Life, One Word at a Time

Mrs. Johnson was teaching my fourth-grade class the multiplication tables. I had worked hard at memorizing the times tables, as we called them, so when it was my turn to recite, I went all the way to ten without a mistake. As usual, my classmates snickered when I spoke, but Mrs. Johnson, a plump young woman with a nice smile and an agreeable manner, was all smiles, which made me proud.

The rest of the morning went on as usual. After lunch Mrs. Johnson asked me to step into the hallway. That seemed strange to me; she'd never called me out before. She assured me that nothing was wrong, so I didn't worry about it.

As I was closing the classroom door behind me, I noticed two other teachers standing with Mrs. Johnson. They were smiling. Still, something felt strange.

"Herman," Mrs. Johnson said, "please recite your multiplication tables."

I relaxed. Mrs. Johnson wanted to show off my math skills! I was thrilled, because I wasn't used to being praised at school for anything.

"Go on, Herman," she said. "You can do it."

I took a deep breath.

"One times one equals one," I said softly, then paused. The teachers seemed to have no trouble understanding me, so I continued.

"Two times two equals four ..."

The teachers were quiet and attentive. Their anticipation seemed to grow by the passing moment. By the time I got to five times five they were really excited.

I paused, savoring a rare success.

"Go on," Mrs. Johnson said with a big grin. "Say six times six."

I heard her whisper to one of the other teachers, "Here it comes."

They both giggled.

Six was a word I had real trouble pronouncing. But I trusted Mrs. Johnson, so I did as I was told.

For a moment there was silence. I waited for the affirmation I was sure was coming. Suddenly the teachers burst into laughter. I don't mean they giggled. They laughed out loud without any restraint.

I couldn't believe my ears. I felt sick; my heart sank. I looked from face to face, but each was the same: they were laughing at me. All of them. Doubled over and breathless with laughter.

"Mrs. Johnson," guffawed one of the teachers, "how do you keep a straight face in class? Tell him to say it again!"

"Go on, Herman," said Mrs. Johnson. She was laughing so hard she could hardly talk. "Say it again."

I tried with all my might to enunciate, to pronounce the words correctly, but they came out the same way:

"S-s-shit times s-s-shit equals ..."

The teachers howled even louder than before.

I hung my head, crushed. These grown-ups whom I had trusted were laughing at me just like my nine-year-old classmates did. Even now it is hard to put words to the pain and betrayal I felt.

That experience could have broken me or made me bitter, but it did neither. Instead, it made me more self-reliant. That is what I learned that day. No matter how hard they tried, my parents couldn't always be there to protect me. When all was said and done, I had to look out for myself.

It was the first of many painful experiences in my life that left marks that will never go away. I can't say that I would choose it again if I had the choice, but I can say that out of that mess I gained something that has played a crucial role in my success: I learned to define myself. I refused to let the teasing and embarrassment make me bow my head. I kept on keeping on.

No one would ever again define me but me.

* * *

I was born in Atlanta on December 23, 1930.

At that time, the city was deeply segregated and the nation was wallowing in the Great Depression. The most popular song that year was "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" Its title was in the mouths of folks all over the country from coast to coast.

Herbert Hoover was our president then. As the result of Hoover's shortsighted policies, the national economy had crashed. Banks failed and even the most menial jobs became scarce. Camps of desperately poor people sprang up on roadsides and under bridges all over America. Folks showed how much they blamed Hoover for the mess the economy was in by calling the camps Hoovervilles.

The average income that year was $1,650, but my parents' combined income came nowhere near that. Even though a gallon of gasoline only cost ten cents and a loaf of bread seven cents, times were still hard for my family.

The average new home then cost $6,500 — but not in my neighborhood. Everyone where we lived was poor and lived in shotgun shacks — so called because they were narrowly built, with one room opening into the next in a way that a shot fired from a gun could go cleanly through the houses from front to back if all doors were left open. No one had front yards, just patches of dirt or gravel. My family's home was a shotgun shack and it certainly wasn't worth anywhere near $6,500, maybe because its thin walls let in as much cold winter air as they kept out. Or because it lacked hot water. Oh, and one other thing holding down its resale value: it was in a poor black neighborhood.

My earliest memory is of standing in front of a black, coal-burning stove. It was a strange feeling. The stove was hot, so it warmed my front. But the rest of the house was so cold that my back froze. I didn't know whether to sweat or shiver; I probably did both.

It sounds strange now, but although we lived in the city, we were so poor that not only did we not have hot water, we didn't have electricity, either. We read by candles and kerosene lamps and bathed in a big galvanized tin tub filled with water that we heated on our wood-burning stove. (Toilets were located on the back porch or in the backyard.) My mama washed our clothes in a black kettle in the yard, stirring it with a big wooden ladle until the water boiled, then rubbing her hands raw on the hard ridges of her washboard. She never experienced cooking on a gas range or washing clothes in a washing machine until she was a senior citizen, when I was grown and able to buy appliances for her.

My parents worked hard to provide for their eight children, but I can still remember having to put pasteboard in the bottom of my shoes when the leather wore out...