIS
Modal Verbs
Vocabulary on Health and Parts of the Body
Vocabulary on Babies
Vocabulary on Sex Education / Contraception
5. Conclusion
As I expect to have shown, the absence of controversial issues in the school curriculum is not whimsical. Schools were politically conceived of as homogeneity-promoting institutions. However, if we are to collectively construct a better and more democratic society, we need to come to terms with the fact that controversy is not a taboo word. It is on the basis of both respect for other people’s ideas and on our responsibility (or response ability) as citizens that we will create a less hypocritical community which is not afraid of engaging in a frank exchange of ideas on issues that, when dormant, divide it and gradually destroy it. Not “letting sleeping dogs lie” is at the core of any critical liberating pedagogy (Freire, 1972).
References
____________, 1992. The Guided Discussion. Center for Teaching and Learning, Number 12 (February 1992).
Auerbach, E. “The Politics of the ESL Classroom” in Tollefson, J. ed. (1995): Power and Inequality in Language Education, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Bindé, J. dir. (2006): ¿Hacia dónde se dirigen los valores? Coloquios del siglo XX. México: FCE.
Cherrin, S, 1993. Teaching Controversial Issues. The Professional & Organizational Development Network in Higher Education.
Freire, P. (1972): Pedagogy of the Oppressed, New York: Penguin Books.
MacAndrew, R. & R. Martinez (2001): Taboos and Issues, New York: Thomson Heinle Language Teaching Publications.
Narodowski, M. (1994): Infancia y Poder, La conformación de la Pedagogía moderna, Buenos Aires: Aique.
Paz, G. & M, Quinterno (2009): Construyendo puentes hacia otras lenguas. Reflexiones sobre la enseñanza de lenguas extranjeras en la escuela media, Buenos Aires: La Crujía.
Pennycook, A. (2001): Critical Applied Linguistics. New Jersey: Lawrence Erlbaum Associates Publishers, 2001.
Wilkins, A, 2008. Controversy in Citizenship is Inevitable. Post-16 Citizenship Development Programme, (September 2008).
SHORT AND SWEET
THE TERRIBLE SCREAMING by Janet Frame
One night a terrible screaming sounded through the city. It sounded so loudly and piercing that there was not a soul who did not hear it. Yet when people turned to one another in fear and were about to remark “Did you hear it, that terrible screaming?” they changed their minds, thinking: “Perhaps it was my imagination, perhaps I have been working too hard or letting my thoughts get the upper hand” (one must never work too hard or be dominated by one’s thoughts); “perhaps if I confess that I heard this terrible screaming, others will label me insane, I shall be hidden behind locked doors and sit for the remaining years of my life in a small corner, gazing at the senseless writings on the wall.”
Therefore no one confessed to having heard the screaming. Work and play, love and death, continued as usual. Yet the screaming persisted. It sounded day and night in the ears of the people of the city, yet all remained silent concerning it, and talked of other things. Until one day a stranger arrived from a foreign shore. As soon as he arrived in the city he gave a start of horror and exclaimed to the Head of the Welcoming Committee, “What was that? Why, it has not yet ceased! What is it, that terrible screaming? How can you possibly live with it? Does it continue night and day? Oh what sympathy I have for you in this otherwise untroubled city!”
The Head of the Welcoming Committee was at a loss. On the one hand the stranger was a Distinguished person whom it would be impolite to contradict; on the other hand, it would be equally unwise for the Head of the Welcoming Committee to acknowledge the terrible screaming. He decided to risk being thought impolite.
“I hear nothing unusual,” he said lightly, trying to suggest that perhaps his thoughts had been elsewhere, and at the same time trying to convey his undivided attention to the concern of the Distinguished Stranger. His task was difficult. The packaging of words with varied intentions is like writing a letter to someone in the foreign land and addressing it to oneself; it never reaches its destination.
The distinguished stranger looked confused. “You hear no terrible screaming?”
The Head of the Welcoming Committee turned to his assistant. “Do you perhaps hear some unusual sound?”
The assistant, who had been disturbed by the screaming, and had decided that very day to speak out, to refuse to ignore it, now became afraid that he would lose his job of he mentioned it. He shook it head.
“I hear nothing unusual,” he replied firmly.
The distinguished stranger looked embarrassed. “Perhaps it is my imagination,” he said apologetically. “It is just as well that I have come for a holiday to your beautiful city. I have been working very hard lately.”
Then aware once again of the terrible screaming he covered his ears with his hands.
“I fear that I am unwell,” he said. “I apologize if I am unable to attend the banquet, in honour of my arrival.”
“We understand completely,” said the head of the Welcoming Committee.
So there was no banquet. The Distinguished Stranger consulted a specialist who admitted him to a private rest home where he could recover from his disturbed state of mind and the persistence in his ears of the terrible screaming.
The specialist finished examining the Distinguished Stranger. He washed his hands with a slab of hard soap, took off his white coat, and was preparing to go home to his wife when he thought suddenly, “Suppose the screaming dues exist?”
He dismissed the thought. The Rest Home was full, and the fees were high. He enjoyed the comforts of civilization. Yet supposing, just supposing, that all the patients united against him, that all the people of the city began to acknowledge the terrible screaming? What would be the result? Would there be a complete panic? Was there really safety in numbers where ideas were concerned?
He stopped thinking about the terrible screaming. He climbed into his jaguar and drove home.
The Head of the Welcoming Committee, disappointed because he could not attend another banquet, yet relieved because he would not be forced to justify another item of public expenditure, also went home to his wife. They dined on boiled egg, bread and butter and a cup of tea, for they both approved of simple living.
Then they went to the bedroom, switched out the light and enjoyed the illusion of uncomplicated dreams.
And outside in the city the terrible screaming continued its separate existence, unacknowledged. For you see its name was silence. Silence had found its voice.
Therefore no one confessed to having heard the screaming. Work and play, love and death, continued as usual. Yet the screaming persisted. It sounded day and night in the ears of the people of the city, yet all remained silent concerning it, and talked of other things. Until one day a stranger arrived from a foreign shore. As soon as he arrived in the city he gave a start of horror and exclaimed to the Head of the Welcoming Committee, “What was that? Why, it has not yet ceased! What is it, that terrible screaming? How can you possibly live with it? Does it continue night and day? Oh what sympathy I have for you in this otherwise untroubled city!”
The Head of the Welcoming Committee was at a loss. On the one hand the stranger was a Distinguished person whom it would be impolite to contradict; on the other hand, it would be equally unwise for the Head of the Welcoming Committee to acknowledge the terrible screaming. He decided to risk being thought impolite.
“I hear nothing unusual,” he said lightly, trying to suggest that perhaps his thoughts had been elsewhere, and at the same time trying to convey his undivided attention to the concern of the Distinguished Stranger. His task was difficult. The packaging of words with varied intentions is like writing a letter to someone in the foreign land and addressing it to oneself; it never reaches its destination.
The distinguished stranger looked confused. “You hear no terrible screaming?”
The Head of the Welcoming Committee turned to his assistant. “Do you perhaps hear some unusual sound?”
The assistant, who had been disturbed by the screaming, and had decided that very day to speak out, to refuse to ignore it, now became afraid that he would lose his job of he mentioned it. He shook it head.
“I hear nothing unusual,” he replied firmly.
The distinguished stranger looked embarrassed. “Perhaps it is my imagination,” he said apologetically. “It is just as well that I have come for a holiday to your beautiful city. I have been working very hard lately.”
Then aware once again of the terrible screaming he covered his ears with his hands.
“I fear that I am unwell,” he said. “I apologize if I am unable to attend the banquet, in honour of my arrival.”
“We understand completely,” said the head of the Welcoming Committee.
So there was no banquet. The Distinguished Stranger consulted a specialist who admitted him to a private rest home where he could recover from his disturbed state of mind and the persistence in his ears of the terrible screaming.
The specialist finished examining the Distinguished Stranger. He washed his hands with a slab of hard soap, took off his white coat, and was preparing to go home to his wife when he thought suddenly, “Suppose the screaming dues exist?”
He dismissed the thought. The Rest Home was full, and the fees were high. He enjoyed the comforts of civilization. Yet supposing, just supposing, that all the patients united against him, that all the people of the city began to acknowledge the terrible screaming? What would be the result? Would there be a complete panic? Was there really safety in numbers where ideas were concerned?
He stopped thinking about the terrible screaming. He climbed into his jaguar and drove home.
The Head of the Welcoming Committee, disappointed because he could not attend another banquet, yet relieved because he would not be forced to justify another item of public expenditure, also went home to his wife. They dined on boiled egg, bread and butter and a cup of tea, for they both approved of simple living.
Then they went to the bedroom, switched out the light and enjoyed the illusion of uncomplicated dreams.
And outside in the city the terrible screaming continued its separate existence, unacknowledged. For you see its name was silence. Silence had found its voice.
ELEVEN by Sandra Cisneros
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven. Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three. Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is. You don't feel eleven. Not right away. It takes a few days, weeks even, sometimes even months before you say Eleven when they ask you. And you don't feel smart eleven, not until you're almost twelve. That's the way it is. Only today I wish I didn't have only eleven years rattling inside me like pennies in a tin Band-Aid box. Today I wish I was one hundred and two instead of eleven because if I was one hundred and two I'd have known what to say when Mrs. Price put the red sweater on my desk. I would've known how to tell her it wasn't mine instead of just sitting there with that look on my face and nothing coming out of my mouth. "Whose is this?" Mrs. Price says, and she holds the red sweater up in the air for all the class to see. "Whose? It's been sitting in the coatroom for a month." "Not mine," says everybody, "Not me." "It has to belong to somebody," Mrs. Price keeps saying, but nobody can remember. It's an ugly sweater with red plastic buttons and a collar and sleeves all stretched out like you could use it for a jump rope. It's maybe a thousand years old and even if it belonged to me I wouldn't say so. Maybe because I'm skinny, maybe because she doesn't like me, that stupid Sylvia Saldivar says, "I think it belongs to Rachel." An ugly sweater like that all raggedy and old, but Mrs. Price believes her. Mrs Price takes the sweater and puts it right on my desk, but when I open my mouth nothing comes out. "That's not, I don't, you're not . . . Not mine." I finally say in a little voice that was maybe
me when I was four. "Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not. Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care. "Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense." "But it's not—" "Now!" Mrs. Price says. This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine. That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay. Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late. I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
me when I was four. "Of course it's yours," Mrs. Price says. "I remember you wearing it once." Because she's older and the teacher, she's right and I'm not. Not mine, not mine, not mine, but Mrs. Price is already turning to page thirty-two, and math problem number four. I don't know why but all of a sudden I'm feeling sick inside, like the part of me that's three wants to come out of my eyes, only I squeeze them shut tight and bite down on my teeth real hard and try to remember today I am eleven, eleven. Mama is making a cake for me for tonight, and when Papa comes home everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. But when the sick feeling goes away and I open my eyes, the red sweater's still sitting there like a big red mountain. I move the red sweater to the corner of my desk with my ruler. I move my pencil and books and eraser as far from it as possible. I even move my chair a little to the right. Not mine, not mine, not mine. In my head I'm thinking how long till lunchtime, how long till I can take the red sweater and throw it over the schoolyard fence, or leave it hanging on a parking meter, or bunch it up into a little ball and toss it in the alley. Except when math period ends Mrs. Price says loud and in front of everybody, "Now, Rachel, that's enough," because she sees I've shoved the red sweater to the tippy-tip corner of my desk and it's hanging all over the edge like a waterfall, but I don't care. "Rachel," Mrs. Price says. She says it like she's getting mad. "You put that sweater on right now and no more nonsense." "But it's not—" "Now!" Mrs. Price says. This is when I wish I wasn't eleven because all the years inside of me—ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one—are pushing at the back of my eyes when I put one arm through one sleeve of the sweater that smells like cottage cheese, and then the other arm through the other and stand there with my arms apart like if the sweater hurts me and it does, all itchy and full of germs that aren't even mine. That's when everything I've been holding in since this morning, since when Mrs. Price put the sweater on my desk, finally lets go, and all of a sudden I'm crying in front of everybody. I wish I was invisible but I'm not. I'm eleven and it's my birthday today and I'm crying like I'm three in front of everybody. I put my head down on the desk and bury my face in my stupid clown-sweater arms. My face all hot and spit coming out of my mouth because I can't stop the little animal noises from coming out of me until there aren't any more tears left in my eyes, and it's just my body shaking like when you have the hiccups, and my whole head hurts like when you drink milk too fast.
But the worst part is right before the bell rings for lunch. That stupid Phyllis Lopez, who is even dumber than Sylvia Saldivar, says she remembers the red sweater is hers! I take it off right away and give it to her, only Mrs. Price pretends like everything's okay. Today I'm eleven. There's a cake Mama's making for tonight and when Papa comes home from work we'll eat it. There'll be candles and presents and everybody will sing Happy birthday, happy birthday to you, Rachel, only it's too late. I'm eleven today. I'm eleven, ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, and one, but I wish I was one hundred and two. I wish I was anything but eleven, because I want today to be far away already, far away like a runaway balloon, like a tiny o in the sky, so tiny tiny you have to close your eyes to see it.
THE SOMEBODY by Danny Santiago
This is Chato talking, Chato de Shamrock, from the Eastside in old L.A., and I want you to know this is a big day in my life because today I quit school and went to work as a writer. I write on fences or buildings or anything that comes along. I write my name, not the one I got from my father. I want no part of him. I write Chato, which means Catface, because I have a flat nose like a cat. It's a Mexican word because that's what I am, a Mexican, and I'm not ashamed of it. I like that language, too, man. It's way better than English to say what you feel. But German is the best. It's got a real rugged sound, and I'm going to learn to talk it someday.
After Chato I write "de Shamrock." That's the street where I live, and it's the name of the gang I belong to, but the others are all gone now. Their families had to move away, except Gorilla is in jail and Blackie joined the Navy because he liked swimming. But I still have our old arsenal. It's buried under the chickens, and I dig it up when I get bored. There's tire irons and chains and pick handles with spikes and two zip guns we made and they shoot real bullets but not very straight. In the good old days nobody cared to tangle with us. But now I'm the only one left.
Well, today started off like any other day. The toilet roars like a hot rod taking off. My father coughs and spits about nineteen times and hollers it's six-thirty. So I holler back I'm quitting school. Things hit me like that -- sudden.
Don't you want to be a lawyer no more," he says in Spanish, "and defend the Mexican people?"My father thinks he is very funny, and next time I make any plans, he's sure not going to hear about it."Don't you want to be a doctor," he says, "and cut off my leg for nothing someday?""How will you support me," he says, "when I retire? Or will you marry a rich old woman that owns a pool hall?""I'm checking out of this dump! You'll never see me again!"
I hollered in at him, but already he was in the kitchen making a big noise in his coffee. I could be dead and he wouldn't take me serious. So I laid there and waited for him to go off to work. When I woke up again, it was way past eleven. I can sleep forever these days. So I got out of bed and put on clean jeans and my windbreaker and combed myself very neat because already I had a feeling this was going to be a big day for me.
I had to wait for breakfast because the baby was sick and throwing up milk on everything. There is always a baby vomiting in my house. When they're born, everybody comes over and says: "Que cute!" but nobody passes any comments on the dirty way babies act or the dirty way there were made either. Sometimes my mother asks me to hold one for her but it always cries, maybe because I squeeze it a little hard when nobody's looking.
When my mother finally served me, I had to hold my breath, she smelled so bad of babies. I don't care to look at her anymore. Her legs got those dark-blue rivers running all over them. I kept waiting for her to bawl me out about school, but I guess she forgot, or something. So I cut out.
Every time I go out my front door I have to cry for what they've done to old Shamrock Street. It used to be so fine, with solid homes on both sides. Maybe they needed a little paint here and there but they were cozy.Then the S.P. railroad brought up all the land except my father's place cause he was stubborn. They came in with their wrecking bars and their bulldozers. You could hear those houses scream when they ripped them down. So now Shamrock Street is just front walks that lead to a hole in the ground, and piles of busted cement. And Pelon's house and Blackie's are just stacks of old boards waiting to get hauled away. I hope that never happens to your street, man.
My first stop was the front gate and there was that sign again, the big S wrapped around a cross like a snake with rays coming out, which is the mark of the Sierra Street gang, as everybody knows. I rubbed it off, but tonight they'll put it back again. In the old days they wouldn't dare to come on our street, but without your gang you're nobody. And one of these fine days they're going to catch up with me in person and that will be the end of Chato de Shamrock.
So I cruised on down to Main Street like a ghost in a graveyard. Just to prove I'm alive, I wrote my name on the fence at the corner. A lot of names you see in public places are written very sloppy. Not me. I take my time. Like my fifth-grade teacher used to say, if other people are going to see your work, you owe it to yourself to do it right. Mrs. Cully was her name and she was real nice, for an Anglo. My other teachers were all cops but Mrs. Cully drove me home one time when some guys were after me. I think she wanted to adopt me but she never said anything about it. I owe a lot to that lady, and especially my writing. You should see it, man--it's real smooth and mellow, and curvy like a blond in a bikini. Everybody says so. Except one time they had me in Juvenile by mistake and some doctor looked at it. He said it proved I had something wrong with me, some long word. That doctor was crazy, because I made him show me his writing and it was real ugly like a barb-wire fence with little chickens stuck on the points. You couldn't even read it.
Anyway, I signed myself very clean and neat on that corner. And then I thought, Why not look for a job someplace? But I was more in the mood to write my name, so I went into the dime store and helped myself to two boxes of crayons and some chalk and cruised on down Main, writing all the way. I wondered should I write more than my name. Should I write, "Chato is a fine guy," or, "Chato, is wanted by the police"? Things like that. News. But I decided against it. Better to keep them guessing. Then I crossed over to Forney Playground. It used to be our territory, but now the Sierra have taken over there like everyplace else. Just to show them, I wrote on the tennis court and the swimming pool and the gym. I left a fine little trail of Chato de Shamrock in eight colors. Some places I used chalk, which works better on brick or plaster. But crayons are the thing for cement or anything smooth, like in the girls' rest room. On that wall I also drew a little picture that the girls would be interested in and put down a phone number beside it. I bet a lot of them are going to call that number, but it isn't mine because we don't have a phone in the first place, and in the second place I'm probably never going home again.
I'm telling you, I was pretty famous at the Forney by the time I cut out, and from there I continued my travels till something hit me. You know how you put your name on something and that proves it belongs to you? Things like school books or gym shoes? So I thought, How about that, now? And I put my name on the Triple A Market and on Morrie's Liquor Store and on the Zocalo, which is a beer joint. And then I cruised on up Broadway, getting rich. I took over a barber shop and a furniture store and the Plymouth agency. And the firehouse for laughs, and the phone company so I could call all my girl friends and keep my dimes. And then there I was at Webster and Garcia's Funeral Home with the big white columns. At first I thought that might be bad luck, but then I said, Oh, well, we all got to die sometime. So I signed myself, and now I can eat good and live in style and have a big time all my life, and then kiss you all good-bye and give myself the best damn funeral in L.A. for free.
And speaking of funerals, along came the Sierra right then, eight or ten of them down the street with that stupid walk which is their trademark. I ducked into the garage and hid behind the hearse. Not that I'm a coward. Getting stomped on doesn't bother me, or even shot. What I hate is those blades, man. They're like a piece of ice cutting into your belly. But the Sierra didn't see me and went on by. I couldn't hear what they were saying but I knew they had me on their mind. So I cut on over to the Boy's Club, where they don't let anybody get you, no matter who you are. To pass the time I shot some baskets and played a little pool and watched the television, but the story was boring, so it came to me, Why not write my name on the screen? Which I did with a squeaky pen. Those cowboys sure looked fine with Chato de Shamrock written all over them. Everybody got a kick out of it. But of course up comes Mr. Calderon and makes me wipe it off. They're always spying on you up there. And he takes me into his office and closes the door.
"Well," he says, "and how is the last of the dinosaurs?"Meaning the Shamrocks are as dead as giant lizards.
Then he goes into that voice with the church music in it and I look out of the window."I know it's hard to lose your gang, Chato," he says, "but this is your chance to make new friends and straighten yourself out. Why don't you start coming to the Boy's Club more?""It's boring here," I tell him."What about school?""I can't go," I said. "They'll get me.""The Sierra's forgotten you're alive," he tells me."Then how come they put their mark on my house every night?" "Do they?"
He stares at me very hard. I hate those eyes of his. He thinks he knows everything. And what is he? Just a Mexican like everybody else.
"Maybe you put that mark up yourself," he says. "To make yourself big. Just like you wrote on the television.""That was my name! I like to write my name!""So do dogs," he says. "On every lamppost they come to.""You're a dog yourself," I told him, but I don't think he heard me. He just went on talking. Brother, how they love to talk up there! But I didn't bother to listen, and when he ran out of gas I left. From now on I'm scratching that Boys' Club off my list.
Out on the street it was getting dark, but I could still follow my trail back toward Broadway. It felt good seeing Chato written everyplace, but at the Zocalo I stopped dead. Around my name there was a big red heart done in lipstick with some initials I didn't recognize. To tell the truth, I didn't know how to feel. In one way I was mad that anyone would fool with my name, especially if it was some guy doing it for laughs. But what guy carries lipstick? And if it was a girl, that could be kind of interesting.
A girl is what it turned out to be. I caught up with her at the telephone company. There she is, standing in the shadows, drawing her heart around my name. And she has a very pretty shape on her, too. I sneak up behind her very quiet, thinking all kinds of crazy things and my blood shooting around so fast it makes me shake all over. And then she turns around and it's only Crusader Rabbit. That's what we called her from the television show they had then, on account of her teeth in front.
When she sees me, she takes off down the alley, but in twenty feet I catch her. I grab for the lipstick, but she whips it behind her. I reach around and try to pull her fingers open, but her hand is sweaty and so is mine. And there we are, stuck together all the way down. I can feel everything she's got and her breath is on my cheek. She twists up against me, kind of giggling. To tell the truth, I don't like to wrestle with girls. They don't fight fair. And then we lost balance and fell against some garbage cans, so I woke up. After that I got the lipstick away from her very easy.
"What right you got to my name?" I tell her. "I never gave your permission.""You sign yourself real fine," she says.I knew that already."Let's go writing together," she says."The Sierra's after me.""I don't care," she says. "Come on, Chato--you and me can have a lot of fun."
She came up close and giggled that way. She put her hand on my hand that had the lipstick in it. And you know what? I'm ashamed to say it but I almost told her yes. It would be a change to go writing with a girl. We could talk there in the dark. We could decide on the best places. And her handwriting wasn't too bad either. But then I remembered I had my reputation to think of.Somebody would be sure to see us, and they'd be laughing at me all over the Eastside. So I pulled my hand away and told her off.
"Run along, Crusader," I told her. "I don't want no partners, and especially not you.""Who are you calling Crusader?" she screamed. "You ugly, squash-nose punk."
She called me everything. And spit at my face but missed. I didn't argue. I just cut out. And when I got to the first sewer I threw away her lipstick. Then I drifted over to the banks at Broadway and Bailey, which is a good spot for writing because a lot of people pass by there.
Well, I hate to brag, but that was the best work I've ever done in all my life. Under the street lamp my name shone like solid gold. I stood to one side and checked the people as they walked past and inspected it. With some you can't tell just how they feel, but with others it rings out like a cash register. There was one man. He got out of his Cadillac to buy a paper and when he saw my name he smiled. He was the age to be my father. I bet he'd give me a job if I asked him. I bet he'd take me to his home and to his office in the morning. Pretty soon I'd be sitting at my own desk and signing my name on letters and checks and things. But I would never buy a Cadillac, man. They burn too much gas.
Later a girl came by. She was around eighteen, I think, with green eyes. Her face was so pretty I didn't dare to look at her shape. Do you want me to go crazy? That girl stopped and really studied my name like she fell in love with it. She wanted to know me, I could tell. She wanted to take my hand and we'd go off together just holding hands and nothing dirty. We'd go to Beverly Hills and nobody would look at us the wrong way. I almost said "Hi" to that girl, and, "How do you like my writing?" But not quite.
So here I am, standing on this corner with my chalk all gone and only one crayon left and it's ugly brown. My fingers are too cold besides. But I don't care because I just had a vision, man. Did they ever turn on the lights for you so you could see the whole world and everything in it? That's how it came to me right now. I don't need to be a movie star or boxing champ to make my name in the world. All I need is plenty of chalk and crayons. And that's easy. L.A. is a big city, man, but give me a couple of months and I'll be famous all over town. Of course they'll try to stop me--The Sierra, the police, and everybody. But I'll be like a ghost, man. I'll be real mysterious, and then all they'll know is just my name, signed like I always sign it, CHATO DE SHAMROCK with rays shooting out like from the Holy Cross.
After Chato I write "de Shamrock." That's the street where I live, and it's the name of the gang I belong to, but the others are all gone now. Their families had to move away, except Gorilla is in jail and Blackie joined the Navy because he liked swimming. But I still have our old arsenal. It's buried under the chickens, and I dig it up when I get bored. There's tire irons and chains and pick handles with spikes and two zip guns we made and they shoot real bullets but not very straight. In the good old days nobody cared to tangle with us. But now I'm the only one left.
Well, today started off like any other day. The toilet roars like a hot rod taking off. My father coughs and spits about nineteen times and hollers it's six-thirty. So I holler back I'm quitting school. Things hit me like that -- sudden.
Don't you want to be a lawyer no more," he says in Spanish, "and defend the Mexican people?"My father thinks he is very funny, and next time I make any plans, he's sure not going to hear about it."Don't you want to be a doctor," he says, "and cut off my leg for nothing someday?""How will you support me," he says, "when I retire? Or will you marry a rich old woman that owns a pool hall?""I'm checking out of this dump! You'll never see me again!"
I hollered in at him, but already he was in the kitchen making a big noise in his coffee. I could be dead and he wouldn't take me serious. So I laid there and waited for him to go off to work. When I woke up again, it was way past eleven. I can sleep forever these days. So I got out of bed and put on clean jeans and my windbreaker and combed myself very neat because already I had a feeling this was going to be a big day for me.
I had to wait for breakfast because the baby was sick and throwing up milk on everything. There is always a baby vomiting in my house. When they're born, everybody comes over and says: "Que cute!" but nobody passes any comments on the dirty way babies act or the dirty way there were made either. Sometimes my mother asks me to hold one for her but it always cries, maybe because I squeeze it a little hard when nobody's looking.
When my mother finally served me, I had to hold my breath, she smelled so bad of babies. I don't care to look at her anymore. Her legs got those dark-blue rivers running all over them. I kept waiting for her to bawl me out about school, but I guess she forgot, or something. So I cut out.
Every time I go out my front door I have to cry for what they've done to old Shamrock Street. It used to be so fine, with solid homes on both sides. Maybe they needed a little paint here and there but they were cozy.Then the S.P. railroad brought up all the land except my father's place cause he was stubborn. They came in with their wrecking bars and their bulldozers. You could hear those houses scream when they ripped them down. So now Shamrock Street is just front walks that lead to a hole in the ground, and piles of busted cement. And Pelon's house and Blackie's are just stacks of old boards waiting to get hauled away. I hope that never happens to your street, man.
My first stop was the front gate and there was that sign again, the big S wrapped around a cross like a snake with rays coming out, which is the mark of the Sierra Street gang, as everybody knows. I rubbed it off, but tonight they'll put it back again. In the old days they wouldn't dare to come on our street, but without your gang you're nobody. And one of these fine days they're going to catch up with me in person and that will be the end of Chato de Shamrock.
So I cruised on down to Main Street like a ghost in a graveyard. Just to prove I'm alive, I wrote my name on the fence at the corner. A lot of names you see in public places are written very sloppy. Not me. I take my time. Like my fifth-grade teacher used to say, if other people are going to see your work, you owe it to yourself to do it right. Mrs. Cully was her name and she was real nice, for an Anglo. My other teachers were all cops but Mrs. Cully drove me home one time when some guys were after me. I think she wanted to adopt me but she never said anything about it. I owe a lot to that lady, and especially my writing. You should see it, man--it's real smooth and mellow, and curvy like a blond in a bikini. Everybody says so. Except one time they had me in Juvenile by mistake and some doctor looked at it. He said it proved I had something wrong with me, some long word. That doctor was crazy, because I made him show me his writing and it was real ugly like a barb-wire fence with little chickens stuck on the points. You couldn't even read it.
Anyway, I signed myself very clean and neat on that corner. And then I thought, Why not look for a job someplace? But I was more in the mood to write my name, so I went into the dime store and helped myself to two boxes of crayons and some chalk and cruised on down Main, writing all the way. I wondered should I write more than my name. Should I write, "Chato is a fine guy," or, "Chato, is wanted by the police"? Things like that. News. But I decided against it. Better to keep them guessing. Then I crossed over to Forney Playground. It used to be our territory, but now the Sierra have taken over there like everyplace else. Just to show them, I wrote on the tennis court and the swimming pool and the gym. I left a fine little trail of Chato de Shamrock in eight colors. Some places I used chalk, which works better on brick or plaster. But crayons are the thing for cement or anything smooth, like in the girls' rest room. On that wall I also drew a little picture that the girls would be interested in and put down a phone number beside it. I bet a lot of them are going to call that number, but it isn't mine because we don't have a phone in the first place, and in the second place I'm probably never going home again.
I'm telling you, I was pretty famous at the Forney by the time I cut out, and from there I continued my travels till something hit me. You know how you put your name on something and that proves it belongs to you? Things like school books or gym shoes? So I thought, How about that, now? And I put my name on the Triple A Market and on Morrie's Liquor Store and on the Zocalo, which is a beer joint. And then I cruised on up Broadway, getting rich. I took over a barber shop and a furniture store and the Plymouth agency. And the firehouse for laughs, and the phone company so I could call all my girl friends and keep my dimes. And then there I was at Webster and Garcia's Funeral Home with the big white columns. At first I thought that might be bad luck, but then I said, Oh, well, we all got to die sometime. So I signed myself, and now I can eat good and live in style and have a big time all my life, and then kiss you all good-bye and give myself the best damn funeral in L.A. for free.
And speaking of funerals, along came the Sierra right then, eight or ten of them down the street with that stupid walk which is their trademark. I ducked into the garage and hid behind the hearse. Not that I'm a coward. Getting stomped on doesn't bother me, or even shot. What I hate is those blades, man. They're like a piece of ice cutting into your belly. But the Sierra didn't see me and went on by. I couldn't hear what they were saying but I knew they had me on their mind. So I cut on over to the Boy's Club, where they don't let anybody get you, no matter who you are. To pass the time I shot some baskets and played a little pool and watched the television, but the story was boring, so it came to me, Why not write my name on the screen? Which I did with a squeaky pen. Those cowboys sure looked fine with Chato de Shamrock written all over them. Everybody got a kick out of it. But of course up comes Mr. Calderon and makes me wipe it off. They're always spying on you up there. And he takes me into his office and closes the door.
"Well," he says, "and how is the last of the dinosaurs?"Meaning the Shamrocks are as dead as giant lizards.
Then he goes into that voice with the church music in it and I look out of the window."I know it's hard to lose your gang, Chato," he says, "but this is your chance to make new friends and straighten yourself out. Why don't you start coming to the Boy's Club more?""It's boring here," I tell him."What about school?""I can't go," I said. "They'll get me.""The Sierra's forgotten you're alive," he tells me."Then how come they put their mark on my house every night?" "Do they?"
He stares at me very hard. I hate those eyes of his. He thinks he knows everything. And what is he? Just a Mexican like everybody else.
"Maybe you put that mark up yourself," he says. "To make yourself big. Just like you wrote on the television.""That was my name! I like to write my name!""So do dogs," he says. "On every lamppost they come to.""You're a dog yourself," I told him, but I don't think he heard me. He just went on talking. Brother, how they love to talk up there! But I didn't bother to listen, and when he ran out of gas I left. From now on I'm scratching that Boys' Club off my list.
Out on the street it was getting dark, but I could still follow my trail back toward Broadway. It felt good seeing Chato written everyplace, but at the Zocalo I stopped dead. Around my name there was a big red heart done in lipstick with some initials I didn't recognize. To tell the truth, I didn't know how to feel. In one way I was mad that anyone would fool with my name, especially if it was some guy doing it for laughs. But what guy carries lipstick? And if it was a girl, that could be kind of interesting.
A girl is what it turned out to be. I caught up with her at the telephone company. There she is, standing in the shadows, drawing her heart around my name. And she has a very pretty shape on her, too. I sneak up behind her very quiet, thinking all kinds of crazy things and my blood shooting around so fast it makes me shake all over. And then she turns around and it's only Crusader Rabbit. That's what we called her from the television show they had then, on account of her teeth in front.
When she sees me, she takes off down the alley, but in twenty feet I catch her. I grab for the lipstick, but she whips it behind her. I reach around and try to pull her fingers open, but her hand is sweaty and so is mine. And there we are, stuck together all the way down. I can feel everything she's got and her breath is on my cheek. She twists up against me, kind of giggling. To tell the truth, I don't like to wrestle with girls. They don't fight fair. And then we lost balance and fell against some garbage cans, so I woke up. After that I got the lipstick away from her very easy.
"What right you got to my name?" I tell her. "I never gave your permission.""You sign yourself real fine," she says.I knew that already."Let's go writing together," she says."The Sierra's after me.""I don't care," she says. "Come on, Chato--you and me can have a lot of fun."
She came up close and giggled that way. She put her hand on my hand that had the lipstick in it. And you know what? I'm ashamed to say it but I almost told her yes. It would be a change to go writing with a girl. We could talk there in the dark. We could decide on the best places. And her handwriting wasn't too bad either. But then I remembered I had my reputation to think of.Somebody would be sure to see us, and they'd be laughing at me all over the Eastside. So I pulled my hand away and told her off.
"Run along, Crusader," I told her. "I don't want no partners, and especially not you.""Who are you calling Crusader?" she screamed. "You ugly, squash-nose punk."
She called me everything. And spit at my face but missed. I didn't argue. I just cut out. And when I got to the first sewer I threw away her lipstick. Then I drifted over to the banks at Broadway and Bailey, which is a good spot for writing because a lot of people pass by there.
Well, I hate to brag, but that was the best work I've ever done in all my life. Under the street lamp my name shone like solid gold. I stood to one side and checked the people as they walked past and inspected it. With some you can't tell just how they feel, but with others it rings out like a cash register. There was one man. He got out of his Cadillac to buy a paper and when he saw my name he smiled. He was the age to be my father. I bet he'd give me a job if I asked him. I bet he'd take me to his home and to his office in the morning. Pretty soon I'd be sitting at my own desk and signing my name on letters and checks and things. But I would never buy a Cadillac, man. They burn too much gas.
Later a girl came by. She was around eighteen, I think, with green eyes. Her face was so pretty I didn't dare to look at her shape. Do you want me to go crazy? That girl stopped and really studied my name like she fell in love with it. She wanted to know me, I could tell. She wanted to take my hand and we'd go off together just holding hands and nothing dirty. We'd go to Beverly Hills and nobody would look at us the wrong way. I almost said "Hi" to that girl, and, "How do you like my writing?" But not quite.
So here I am, standing on this corner with my chalk all gone and only one crayon left and it's ugly brown. My fingers are too cold besides. But I don't care because I just had a vision, man. Did they ever turn on the lights for you so you could see the whole world and everything in it? That's how it came to me right now. I don't need to be a movie star or boxing champ to make my name in the world. All I need is plenty of chalk and crayons. And that's easy. L.A. is a big city, man, but give me a couple of months and I'll be famous all over town. Of course they'll try to stop me--The Sierra, the police, and everybody. But I'll be like a ghost, man. I'll be real mysterious, and then all they'll know is just my name, signed like I always sign it, CHATO DE SHAMROCK with rays shooting out like from the Holy Cross.
THE TEST by Angelica Gibbs
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.
'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 STORY OF AN HOUR by KATE CHOPIN
Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband's death.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that owuld belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.
It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband's friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard's name leading the list of "killed." He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.
She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister's arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.
There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.
She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which some one was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.
There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.
She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.
She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.
There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky, reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will--as powerless as her two white slender hands would have been. When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She said it over and over under hte breath: "free, free, free!" The vacant stare and the look of terror that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial. She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death; the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that owuld belong to her absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for during those coming years; she would live for herself. There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and women believe they ahve a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him--sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
"Free! Body and soul free!" she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhold, imploring for admission. "Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door--you will make yourself ill. What are you doing, Louise? For heaven's sake open the door."
"Go away. I am not making myself ill." No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through that open window.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days, and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long. It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister's importunities. There was a feverish triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped her sister's waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine's piercing cry; at Richards' quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease--of the joy that kills.
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