"Athletics are not so important," Mr. Pearson said. "He can learn to use his head. Arms he can do without. A head, never. He can go to college. We'll save for it."
"A boy is a boy," Mrs. Pearson insisted. "He needs to play. You can teach him."
"I'll teach him. Arms aren't everything. Maybe we can get him some."
They had forgotten me. But maybe Mr. Pearson was right, I thought. Maybe sometime Freddie could be fitted with artificial arms. He did have nubs where arms should be.
"Then you might like to see him?"
They looked up. "When could we have him?"
"You think you might want him?"
Mrs. Pearson looked at me. "Might?" she said. "Might?"
"We want him," her husband said.
Mrs. Pearson went back to the picture. "You've been waiting for us," she said. "Haven't you?"
"His name is Freddie," I said, "but you can change it."
"No," said Mr. Pearson. "Frederick Pearsonit's good together."
And that was it.
Page 14
There were formalities, of course; and by the time we set the day, Christmas lights were strung across city streets and wreaths were hung everywhere.
I met the Pearsons in the waiting room. There was a little snow on them both.
"Your son's here already," I told them. "Let's go upstairs and I'll bring him to you."
"I've got butterflies," Mrs. Pearson announced. "Suppose he doesn't like us?"'
I put my hand on her arm. "I'll get him," I said.
Freddie's boarding mother had dressed him in a new white suit, with a sprig of green holly and red berries embroidered on the collar. His hair shone, a mop of dark curls.
"Going home," Freddie said to me, smiling, as his boarding mother put him in my arms.
"I told him that," she said. "I told him he was going to his new home."
She kissed him, and her eyes were wet.
"Good-bye, dear. Be a good boy."
"Good boy," said Freddie cheerfully. "Going home."
I carried him upstairs to the little room where the Pearsons were waiting. When I got there, I put him on his feet and opened the door.
"Merry Christmas," I said.
Freddie stood uncertainly, rocking a little, gazing intently at the two people before him. They drank him in.
Mr. Pearson knelt on one knee. "Freddie, come here. Come to Daddy."
Freddie looked back at me for a moment. Then, turning, he walked slowly toward them, and they reached out their arms and gathered him in.
Abbie Blair
Page 15
Page 16
A Birthday Song
Three things in human life are important: The first is to be kind. The second is to be kind. And the third is to be kind.
Henry James
One morning, John Evans shuffled into my life. A ragged-looking boy, he was decked out in oversized hand-me-down clothes and worn-out shoes that split apart at the seams.
John was the son of black migrant workers who had recently arrived in our small North Carolina town for a season of apple picking. These laborers were the poorest of the poor, earning barely enough to feed their families.
Standing at the head of our second-grade class that morning, John Evans was a hapless sight. He shifted from foot to foot as our teacher, Mrs. Parmele, penned his name in the roll book. We weren't sure what to make of the shoddy newcomer, but whispers of disapproval began drifting from row to row.
"What is that?" the boy behind me mumbled. "Somebody open a window," a girl said, giggling. Mrs.
Page 17
Parmele looked up at us from behind her reading glasses. The murmuring stopped, and she went back to her paperwork.
"Class, this is John Evans," Mrs. Parmele announced, trying to sound enthusiastic. John looked around and smiled, hoping somebody would smile back. Nobody did. He kept on grinning anyway.
I held my breath, hoping Mrs. Parmele wouldn't notice the empty desk next to mine. She did and pointed him in that direction. He looked over at me as he slid into the seat, but I averted my eyes so he wouldn't think that I had promise as a new friend.
By the end of his first week, John had found firm footing at the bottom of our school's social ladder. "It's his own fault," I told my mother one evening at dinner. "He barely even knows how to count."
My mother had grown to know John quite well through my nightly commentary. She always listened patiently but rarely uttered more than a pensive "Hmmm" or "I see."
"Can I sit by you?" John stood in front of me, lunch tray in hand and a grin on his face. I looked around to see who was watching.
"Okay," I replied feebly.
As I watched him eat and listened to him ramble on, it dawned on me that maybe some of the ridicule heaped on John was unwarranted. He was actually pleasant to be around and was by far the most chipper boy I knew.
After lunch, we joined forces to conquer the playground, moving from monkey bars to swingset to sandbox. As we lined up behind Mrs. Parmele for the march back to class, I made up my mind that John would remain friendless no longer.
"Why do you think the kids treat John so badly?" I asked one night as Mother tucked me into bed.
Page 18
"I don't know," she said sadly. "Maybe that's all they know."
"Mom, tomorrow is his birthday; and he's not going to get anything. No cake. No presents. Nothing. Nobody even cares."
Mother and I both knew that whenever a kid had a birthday, his mother would bring cupcakes and party favors for the entire class. Between my birthday and my sister's, my mom had made several trips herself over the years. But John's mother worked all day in the orchards. His special day would go unnoticed.
"Don't worry," Mom said as she kissed me good night.
"I'm sure everything will turn out fine." For the first time in my life, I thought she might be wrong.
At breakfast the next morning, I announced that I wasn't feeling well and wished to stay home.
"Does this have anything to do with John's birthday?" Mother asked. The bright-red flush on my cheeks was the only answer she needed. "How would you like it if your only friend didn't show up on your birthday?" she asked gently. I thought it over for a moment and then kissed her good-bye.
I wished John a happy birthday first thing in the morning; and his embarrassed smile showed me that he was glad I had remembered. Maybe it wouldn't be such a horrible day after all.
By mid-afternoon I had almost decided that birthdays weren't that big a deal. Then, as Mrs. Parmele was writing math equations on the blackboard, I heard a familiar sound coming from the hallway. A voice I knew was singing the birthday song.
Moments later, Mother came through the door with a tray of cupcakes aglow with candles. Tucked under her arm was a smartly wrapped present with a red bow on top.
Mrs. Parmele's high-pitched voice joined in while the
Page 19
class stared at me for an explanation. Mother found John looking like a deer caught in car headlights. She put the cupcakes and gift on his desk and said, "Happy birthday, John."
My friend graciously shared his cupcakes with the class, patiently taking the tray from desk to desk. I caught Mother watching me. She smiled and winked as I bit into moist chocolate frosting.
Looking back, I can scarcely remember the names of the children who shared that birthday. John Evans moved on shortly thereafter, and I never heard from him again. But whenever I hear that familiar song, I remember the day its notes rang most true: in the soft tones of my mother's voice, the glint in a boy's eyes and the taste of the sweetest cupcake.
Robert Tate Miller
Page 20
When Kevin Won
Maturity begins to grow when you can sense your concern for others outweighing your concern for yourself.
John MacNoughton
If you had to choose one word to describe Kevin, it might have been "slow." He didn't learn his ABCs as fast as other kids. He never came in first in t
he schoolyard races. However, Kevin had a special rapport with people. His smile was brighter than the sun in June; his heart bigger than the mountain sky. Kevin's enthusiasm for life was quite contagious, so when he discovered that the pastor at his church, Randy, was putting together a boys' basketball team, his mother could only answer, "Yes, you may join."
Basketball became the center of Kevin's life. At practice, he worked so hard you'd have thought he was preparing for the NBA. He liked to stand in a certain spot near the free-throw line and shoot baskets. Patiently, he stood there throwing ball after ball after ball, until finally it would swish through the hoop. "Look at me, Coach!" he'd
Page 21
yell at Randy, jumping up and down, his face just glowing with the thrill of it all.
The day before their first game, Coach Randy gave each player a bright red jersey. Kevin's eyes absolutely turned to stars when he saw hisnumber 12. He scrambled himself into the sleeves and scarcely ever took it off again. One Sunday morning, the sermon was interrupted by Kevin's excited voice. "Look, Coach!" He lifted his gray wool sweater to reveal his beautiful red jersey to God and everyone.
Kevin and his whole team truly loved basketball. But just loving the game doesn't help you win. More balls fell out of the basket than into it, and the boys lost every game that season by very large margins, except one . . . the night it snowed and the other team couldn't make it to the game.
At the end of the season, the boys played in the church league's tournament. As the last-place team, they drew the unfortunate spot of playing against the first-place teamthe tall, undefeated first-place team. The game went pretty much as expected, and near the middle of the fourth quarter Kevin's team stood nearly 30 points behind.
At that point, one of Kevin's teammates called time-out. As he came to the side, Randy couldn't imagine why the time-out had been called. "Coach," said the boy. "This is our last game and I know that Kevin has played in every game, but he's never made a basket. I think we should let Kevin make a basket." With the game completely out of reach, the idea seemed reasonable, so plans were made. Every time Kevin's team had the ball, Kevin was to stand in his special spot near the free-throw line and they would give him the ball. Kevin skipped extra high as he went back onto the court.
His first shot bounced around but missed. Number 17 from the other team swiped the ball and took it down to
Page 22
the other end scoring two more points. As soon as Kevin's team had the ball again, they passed it to Kevin who obediently stood in his place. But he missed again. This pattern continued a few more times until Number 17 grew wise. He grabbed one of the rebounds and instead of running off down the court, he threw the ball to Kevin who shot . . . and missed again.
Soon, all the players were circling Kevin, throwing the ball to him and clapping for him. It took the spectators just a little longer to figure out what was happening, but little by little people started to stand up and clap their hands. The whole gymnasium thundered with the clapping, hollering, chanting, ''Kevin! Kevin!" And Kevin just kept shooting.
Coach Randy realized the game must be over. He looked up at the clock which was frozen with 46 seconds left. The referees stood by the scoring table, cheering and clapping like everyone else. The whole world was stopped, waiting and wanting for Kevin.
Finally, after an infinite amount of tries, the ball took one miraculous bounce and went in. Kevin's arms shot high into the air and he shouted, "I won! I won!" The clock ticked off the last few seconds and the first-place team remained undefeated. But on that evening, everyone left the game truly feeling like a winner.
Janice M. Gibson
as told to her by Rev. Steve Goodier
Page 23
A Mason-Dixon Memory
Dondre Green glanced uneasily at the civic leaders and sports figures filling the hotel ballroom in Cleveland. They had come from across the nation to attend a fund-raiser for the National Minority College Golf Scholarship Foundation. I was the banquet's featured entertainer. Dondre, an 18-year-old high school senior from Monroe, Louisiana, was the evening's honored guest.
"Nervous?" I asked the handsome young man in his starched white shirt and rented tuxedo.
"A little," he whispered, grinning.
One month earlier, Dondre had been just one more black student attending a predominantly white Southern school. Although most of his friends and classmates were white, Dondre's race was never an issue. Then, on April 17, 1991, Dondre's black skin provoked an incident that made nationwide news.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the emcee said, "our special guest, Dondre Green."
As the audience stood applauding, Dondre walked to the microphone and began his story. "I love golf," he said quietly. "For the past two years, I've been a member of the
Page 24
St. Frederick High School golf team. And though I was the only black member, I've always felt at home playing at mostly white country clubs across Louisiana."
The audience leaned forward; even the waiters and busboys stopped to listen. As I listened, a memory buried in my heart since childhood fought its way to life.
"Our team had driven from Monroe," Dondre continued. "When we arrived at the Caldwell Parish Country Club in Columbia, we walked to the putting green."
Dondre and his teammates were too absorbed to notice the conversation between a man and St. Frederick athletic director James Murphy. After disappearing into the clubhouse, Murphy returned to his players.
"I want to see the seniors," he said. "On the double!" His face seemed strained as he gathered the four students, including Dondre.
"I don't know how to tell you this," he said, "but the Caldwell Parish Country Club is reserved for whites only." Murphy paused and looked at Dondre. His teammates glanced at each other in disbelief.
"I want you seniors to decide what our response should be," Murphy continued. "If we leave, we forfeit this tournament. If we stay, Dondre can't play."
As I listened, my own childhood memory from 32 years ago broke free.
In 1959, I was 13 years old, a poor black kid living with my mother and stepfather in a small black ghetto on Long Island, New York. My mother worked nights in a hospital, and my stepfather drove a coal truck. Needless to say, our standard of living was somewhat short of the American dream.
Nevertheless, when my eighth-grade teacher announced a graduation trip to Washington, D.C., it never crossed my mind that I would be left behind. Besides a complete tour of the nation's capital, we would visit Glen Echo Amusement Park in Maryland. In my imagination,
Page 25
Glen Echo was Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm and Magic Mountain rolled into one.
My heart beating wildly, I raced home to deliver the mimeographed letter describing the journey. But when my mother saw how much the trip cost, she just shook her head. We couldn't afford it.
After feeling sad for 10 seconds, I decided to try to fund the trip myself. For the next eight weeks, I sold candy bars door-to-door, delivered newspapers and mowed lawns. Three days before the deadline, I'd made just barely enough. I was going!