Before you read:
The narrator, remembering that she used to be a young "know-it-all," focuses on a particular day when an unusual neighbor shows her and her friends the wealthy section in Manhattan, all along Fifth Avenue.
Sylvia, (the narrator), reconstructs the memory and by doing so, realizes she had learned a valuable lesson that day.
Something wonderful happens to the reader, also, because we're on the journey too. It's a school trip in the summer made for students when there is no school but for students who are in school reading about wishing they were back in the days of summer.
Sylvia as a surprising character: She takes the first real step toward maturity by having the courage to be honest with herself and by admitting to herself that she doesn't know as much as she thought she did. She won't let fear diminish who she is in life.
What helps Sylvia (and the reader) to mature?
How does writing and reading serve to unlock the truth in a more powerful way than talking can?
Note how the tones of voices and what the characters say make this more of an outloud, in your face, up close and personal type of story where how you perform it matters, rather than "a sit in a chair and read silently story" - you follow me?
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The Lesson
by Toni Cade Bambara (1939-1995)
Back in the
days when everyone was old and stupid or
young and foolish and me and Sugar were the only ones just right, this lady
moved on our block with nappy hair and proper speech and no makeup. And quite
naturally we laughed at her, laughed the way we did at the junk man who went
about his business like he was some big-time president and his sorry-ass horse
his secretary. And we kinda hated her too, hated the way we did the winos who
cluttered up our parks and pissed on our handball walls and stank up our
hallways and stairs so you couldn't halfway play hide-and-seek without a
goddamn gas mask. Miss Moore was her name. The only woman on the block with no
first name. And she was black as hell, cept for her feet, which were fish-white
and spooky. And she was always planning these boring-ass things for us to do,
us being my cousin, mostly, who lived on the block cause we all moved North the
same time and to the same apartment then spread out gradual to breathe. And our
parents would yank our heads into some kinda shape and crisp up our clothes so
we'd be presentable for travel with Miss Moore, who always looked like she was
going to church though she never did. Which is just one of the things the
grownups talked about when they talked behind her back like a dog. But when she
came calling with some sachet she'd sewed up or some gingerbread she'd made or
some book, why then they'd all be too embarrassed to turn her down and we'd get
handed over all spruced up. She'd been to college and said it was only right
that she should take responsibility for the young ones' education, and she not
even related by marriage or blood. So they'd go for it. Specially Aunt
Gretchen. She was the main gofer in the family. You got some ole dumb shit
foolishness you want somebody to go for, you send for Aunt Gretchen. She been
screwed into the go-along for so long, it's a blood-deep natural thing with
her. Which is how she got saddled with me and Sugar and Junior in the first
place while our mothers were in a la-de-da apartment up the block having a good
ole time.
So this one day Miss Moore rounds
us all up at the mailbox and it's puredee hot and she's knockin herself out
about arithmetic. And school suppose to let up in summer I heard, but she don't
never let up. And the starch in my pinafore scratching the shit outta me and
I'm really hating this nappy-head bitch and her goddamn college degree. I'd
much rather go to the pool or to the show where it's cool. So me and Sugar
leaning on the mailbox being surly, which is a Miss Moore word. And Flyboy
checking out what everybody brought for lunch. And Fat Butt already wasting his
peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich like the pig he is. And Junebug punchin on
Q.T.'s arm for potato chips. And Rosie Giraffe shifting from one hip to the
other waiting for somebody to step on her foot or ask her if she from Georgia
so she can kick ass, preferably Mercedes'. And Miss Moore asking us do we know
what money is like we a bunch of retards. I mean real money, she say, like it's
only poker chips or monopoly papers we lay on the grocer. So right away I'm
tired of this and say so. And would much rather snatch Sugar and go to the
Sunset and terrorize the West Indian kids and take their hair ribbons and their
money too. And Miss Moore files that remark away for next week's lesson on
brotherhood, I can tell. And finally I say we oughta get to the subway cause
it's cooler an' besides we might meet some cute boys. Sugar done swiped her
mama's lipstick, so we ready.
So we heading down the street and
she's boring us silly about what things cost and what our parents make and how
much goes for rent and how money ain't divided up right in this country. And
then she gets to the part about we all poor and live in the slums which I don't
feature. And I'm ready to speak on that, but she steps out in the street and
hails two cabs just like that. Then she hustles half the crew in with her and
hands me a five-dollar bill and tells me to calculate 10 percent tip for the
driver. And we're off. Me and Sugar and Junebug and Flyboy hangin out the
window and hollering to everybody, putting lipstick on each other cause Flyboy
a faggot anyway, and making farts with our sweaty armpits. But I'm mostly
trying to figure how to spend this money. But they are fascinated with the
meter ticking and Junebug starts laying bets as to how much it'll read when
Flyboy can't hold his breath no more. Then Sugar lays bets as to how much it'll
be when we get there. So I'm stuck. Don't nobody want to go for my plan, which
is to jump out at the next light and run off to the first bar-b-que we can
find. Then the driver tells us to get the hell out cause we there already. And
the meter reads eighty-five cents. And I'm stalling to figure out the tip and
Sugar say give him a dime. And I decide he don't need it bad as I do, so later
for him. But then he tries to take off with Junebug foot still in the door so
we talk about his mama something ferocious. Then we check out that we on Fifth
Avenue and everybody dressed up in stockings. One lady in a fur coat, hot as it
is. White folks crazy.
"This is the place, "
Miss Moore say, presenting it to us in the voice she uses at the museum.
"Let's look in the windows before we go in."
"Can we steal?" Sugar
asks very serious like she's getting the ground rules squared away before she
plays. "I beg your pardon," say Miss Moore, and we fall out. So she
leads us around the windows of the toy store and me and Sugar screamin,
"This is mine, that's mine, I gotta have that, that was made for me, I was
born for that," till Big Butt drowns us out.
"Hey, I'm goin to buy that
there."
"That there? You don't even
know what it is, stupid."
"I do so," he say
punchin on Rosie Giraffe. "It's a microscope."
"Whatcha gonna do with a
microscope, fool?"
"Look at things."
"Like what, Ronald?" ask
Miss Moore. And Big Butt ain't got the first notion. So here go Miss Moore
gabbing about the thousands of bacteria in a drop of water and the
somethinorother in a speck of blood and the million and one living things in
the air around us is invisible to the naked eye. And what she say that for?
Junebug go to town on that "naked" and we rolling. Then Miss Moore
ask what it cost. So we all jam into the window smudgin it up and the price tag
say $300. So then she ask how long'd take for Big Butt and Junebug to save up
their allowances. "Too long," I say. "Yeh," adds Sugar,
"outgrown it by that time." And Miss Moore say no, you never outgrow
learning instruments. "Why, even medical students and interns and,"
blah, blah, blah. And we ready to choke Big Butt for bringing it up in the
first damn place.
"This here costs four hundred
eighty dollars," say Rosie Giraffe. So we pile up all over her to see what
she pointin out. My eyes tell me it's a chunk of glass cracked with something
heavy, and different-color inks dripped into the splits, then the whole thing
put into a oven or something. But for $480 it don't make sense.
"That's a paperweight made of
semi-precious stones fused together under tremendous pressure," she
explains slowly, with her hands doing the mining and all the factory work.
"So what's a
paperweight?" asks Rosie Giraffe.
"To weigh paper with,
dumbbell," say Flyboy, the wise man from the East.
"Not exactly," say Miss
Moore, which is what she say when you warm or way off too. "It's to weigh
paper down so it won't scatter and make your desk untidy. " So right away
me and Sugar curtsy to each other and then to Mercedes who is more the tidy
type.
"We don't keep paper on top
of the desk in my class," say Junebug, figuring Miss Moore crazy or lyin
one.
"At home, then," she
say. "Don't you have a calendar and a pencil case and a blotter and a
letter-opener on your desk at home where you do your homework?" And she
know damn well what our homes look like cause she nosys around in them every
chance she gets.
"I don't even have a
desk," say Junebug. "Do we?"
"No. And I don't get no
homework neither," says Big Butt.
"And I don't even have a
home," say Flyboy like he do at school to keep the white folks off his
back and sorry for him. Send this poor kid to camp posters, is his specialty.
"I do," says Mercedes.
"I have a box of stationery on my desk and a picture of my cat. My
godmother bought the stationery and the desk. There's a big rose on each sheet
and the envelopes smell like roses."
"Who wants to know about your
smelly-ass stationery," say Rosie Giraffe fore I can get my two cents in.
"It's important to have a
work area all your own so that . . ."
"Will you look at this
sailboat, please," say Flyboy, cuttin her off and pointin to the thing
like it was his. So once again we tumble all over each other to gaze at this
magnificent thing in the toy store which is just big enough to maybe sail two
kittens across the pond if you strap them to the posts tight. We all start
reciting the price tag like we in assembly. "Hand-crafted sailboat of
fiberglass at one thousand one hundred ninety-five dollars."
"Unbelievable," I hear
myself say and am really stunned. I read it again for myself just in case the
group recitation put me in a trance. Same thing. For some reason this pisses me
off. We look at Miss Moore and she lookin at us, waiting for I dunno what.
"Who'd pay all that when you
can buy a sailboat set for a quarter at Pop's, a tube of glue for a dime, and a
ball of string for eight cents? It must have a motor and a whole lot else
besides," I say. "My sailboat cost me about fifty cents."
"But will it take
water?" say Mercedes with her smart ass.
"Took mine to Alley Pond Park
once," say Flyboy. "String broke. Lost it. Pity."
"Sailed mine in Gentral Park
and it keeled over and sank. Had to ask my father for another dollar."
"And you got the strap,"
laugh Big Butt. "The jerk didn't even have a string on it. My old man
wailed on his behind."
Little Q.T. was staring hard at
the sailboat and you could see he wanted it bad. But he too little and
somebody'd just take it from him. So what the hell. "This boat for kids,
Miss Moore?"
"Parents silly to buy
something like that just to get all broke up," say Rosie Giraffe.
"That much money it should
last forever," I figure.
"My father'd buy it for me if
I wanted it."
"Your father, my ass,"
say Rosie Giraffe getting a chance to finally push Mercedes.
"Must be rich people shop
here," say Q.T.
"You are a very bright
boy," say Flyboy. "What was your first clue?" And he rap him on
the head with the back of his knuckles, since Q.T. the only one he could get
away with. Though Q.T. liable to come up behind you years later and get his
licks in when you half expect it.
"What I want to know
is," I says to Miss Moore though I never talk to her, I wouldn't give the
bitch that satisfaction, "is how much a real boat costs? I figure a
thousand'd get you a yacht any day."
"Why don't you check that out,"
she says, "and report back to the group?" Which really pains my ass.
If you gonna mess up a perfectly good swim day least you could do is have some
answers. "Let's go in," she say like she got something up her sleeve.
Only she don't lead the way. So me and Sugar turn the corner to where the
entrance is, but when we get there I kinda hang back. Not that I'm scared,
what's there to be afraid of, just a toy store. But I feel funny, shame. But
what I got to be shamed about? Got as much right to go in as anybody. But
somehow I can't seem to get hold of the door, so I step away from Sugar to
lead. But she hangs back too. And I look at her and she looks at me and this is
ridiculous. I mean, damn, I have never ever been shy about doing nothing or
going nowhere. But then Mercedes steps up and then Rosie Giraffe and Big Butt
crowd in behind and shove, and next thing we all stuffed into the doorway with
only Mercedes squeezing past us, smoothing out her jumper and walking right
down the aisle. Then the rest of us tumble in like a glued-together jigsaw done
all wrong. And people lookin at us. And it's like the time me and Sugar crashed
into the Catholic church on a dare. But once we got in there and everything so
hushed and holy and the candles and the bowin and the handkerchiefs on all the
drooping heads, I just couldn't go through with the plan. Which was for me to
run up to the altar and do a tap dance while Sugar played the nose flute and
messed around in the holy water. And Sugar kept givin me the elbow. Then later
teased me so bad I tied her up in the shower and turned it on and locked her
in. And she'd be there till this day if Aunt Gretchen hadn't finally figured I
was lyin about the boarder takin a shower.
Same thing in the store. We all
walkin on tiptoe and hardly touchin the games and puzzles and things. And I
watched Miss Moore who is steady watchin us like she waitin for a sign. Like
Mama Drewery watches the sky and sniffs the air and takes note of just how much
slant is in the bird formation. Then me and Sugar bump smack into each other,
so busy gazing at the toys, 'specially the sailboat. But we don't laugh and go
into our fat-lady bump-stomach routine. We just stare at that price tag. Then
Sugar run a finger over the whole boat. And I'm jealous and want to hit her.
Maybe not her, but I sure want to punch somebody in the mouth.
"Watcha bring us here for,
Miss Moore?"
"You sound angry, Sylvia. Are
you mad about something?" Givin me one of them grins like she tellin a
grown-up joke that never turns out to be funny. And she's lookin very closely
at me like maybe she plannin to do my portrait from memory. I'm mad, but I
won't give her that satisfaction. So I slouch around the store bein very bored
and say, "Let's go."
Me and Sugar at the back of the
train watchin the tracks whizzin by large then small then gettin gobbled up in
the dark. I'm thinkin about this tricky toy I saw in the store. A clown that
somersaults on a bar then does chin-ups just cause you yank lightly at his leg.
Cost $35. I could see me askin my mother for a $35 birthday clown. "You
wanna who that costs what?" she'd say, cocking her head to the side to get
a better view of the hole in my head. Thirty-five dollars could buy new bunk
beds for Junior and Gretchen's boy. Thirty-five dollars and the whole household
could go visit Grand-daddy Nelson in the country. Thirty-five dollars would pay
for the rent and the piano bill too. Who are these people that spend that much
for performing clowns and $1000 for toy sailboats? What kinda work they do and
how they live and how come we ain't in on it? Where we are is who we are, Miss
Moore always pointin out. But it don't necessarily have to be that way, she
always adds then waits for somebody to say that poor people have to wake up and
demand their share of the pie and don't none of us know what kind of pie she
talking about in the first damn place. But she ain't so smart cause I still got
her four dollars from the taxi and she sure ain't gettin it Messin up my day
with this shit. Sugar nudges me in my pocket and winks.
Miss Moore lines us up in front of
the mailbox where we started from, seem like years ago, and I got a headache
for thinkin so hard. And we lean all over each other so we can hold up under
the draggy ass lecture she always finishes us off with at the end before we
thank her for borin us to tears. But she just looks at us like she readin tea
leaves. Finally she say, "Well, what did you think of F.A.0. Schwarz?"
Rosie Giraffe mumbles, "White
folks crazy."
"I'd like to go there again when
I get my birthday money," says Mercedes, and we shove her out the pack so
she has to lean on the mailbox by herself.
"I'd like a shower. Tiring
day," say Flyboy.
Then Sugar surprises me by sayin,
"You know, Miss Moore, I don't think all of us here put together eat in a
year what that sailboat costs." And Miss Moore lights up like somebody
goosed her. "And?" she say, urging Sugar on. Only I'm standin on her
foot so she don't continue.
"Imagine for a minute what
kind of society it is in which some people can spend on a toy what it would
cost to feed a family of six or seven. What do you think?"
"I think," say Sugar
pushing me off her feet like she never done before cause I whip her ass in a
minute, "that this is not much of a democracy if you ask me. Equal chance
to pursue happiness means an equal crack at the dough, don't it?" Miss
Moore is besides herself and I am disgusted with Sugar's treachery. So I stand
on her foot one more time to see if she'll shove me. She shuts up, and Miss
Moore looks at me, sorrowfully I'm thinkin. And somethin weird is goin on, I
can feel it in my chest. "Anybody else learn anything today?" lookin
dead at me. I walk away and Sugar has to run to catch up and don't even seem to
notice when I shrug her arm off my shoulder.
"Well, we got four dollars
anyway," she says. "Uh hun."
"We could go to Hascombs and
get half a chocolate layer and then go to the Sunset and still have plenty
money for potato chips and ice cream sodas."
"Uh hun."
"Race you to Hascombs,"
she say.
We start down the block and she
gets ahead which is O.K. by me cause I'm going to the West End and then over to
the Drive to think this day through. She can run if she want to and even run
faster. But ain't nobody gonna beat me at nuthin.
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