Paul had a far-off look in his eyes as he turned and walked away.
By now, my tears streamed freely as I stood there frozen, filled with pride and love for the man in the coffin. Even now he was teaching me.
After all of these years I still become lost sometimes. When that happens I close my eyes and see my grandfather’s face with that huge smile. I hear his voice reminding me how much I matter, how much we all matter.
Tyrone Dawkins
©2004. Reprinted with permission of Jerry Craft.
Black Children DO Read!
In order to change a people you must first change their literature.
Noble Drew Ali
Books had always been my refuge. As a young boy growing up in segregated Louisiana during the 1950s and 1960s, I turned to books to explore the world outside my small hometown. I read whatever I could get my hands on: newspaper articles, essays, poetry and novels. In all my reading, I rarely came across anything that reflected my own experiences as a black youngster. Black people were largely missing from the literature I read, and when we were included, negative images like that of Little Black Sambo often stared back at us. I felt left out.
When I became a parent years later, I was eager to provide my children with the things I had missed as a child. In 1976, when our first child was born, my wife Cheryl and I planned to decorate her room with vibrant and positive images of African American culture and history. We found just one poster of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Disappointed but not discouraged, Cheryl, an artist and graphic designer, decided to create her own illustrations of black children. The characters she created displayed a lot of the characteristics we saw in our daughter and her friends: bright eyes, curious minds, mahogany skin, energetic spirits. On decorative poster board, Cheryl made the adorable characters twist and turn to form the letters in our daughter’s name. Friends with young children asked for custom-made nameplates, too. We named the lively young characters the AFRO-BETS® Kids. Response to her designs reinforced what we already knew: We weren’t the only ones looking for learning material that featured positive images of black children.
Our search to give our children the very books I yearned for as a child turned up the same large void. The children in most picture books hardly ever had cornrows like our daughter, Katura, or chubby brown cheeks like our son, Stephan. And the few books that did reflect African American culture were scarcely available outside Black History Month. I instantly remembered what a challenge it was for me growing up to ignore the negative stereotypes, look past the intentional omissions, and see myself and my people as strong, smart and capable. I didn’t want our children to face the same challenge.
Joining my background in marketing and writing with Cheryl’s in art and design, we set out to publish the kind of books we felt our children needed. We developed an idea for a children’s book that taught the alphabet using Afrocentric themes, and presented it to various publishing companies. “A is for Africa, B is for a brown baby, C is for cornrows.” The idea was fun, innovative, even necessary, some editors agreed. But all we received were rejections. There was just “no viable market for black-interest books for children,” some told us. Dismayed, we wondered how could this be? Were they implying that black kids don’t read?
We were charged with a motivation that only an insult like that could spark. Cheryl and I used the dozens of rejection letters that filled our mailbox as a springboard. We decided to publish the AFRO-BETS ABC Book ourselves. Before the book was even printed, orders were pouring in from parents, teachers and black bookstores. In less than three months, we sold all five thousand copies of the books. We quickly went back to press, printing five thousand more. Those books sold even more quickly. It was clear we were on to something important.
With the publication of our second book a year later, we launched our own publishing company. It would specialize in positive, educational and entertaining black-interest books for children—the kind of book skeptics said no one would buy. Stepping out on faith, we withdrew all the money from our personal savings and set up shop in our home to start Just Us Books. And that’s what it was: just us. Just two of us who were convinced about the importance of our mission, who were driven to fulfill this need, and who had no previous experience in how to do it.
In a few years, Just Us Books was an established leader in multicultural publishing, with a growing book list available throughout the country. It wasn’t long before large publishing companies followed in our footsteps. The market that many said didn’t even exist is today a thriving segment of the publishing industry. We welcomed the “competition,” knowing this meant change: change in the way black children would be allowed to see themselves, which warmed our hearts.
In 2003, Just Us Books celebrated its fifteenth anniversary. But what’s made all the hard work worthwhile isn’t our success as a company, or the multicultural publishing industry’s tremendous growth. Rather, it’s the impact that books like ours have had on young readers.
Since we published our very first book, Cheryl and I have been uplifted and encouraged by the positive feedback from parents, grandparents and teachers who say that our books are exactly what they had been looking for. Some of the most touching feedback, however, comes from the children themselves.
One day, among the usual pile of bills and other mail that crowds my desk, I spotted an envelope that stood out from the rest. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Hudson in big, bold letters written with bright red crayon. Already smiling, I carefully opened the envelope and pulled out its contents, which were written with the same colorful and carefully drawn letters. There was the unforgettable waxy smell of crayons. I could tell this was going to be good, so I sat down to enjoy it.
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Hudson,
I love your Afro-Bets books. I read one every day. Please write more books.
Your friend, Angela
P.S. I love Glo. She is a dancer just like me and she is the best Afro-Bets kid.
I held that letter in my hand for several minutes, as my mind embraced the meaning of this simple but powerful message. Phrases like “just like me and she is the best . . .” that were foreign to my childhood now rolled easily from a crayon-filled little hand. I thanked God for giving us this mission, for ordering our direction and allowing us to help black children understand their value, their place and their belonging in the world through literature.
My mission was reinforced.
Wade Hudson
The Bionic Woman Is Black
I feel that the most important requirement in success is learning to overcome failure. You must learn to tolerate it, but never accept it.
Reggie Jackson
I can still remember my mother and father sitting my brother and me down one summer day and explaining the Educational Integration Program that was to be instituted in the fall. The program was designed to take inner-city kids—like us—and provide them the opportunity for a better education in the traditionally white suburban communities. I was not sure what “better education” meant, but I trusted my mom and dad when they said that this was something they had never had—a chance at receiving an equal and fair education.
On the first day of school, riding on the bus an eerie silence and thick tension in the air confirmed that the other kids on the bus were just as anxious, hopeful and frightened as me. When our bus arrived on the school grounds, I expected a big “Welcome” sign greeting us as the first class of integration students. After all, this was 1979 and we were in Los Angeles—right?
To my surprise, however, we were greeted with eggs, tomatoes and rocks thrown at our bus. Fear and confusion overwhelmed me. I had seen this type of thing on TV. Tears of pain and anger stung my eyes when I witnessed water hoses hurting the people marching for equality, and I got chills when I heard Dr. King say, “ . . . one day little black kids and little white kids can play together and go to school together . . . free at last, free at last.” I realized that I was that little black girl he was talking
about, and maybe staying in this scary school with these mean people was my way of contributing to what Dr. King had died for. If I ran back to safety, then we really weren’t “free at last.” So I convinced my parents to let me stay.
An athlete since the age of eight, I had just begun to run track when tryouts were announced for both a Charlie’s Angels and a Bionic Woman competition. I was thrilled and sure I could win. At ten years old I ran the fastest in the entire school. I had mastered my roll . . . stop . . . point . . . and “Freeze, sucker!” to sheer perfection. In the days leading up to the big competition, which included over forty hopeful little girls and over seventy-five curious onlookers, I sharpened every skill to ensure my placement. I knew all the key lines of both the Angels and the Bionic Woman.
On the day of the big competition I was calm and assured.
“Ready. Set. Go!”
I was out in front instantly! When I finished the one-hundred-yard race, many of the girls were just approaching the seventy-five-yard mark. This gave me the additional boost of confidence I needed as the only African American in the competition. The judges were five very popular girls and a boy I guessed represented Charlie.
Only the first six of us who placed in the race advanced to the “Roll, Freeze and Pose” competition. I waited to be the last candidate, and my competitors did just as I thought: They giggled, fumbled and foiled the freeze. I, however, froze right on the mark—hot asphalt and all. My performance was so impressive that the audience gave a gasping “WOW.” You would have thought I had been an Angel for years—at least since I had been six!
Finally, it was time to decide who would be Charlie’s Angels and the Bionic Woman for the entire school year. I stood there as the judges huddled, periodically looking over their shoulders before their final selection. With six girls left, three would be Angels, one would be the Bionic Woman, and one would be alternate. This would leave only one person who would not be selected at all.
I looked to both sides to see who that could be. Maybe Cindy—she came in last in the race, or Kim—she couldn’t coordinate herself enough to roll and freeze. Maybe it would be Michelle, who made a habit of calling everyone ugly names and just did not come across as an Angel. I felt sorry for whoever was not going to be chosen.
“The decision is made!” exclaimed Charlie’s agent.
“The official Charlie’s Angels will be Diane, Tiffany . . . ,” I felt my heart sink, “and Cindy.”
“The official Bionic Woman . . . ,” the young judge went on to say.
My mind was racing, partly in disbelief and partly in hopefulness. One chance, I know I will be chosen for this, I thought, as I could feel my palms sweating and my chest getting tight to hold back the tears.
“Bionic Woman will be Michelle.” He went on to announce, “Kim was chosen as the alternate.”
Boos began to fly from the audience.
As each person approached me to protest the decision, I could see nothing but blur between my tears. My head spun, and my anger rose. I had been cheated and I didn’t know why. I stood frozen on my mark. I replayed the entire chain of events in my head to see what I could have done better or should have done with more passion. After five horrifically long minutes of scanning my brain for answers, I concluded that I could not have produced better results. I had outperformed every other girl.
I deserved an answer, so I walked directly over to the judges, “Why was I not selected if I outperformed everyone in each competition?”
Suddenly, as if waiting for me to ask that question, the school ground fell silent. Everyone stopped and stared, and I wondered then if I had made a big mistake. Nothing could embarrass me more than what just happened, or so I thought.
The judges just looked at me with no sense of care or concern for my feelings and asked the question that would change my life forever, “What hero have you ever seen that was black?”
Another girl taunted, “We did not choose you, Lisa, because you don’t look like any Angel or the Bionic Woman, but you can try out again next year if you happen to begin to look more like them in the future.”
I walked away crying, as they laughed hysterically.
That day in September 1979, I became acquainted with some of the pain and hurt my grandparents and great ancestors endured. Since that year in fifth grade, I committed myself to being a hero for other little girls who needed one, and so I became a motivational speaker.
Twenty years later, during my keynote at a church in Los Angeles, I shared my commitment to change and the importance of empowerment. I emphasized that the cost of living this dream can never exceed the cost of throwing it away. I received a standing ovation from the audience and was elated and overjoyed.
As I made my way through the crowd stopping to acknowledge admiring guests, a hand touched my shoulder and the most familiar voice said, “You are so inspiring; you are a true heroine.”
I turned and nearly fainted. I stood amidst three thousand people and hugged Lindsay Wagner (television’s Bionic Woman), scrambling to explain that she was my longtime favorite.
She said clearly and with conviction, “Today, you became my favorite and the true Bionic Woman.”
On that day, I forgave each of those judges from my childhood for judging my outside—and not seeing my inside. I also forgave myself for being angry for the dark skin I was born in and the pain that it brought. I knew in that moment that it didn’t matter which heroine I looked like, because I now knew exactly which heroine I resembled: me.
Lisa Nichols
The Lady at the Bus Stop
I was shackled by a heavy burden, beneath a load of guilt and shame. And then the hand of my mother, my godmother, my grandmother, my sister, my sister-friend . . . touched me, and now I am no longer the same.
Monya Aletha Stubbs
Hot and humid was normal for Houston, Texas, in the fall. I was seventeen years old, and one of a handful of black students who attended a formerly all-white college.
On that day, in 1967, I was standing at a bus stop downtown at the interchange. At this transfer point, near the Kress’s store where a bag of Spanish peanuts cost a quarter, domestic workers changed busses from the “other side of town,” where their maid jobs were, to the side of town where they lived in strictly segregated communities.
Dressed in uniforms of white or black and comfortable shoes, these ladies met here twice daily. Their conversations were intimate—quiet and loud, by turn. Talk of hurting bunions, the meanest “Ms. Ann” or the most spoiled white children were punctuated with “Amen” and “Yeah, girl.” Most were middle-aged, but some were elderly— their fingers gnarled with arthritis, and a few were not much older than I was. Each carried a package or a shopping bag that no doubt held leftover food or a child’s discarded dress or toy.
With my huge Afro, clunky shoes and bell-bottomed pants, I was obviously an outsider, but a lady standing near me struck up a conversation anyway.
“What yo’ name, honey?”
“Evelyn.”
“Where you from? You from ’round here?”
“No ma’am,” I said, adding the title Mama and Grama had taught me to use when addressing my elders.
“Well, what you doing here, baby?”
“I’m a student at the college.”
“College? You go to college? I’m so proud of you.” And indeed a look of pride settled on her face.
“Yes, ma’am. But this is just my first year,” I said self-consciously. Since I was the third generation in my family to attend college, I didn’t feel that being only a freshman deserved her pride.
“That’s alright, baby,” she said, disregarding my reticence. “You got to finish that college. For us. I’mo hep you.”
Help me? How could she help me? And who was “us”?
But when I met her eyes, I saw them. They were women of every hue, from blue-black to high yellow. I saw the women who had fervently prayed, to a black god or a white Jesus, for the end of slavery. I saw the women
who had killed their children rather than allow them to live as slaves. I saw the women who had died, with their hands tied at the whipping post, because they had learned to read a few words. I saw the women who had given birth to their masters’ children only to see them sold as chattel. And I saw the women who, with heads held high, had stared Jim Crow in the eye. All of these women, who knew education was the key to unlocking the chains that bound them, were in her eyes. They stared back at me—asking me how I could take such a gift for granted.
The lady reached into her high pocket, and pulled from her full bosom a handkerchief tied with the knot that only grandmas and church mothers know. Deliberately and painstakingly, she untied the knot, dug out a crumpled dollar bill and pressed it into my hand.
Although I’d seen my own grandmother untie such a knot to give me a coin or a bill to put in the collection plate in Sunday school, I was embarrassed to receive this gift from a stranger.
“Thank you, ma’am, but I don’t really need money. My parents saved up to send me to college. And I have a part-time job in an office.” I knew she worked much harder for a dollar bill than I ever had, so I tried to give it back to her. But she folded my fingers over it, and patted my hand.
“I’m just doing my part, Sugar. This is all I can afford. I want you to keep it. And you remember me.” Then her bus came, and she was gone.
I will always remember her. I cannot count the times I have regretted not getting her name and address, and that I didn’t save her crumpled dollar bill.
At my graduation ceremony four years later, I was surrounded by friends and family who appreciated the milestone— but who had fully expected that I would graduate from college. I wished the lady at the bus stop was there. In a strange way, I think it would have meant more to her than it did to them.