The First Paragraph from Toni Cade Bambara's "The Lesson"

Back in the days when everyone was old and stupid or young and

foolish and me and Sugar were the only ones just right, this lady moved

on our block with nappy hair and proper speech and no makeup. And

quite naturally we laughed at her, laughed the way we did at the junk

man who went about his business like he was some big-time president

and his sorry-ass horse his secretary. And we kinda hated her too, hated

the way we did the winos who cluttered up our parks and pissed on our

handball walls and stank up our hallways and stairs so you couldn't

halfway play hide-and-seek without a goddamn gas mask. Miss Moore

was her name. The only woman on the block with no first name. And

she was black as hell, cept for her feet, which were fish-white and

spooky. And she was always planning these boring-ass things for us to

do, us being my cousin, mostly, who lived on the block cause we all

moved North the same time and to the same apartment then spread out

gradual to breathe. And our parents would yank our heads into some

kinda shape and crisp up our clothes so we'd be presentable for travel

with Miss Moore, who always looked like she was going to church,

though she never did. Which is just one of the things the grown-ups talked

about when they talked behind her back like a dog. But when she came

calling with some sachet she'd sewed up or some gingerbread she'd

made or some book, why then they'd all be too embarrassed to turn her

down and we'd get handed over all spruced up. She'd been to college

and said it was only right that she should take responsibility for the

young ones' education, and she not even related by marriage or blood.

So they'd go for it. Specially Aunt Gretchen. She was the main gofer in

the family. You got some ole dumb shit foolishness you want somebody

to go for, you send for Aunt Gretchen. She been screwed into the

go-along for so long, it's a blood-deep natural thing with her. Which

is how she got saddled with me and Sugar and Junior in the first place

while our mothers were in a la-de-da apartment up the block having a

good ole time.

Back in the days when I was shy and quiet or considered a momma’s boy

or baby, me and my class crossed the line from Kindergarten, a joyous 3

times a week era, to 1^st grade, a true hell on earth, 5 times a week nightmare. My

teacher, Mrs. Klipfel, had legs as wide as elephants and an ass that hit you upside the

head when she would turn to help a student in the aisle across from you. And

I was scared of her, scared like the way when you did something wrong when you

were little and your mother told you “just wait till your father comes home.” And I hated

her too, hated her like I did the girl who always stared at me with no expression

but with a mild retardation or when she’d hold her finger up at you and point for moments

on end and all this just begged for a hair pulling like no other. Cheryl was the teacher’s first name

though I couldn’t comprehend it. So Mrs. Klipfel was all I knew. She had a twitch in her neck

but not like the ones that are sudden but rather a whole movement of the entire head and shoulder

which would pull her ear down to her collarbone. And we did the boring-est exercises like

when we did vocabulary off those giant old white flip flopping charts and as I daydreamed

she called on me but all I could remember was “purple hippopotamus.” O and I’m sure our parents

loved her. Nothing sleeps better than a kid whose muscles spent a day stressed out

to the point where even my shoulders had ulcers. When they got together on

parents nights I’m sure they joked about how I would come home and cry because

I didn’t want to go back to school the next day. Which reminds me; my grandma made a

deal as to remedy this crying business and if I didn’t cry for one week she would

buy me a ninja turtle. Well I got that turtle and the next day was back to crying.

Mrs. Klipfel was married to a man my own mother had in high school who carried on his

family’s work and terrified me and my class once again come Jr. High shop class.

Doing something wrong, such as breathing or blinking, in class made

you eligible for a beating, physically or verbally, like when Chris screwed around

with a cordless drill and in turned was drilled round about in the back of the head

with ruler. I came, I saw, I cried. Hell I even bought the shirt…