Champion

Contains implied racial epithets.

On my first day of first grade, I was too excited to eat breakfast. I bounced around my room until Mama made me sit down and drink some chocolate milk. I couldn’t wait to put on my new Keds sneakers. I wished they were Air Jordans but she told me those cost too much.

After breakfast, we walked up to the bus stop. Mama said the driver wouldn't go down to our house. The air was warm and Mama was soon out of breath. She was on the heavy side, but people said nice things about her shiny black curls. Even then, though, I could see that her chocolate-brown eyes had worry lines around them. My father made sure of that.

There were two girls at the bus stop when we got there. They saw us and started giggling. The one with pigtails pointed at me.

“Is he an ape?”

“Excuse me?"

“He looks like an ape.”

Mama frowned. “Joseph takes after me."

“Well, you look like one too.”

“I hope you don’t talk like that to everyone.”

She giggled. “Nope, just to apes.”

If Mama hadn't there, I would have called the girl a snot-nose milk face. Instead, I kicked at the dirt, wishing it was her.

Mama whispered. “Don’t pay them any mind, Joseph. You’re my handsome son."

She patted my shoulder, but I dodged away. Just then, the bus rumbled up.

As I waited to get on, Mama dabbed her eyes. “‘Bye, Joseph. Make me proud.”

On the bus, a blond boy kicked me and I fell on my face. “ Have a nice trip, kid. See ya next fall.”

At the Bailey School, a thin lady in a pink-striped dress lined up the first grade and called our names.

When I answered, “Joseph Beck,” she put me with the B’s. I had to sit next to Bernie Boyd, who stepped on my new sneakers every time I got up.

Back then I could still hear pretty well, so the whispers of “clumsy clod” and “dummy” came through loud and clear.

The kids knew they could play their tricks on me behind the teacher’s back.

“Sit still and pay attention, Mr. Beck.”

I wanted to say, “They’re bugging me,” but I had already learned not to be a tattler. Bad enough that I had a stutter.

One day during recess, Bernie Boyd pinned me against the wall.

“You can’t talk, Beck.”

“Yes-I c-can-”

“I mean, don’t talk, you pickanninny.”

That night I asked Mama, I asked, “What’s a pickanniny?”

“Why do you ask, Joey?”

“Someone called me that today.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s one of those names like “know-it-all.” Don’t pay any attention.”

I went to bed, puzzled. The name sounded like I was gum on the bottom of his shoe. “PICK-a-ninny.”

They called me other names too. I was used to“Apeman,” thanks to my loving father, but “coonhead” made me wonder, what did raccoons have to do with me?

They tried an N-word, but had a little spelling problem. Bernie scribbled, “Go home, Niger” on my homework, and I had to laugh behind my hand. I knew about the river in Africa.

One day Bernie rubbed dirt on my cheek. “Hey, look, the dirt comes right off. How come you’re still brown?”

“‘Cause that’s my real skin.”

I never told on them, but at home I’d ask Mama, “Why do they hate me so much?”

“They don’t know you, Joseph. That’s what scares them. “So do your best in school and they’ll see how smart you are.”

She was wrong of course. They didn’t care and after a while I didn’t either. I was way ahead of the class in reading, having learned to read Uncle’s fishing magazines at age five.

In the winter, my mother started going to the doctor a lot. She missed all of my Open House nights, but promised to go to the last one. My dad didn’t bother. He was out drinking, as usual.

Mama and I arrived at the school wearing our Sunday best. At the front door, we saw the other parents talking and milling around. Then they saw us. Silence fell.

Mama smiled. “Hello, everyone. Isn’t this rain terrible?”

As we passed by, I heard someone hiss, “Who invited the help?”

In Miss Rowan’s room, the teacher was writing “WELCOME TO FIRST GRADE” on the chalkboard. She didn’t see us at first, so Mama cleared her throat.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

Miss Rowan swung around.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Josephine Beck, and this is my--”

“I know who he is. The little cheater.”

“What?”

Miss Rowan grabbed papers from her desk. “Identical answers. He’s copying from Bernard Boyd, and I won’t stand for that.”

I burst out, “Bernie copies from me!”

“Shush,” Mama whispered.

“Do you expect me to believe that? He can’t even tie his own shoelaces!”

That was true, because the other kids kept untying them on our way to lunch.

Mama said, “Joseph tries very hard to be a good student. He learned to read when he was only five.”

“I find that hard to believe. He can’t even sound out the words to “Dick and Jane.” You people are slow learners.”

“My people?’

“You- you city people!”

“Miss Rowan, I am from Queens and teach art at Middlebury College . My husband and I live here in Manchester.

Miss Rowan started to speak, but my mother continued, “By the way, Joseph’s favorite subject is reading. He finished ‘Dick and Jane’ quite some time ago. Lately he’s been enjoying ‘Champion.” It’s the story of Muhammad Ali.” She smiled and picked up her purse.

“Good night, Miss Rowan. It’s been a pleasure to meet you.”

From then on, the teacher let me read whatever I wanted. I learned all about Muhammad Ali, the great boxer who refused to go to war. He went on to become a champion and fighter for our people's rights and pride. I knew I wanted to become a champion too.

THE END