1963.
“What?” I asked, slightly befuddled by such a sudden, strange request. “Wait for me at my desk.” She repeated, as she turned and strode away.
Obediently, I got up and did as requested, all the while, shunting off curious glances from my classmates. My mind raced. What had I done? Or said? The desk was the place where, among other things, disciplinary paddling had been publicly administered. I had been an occasional recipient of such discipline . That possibility heightened my apprehension, as my mind continued to race.
A few weeks earlier some white lady had visited our classroom to talk about books and reading. She had marveled that I had read children’s author Walter Farley’s series on “The Black” Arabian stallion. She’d mentioned just having attended a conference with him in Florida. Our exchange had apparently pleased and impressed Ms. Brooks. She had been smiling. So, it couldn’t be related to that, I surmised. But, what was it? My mind drew a blank.
Turning slighting upon reaching her desk, and peering out the corner of my eye, I saw her speaking to Teddy on the back row of the classroom. He glanced up at me; rose from his seat; then, followed her to the front. Now, I was really confused, and slightly concerned, too. Teddy was the notorious school-yard, and occasional class-room, “toughie,” though he was not exactly a bully. I was no saint, myself. But, I was nowhere near being either a toughie or a bully. An eerie foreboding swept over me.
Ms. Brooks, her black heels clicking sharply to a stop, glanced back over her left shoulder at the classroom and said authoritatively, “You are supposed to be working. Heads down, not a sound.” Then, she pivoted and beckoned us to follow her into the hallway. There we entered an adjacent storage room, which she had unlocked. It contained boxes, a filing cabinet, one table and two chairs. Rather Spartan.
“Larry,” she said “I want you to help Teddy with his reading.” She stated. “ He is making good progress, but school is almost out. So, we must quicken the pace. Do you hear me?” I hesitated. “Yes Ma’am,” I replied. But inwardly my soul screamed “Why me, especially if he’s making ‘good progress’?” Being alone with Teddy: oh boy, in that isolated, Spartan chamber did not exactly appeal to me!! Helping him with his reading? Yikes! She was the teacher, right?
“What books do I use,” I stammered, pleadingly, noticing the symmetrical lining of Teddy’s Quo Vadis hair- cut and slightly flared nostrils. We all sported similar hair-cuts, close-cropped, and lined, furnished by licensed and unlicensed barbers that dotted the community. Teddy’s flared nostrils, though, suggested scent, akin to a wild Arabian stallion’s when the wind carried vital information.
“Use any books you like,” Lydia Brooks replied. Then, smartly turning, she left us in the room, leaving the door ajar.
“What about using my comic books?” Teddy asked. “Anything you like” she repeated, heels echoing faintly on the polished linoleum. “Teachers used to use the Bible, newspapers, anything available to teach reading.” She conceded. Teddy beamed with delight.
Teachers had ears and eyes in the back of their heads, especially at Turner School. They seemed to be intuitive especially Ms. Brooks, who had also had us in 5th grade. Turner was still segregated in 1963, so teachers undoubtedly had greater freedoms, later lost with integration’s quirky dynamics. Turner had the occasional white student, but they were rare, and Meacham Park had white residents whose children were, at their option, bussed to white schools. These larger societal issues did not matter to us students. We were quite happy in our so-called cultural isolation.
“Go get’m, man,” I said to Teddy, following up on his inspired suggestion about comic books. “Go get’m.” Teddy lit out with alacrity. Blessed with that cat-like quickness and deftness that easily distinguished him from lesser athletes like me, this is one athlete that Nipher Jr. High, and Kirkwood High School will be glad to see, I thought to myself, as he fairly romped to retrieve his books. Not so with me. My family was about to move to archrival, Webster Groves School District, 5 miles east, at the end of that semester, having bought a house there.
Normally, Ms. Brooks had discouraged, indeed, banned comic books and other ephemera including chewing gum from class. Of course, that didn’t stop anybody from smuggling it in, especially Teddy. But, today, for whatever reason, her focus was purely on the bottom line: teaching Teddy to read better, by any means necessary—including me! I smiled and exhaled, slightly. This might be fun, after all!
Teddy was back so quickly, with his comic books, I was slightly startled to see him. But, I repressed a nervous shudder. At least he was eager, rearing to go. That would help! It was time now for me to “man-up, to get her done.” If I showed fear or weakness, I would fail, exactly as those too-timid horse-tamers seeking to tame “The Black.” Fear would cause failure. I could not risk that. Failure to teach Teddy to read might lead to a fight. That might lead to an ass-whipping by Teddy to boot, a prospect I did not relish! Lion tamers: I now understood! They too engaged in a deadly game of power and peril , while in proximity to death or injury with stoic purposefulness and pretense. Game on!
“OK, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said reaching for the comics in his hand. “Here, let’s sit down. ” I said, He handed me the comics.
“Can you read any of these?” I asked shuffling through copies of “Superman”, “Batman” and “The Green Lantern.”
“A little bit.” He said. “But, mainly I just look at the pictures.” Lowering his head, he said “The pictures tell the whole story anyway.” Pictures help, but rarely tell the whole story, I thought to myself
“Alright”, I said, “look at the pictures. And then tell me what’s going on.” Teddy nodded. “Then, I’ll read that same page, after that. OK? Then, we can see what was missed from just looking pictures. We’ll work only on that, OK?”
“Bet!” he responded, meaning “yes.” Teddy was terse. Laconic and direct: a man of action, Teddy was. Like when it came to tickling your ears: Teddy had an ear fetish. He would wiggle or tickle somebody’s ears on the playground, every day, practically. It didn’t hurt. It was just bothersome, annoying, and sometimes humiliating habit of his that we had learned to tolerate and accept.
That ear-tickling prospect was ever present. But, his interest was on reading, not ears, fortunately. His spirit exuded his desire to learn. And, so we began. Over the net several days that Teddy and I worked together, we made steady progress. Phonetics were the key. His outer ear fetish revealed his inner ear relish for nuances of sound.
Sounds, the comic books were full up. "Pow!" "Zap" "Oh no!"
One sound led to another sound, as one word led to another word. So, Teddy learned to read better.
Many years later, after a long hiatus, I saw Teddy, again. We were at a Meacham Park Homecoming. He was there with his wife and dressed in the white accouterments of a chef. "Teddy, you a chef, man?" I asked. "Yep," he happily replied.
Walking away, I silently mused that chefs read recipes, and smiled.
#30
Monday, January 30, 2017
TEACHING TEDDY TO READ
TEACHING TEDDY TO READ
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2017 (updated)
By Rev. Dr. Larry Delano Coleman
“Larry, wait for me at my desk,” whispered Ms. Lydia Brooks, our no-nonsense 6th grade teacher at almost-all-black James Milton Turner Elementary School located in almost-all-black Meacham Park, Missouri, in the spring of 
1963.
“What?” I asked, slightly befuddled by such a sudden, strange request. “Wait for me at my desk.” She repeated, as she turned and strode away.
Obediently, I got up and did as requested, all the while, shunting off curious glances from my classmates. My mind raced. What had I done? Or said? The desk was the place where, among other things, disciplinary paddling had been publicly administered. I had been an occasional recipient of such discipline . That possibility heightened my apprehension, as my mind continued to race.
A few weeks earlier some white lady had visited our classroom to talk about books and reading. She had marveled that I had read children’s author Walter Farley’s series on “The Black” Arabian stallion. She’d mentioned just having attended a conference with him in Florida. Our exchange had apparently pleased and impressed Ms. Brooks. She had been smiling. So, it couldn’t be related to that, I surmised. But, what was it? My mind drew a blank.
Turning slighting upon reaching her desk, and peering out the corner of my eye, I saw her speaking to Teddy on the back row of the classroom. He glanced up at me; rose from his seat; then, followed her to the front. Now, I was really confused, and slightly concerned, too. Teddy was the notorious school-yard, and occasional class-room, “toughie,” though he was not exactly a bully. I was no saint, myself. But, I was nowhere near being either a toughie or a bully. An eerie foreboding swept over me.
Ms. Brooks, her black heels clicking sharply to a stop, glanced back over her left shoulder at the classroom and said authoritatively, “You are supposed to be working. Heads down, not a sound.” Then, she pivoted and beckoned us to follow her into the hallway. There we entered an adjacent storage room, which she had unlocked. It contained boxes, a filing cabinet, one table and two chairs. Rather Spartan.
“Larry,” she said “I want you to help Teddy with his reading.” She stated. “ He is making good progress, but school is almost out. So, we must quicken the pace. Do you hear me?” I hesitated. “Yes Ma’am,” I replied. But inwardly my soul screamed “Why me, especially if he’s making ‘good progress’?” Being alone with Teddy: oh boy, in that isolated, Spartan chamber did not exactly appeal to me!! Helping him with his reading? Yikes! She was the teacher, right?
“What books do I use,” I stammered, pleadingly, noticing the symmetrical lining of Teddy’s Quo Vadis hair- cut and slightly flared nostrils. We all sported similar hair-cuts, close-cropped, and lined, furnished by licensed and unlicensed barbers that dotted the community. Teddy’s flared nostrils, though, suggested scent, akin to a wild Arabian stallion’s when the wind carried vital information.
“Use any books you like,” Lydia Brooks replied. Then, smartly turning, she left us in the room, leaving the door ajar.
“What about using my comic books?” Teddy asked. “Anything you like” she repeated, heels echoing faintly on the polished linoleum. “Teachers used to use the Bible, newspapers, anything available to teach reading.” She conceded. Teddy beamed with delight.
Teachers had ears and eyes in the back of their heads, especially at Turner School. They seemed to be intuitive especially Ms. Brooks, who had also had us in 5th grade. Turner was still segregated in 1963, so teachers undoubtedly had greater freedoms, later lost with integration’s quirky dynamics. Turner had the occasional white student, but they were rare, and Meacham Park had white residents whose children were, at their option, bussed to white schools. These larger societal issues did not matter to us students. We were quite happy in our so-called cultural isolation.
“Go get’m, man,” I said to Teddy, following up on his inspired suggestion about comic books. “Go get’m.” Teddy lit out with alacrity. Blessed with that cat-like quickness and deftness that easily distinguished him from lesser athletes like me, this is one athlete that Nipher Jr. High, and Kirkwood High School will be glad to see, I thought to myself, as he fairly romped to retrieve his books. Not so with me. My family was about to move to archrival, Webster Groves School District, 5 miles east, at the end of that semester, having bought a house there.
Normally, Ms. Brooks had discouraged, indeed, banned comic books and other ephemera including chewing gum from class. Of course, that didn’t stop anybody from smuggling it in, especially Teddy. But, today, for whatever reason, her focus was purely on the bottom line: teaching Teddy to read better, by any means necessary—including me! I smiled and exhaled, slightly. This might be fun, after all!
Teddy was back so quickly, with his comic books, I was slightly startled to see him. But, I repressed a nervous shudder. At least he was eager, rearing to go. That would help! It was time now for me to “man-up, to get her done.” If I showed fear or weakness, I would fail, exactly as those too-timid horse-tamers seeking to tame “The Black.” Fear would cause failure. I could not risk that. Failure to teach Teddy to read might lead to a fight. That might lead to an ass-whipping by Teddy to boot, a prospect I did not relish! Lion tamers: I now understood! They too engaged in a deadly game of power and peril , while in proximity to death or injury with stoic purposefulness and pretense. Game on!
“OK, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said reaching for the comics in his hand. “Here, let’s sit down. ” I said, He handed me the comics.
“Can you read any of these?” I asked shuffling through copies of “Superman”, “Batman” and “The Green Lantern.”
“A little bit.” He said. “But, mainly I just look at the pictures.” Lowering his head, he said “The pictures tell the whole story anyway.” Pictures help, but rarely tell the whole story, I thought to myself
“Alright”, I said, “look at the pictures. And then tell me what’s going on.” Teddy nodded. “Then, I’ll read that same page, after that. OK? Then, we can see what was missed from just looking pictures. We’ll work only on that, OK?”
“Bet!” he responded, meaning “yes.” Teddy was terse. Laconic and direct: a man of action, Teddy was. Like when it came to tickling your ears: Teddy had an ear fetish. He would wiggle or tickle somebody’s ears on the playground, every day, practically. It didn’t hurt. It was just bothersome, annoying, and sometimes humiliating habit of his that we had learned to tolerate and accept.
That ear-tickling prospect was ever present. But, his interest was on reading, not ears, fortunately. His spirit exuded his desire to learn. And, so we began. Over the net several days that Teddy and I worked together, we made steady progress. Phonetics were the key. His outer ear fetish revealed his inner ear relish for nuances of sound.
Sounds, the comic books were full up. "Pow!" "Zap" "Oh no!"
One sound led to another sound, as one word led to another word. So, Teddy learned to read better.
Many years later, after a long hiatus, I saw Teddy, again. We were at a Meacham Park Homecoming. He was there with his wife and dressed in the white accouterments of a chef. "Teddy, you a chef, man?" I asked. "Yep," he happily replied.
Walking away, I silently mused that chefs read recipes, and smiled.
#30
1963.
“What?” I asked, slightly befuddled by such a sudden, strange request. “Wait for me at my desk.” She repeated, as she turned and strode away.
Obediently, I got up and did as requested, all the while, shunting off curious glances from my classmates. My mind raced. What had I done? Or said? The desk was the place where, among other things, disciplinary paddling had been publicly administered. I had been an occasional recipient of such discipline . That possibility heightened my apprehension, as my mind continued to race.
A few weeks earlier some white lady had visited our classroom to talk about books and reading. She had marveled that I had read children’s author Walter Farley’s series on “The Black” Arabian stallion. She’d mentioned just having attended a conference with him in Florida. Our exchange had apparently pleased and impressed Ms. Brooks. She had been smiling. So, it couldn’t be related to that, I surmised. But, what was it? My mind drew a blank.
Turning slighting upon reaching her desk, and peering out the corner of my eye, I saw her speaking to Teddy on the back row of the classroom. He glanced up at me; rose from his seat; then, followed her to the front. Now, I was really confused, and slightly concerned, too. Teddy was the notorious school-yard, and occasional class-room, “toughie,” though he was not exactly a bully. I was no saint, myself. But, I was nowhere near being either a toughie or a bully. An eerie foreboding swept over me.
Ms. Brooks, her black heels clicking sharply to a stop, glanced back over her left shoulder at the classroom and said authoritatively, “You are supposed to be working. Heads down, not a sound.” Then, she pivoted and beckoned us to follow her into the hallway. There we entered an adjacent storage room, which she had unlocked. It contained boxes, a filing cabinet, one table and two chairs. Rather Spartan.
“Larry,” she said “I want you to help Teddy with his reading.” She stated. “ He is making good progress, but school is almost out. So, we must quicken the pace. Do you hear me?” I hesitated. “Yes Ma’am,” I replied. But inwardly my soul screamed “Why me, especially if he’s making ‘good progress’?” Being alone with Teddy: oh boy, in that isolated, Spartan chamber did not exactly appeal to me!! Helping him with his reading? Yikes! She was the teacher, right?
“What books do I use,” I stammered, pleadingly, noticing the symmetrical lining of Teddy’s Quo Vadis hair- cut and slightly flared nostrils. We all sported similar hair-cuts, close-cropped, and lined, furnished by licensed and unlicensed barbers that dotted the community. Teddy’s flared nostrils, though, suggested scent, akin to a wild Arabian stallion’s when the wind carried vital information.
“Use any books you like,” Lydia Brooks replied. Then, smartly turning, she left us in the room, leaving the door ajar.
“What about using my comic books?” Teddy asked. “Anything you like” she repeated, heels echoing faintly on the polished linoleum. “Teachers used to use the Bible, newspapers, anything available to teach reading.” She conceded. Teddy beamed with delight.
Teachers had ears and eyes in the back of their heads, especially at Turner School. They seemed to be intuitive especially Ms. Brooks, who had also had us in 5th grade. Turner was still segregated in 1963, so teachers undoubtedly had greater freedoms, later lost with integration’s quirky dynamics. Turner had the occasional white student, but they were rare, and Meacham Park had white residents whose children were, at their option, bussed to white schools. These larger societal issues did not matter to us students. We were quite happy in our so-called cultural isolation.
“Go get’m, man,” I said to Teddy, following up on his inspired suggestion about comic books. “Go get’m.” Teddy lit out with alacrity. Blessed with that cat-like quickness and deftness that easily distinguished him from lesser athletes like me, this is one athlete that Nipher Jr. High, and Kirkwood High School will be glad to see, I thought to myself, as he fairly romped to retrieve his books. Not so with me. My family was about to move to archrival, Webster Groves School District, 5 miles east, at the end of that semester, having bought a house there.
Normally, Ms. Brooks had discouraged, indeed, banned comic books and other ephemera including chewing gum from class. Of course, that didn’t stop anybody from smuggling it in, especially Teddy. But, today, for whatever reason, her focus was purely on the bottom line: teaching Teddy to read better, by any means necessary—including me! I smiled and exhaled, slightly. This might be fun, after all!
Teddy was back so quickly, with his comic books, I was slightly startled to see him. But, I repressed a nervous shudder. At least he was eager, rearing to go. That would help! It was time now for me to “man-up, to get her done.” If I showed fear or weakness, I would fail, exactly as those too-timid horse-tamers seeking to tame “The Black.” Fear would cause failure. I could not risk that. Failure to teach Teddy to read might lead to a fight. That might lead to an ass-whipping by Teddy to boot, a prospect I did not relish! Lion tamers: I now understood! They too engaged in a deadly game of power and peril , while in proximity to death or injury with stoic purposefulness and pretense. Game on!
“OK, let’s see what you’ve got,” I said reaching for the comics in his hand. “Here, let’s sit down. ” I said, He handed me the comics.
“Can you read any of these?” I asked shuffling through copies of “Superman”, “Batman” and “The Green Lantern.”
“A little bit.” He said. “But, mainly I just look at the pictures.” Lowering his head, he said “The pictures tell the whole story anyway.” Pictures help, but rarely tell the whole story, I thought to myself
“Alright”, I said, “look at the pictures. And then tell me what’s going on.” Teddy nodded. “Then, I’ll read that same page, after that. OK? Then, we can see what was missed from just looking pictures. We’ll work only on that, OK?”
“Bet!” he responded, meaning “yes.” Teddy was terse. Laconic and direct: a man of action, Teddy was. Like when it came to tickling your ears: Teddy had an ear fetish. He would wiggle or tickle somebody’s ears on the playground, every day, practically. It didn’t hurt. It was just bothersome, annoying, and sometimes humiliating habit of his that we had learned to tolerate and accept.
That ear-tickling prospect was ever present. But, his interest was on reading, not ears, fortunately. His spirit exuded his desire to learn. And, so we began. Over the net several days that Teddy and I worked together, we made steady progress. Phonetics were the key. His outer ear fetish revealed his inner ear relish for nuances of sound.
Sounds, the comic books were full up. "Pow!" "Zap" "Oh no!"
One sound led to another sound, as one word led to another word. So, Teddy learned to read better.
Many years later, after a long hiatus, I saw Teddy, again. We were at a Meacham Park Homecoming. He was there with his wife and dressed in the white accouterments of a chef. "Teddy, you a chef, man?" I asked. "Yep," he happily replied.
Walking away, I silently mused that chefs read recipes, and smiled.
#30