Black vs. Standardized English

Let’s return today to how peace and justice issues impinged on my life in the early years after I left the convent. Between January and April, I shared my becoming aware of racism within myself and society, my attending grad school in Minnesota to learn about Black English, my encountering violence there in the classroom and on the street, my protesting the Vietnam War, and my returning to Dayton only to discover that I had an FBI file that kept employers from hiring me. Finally, I landed a job in a department store warehouse where I tried to unionize the female workers and got fired.            

            That happened in November 1971. Rather quickly I returned to teaching. A dedicated immigrant from South Africa had gotten the funds to begin a dropout center for teenagers—sixty African American students and one Caucasian. As I remember, the students ranged in age from fifteen to twenty-one. The faculty consisted of five African Americans and two Caucasians: Denny, a young Jew, and myself, an ex-nun.

            Denny taught American history; I, composition, grammar, and literature. Quickly I discovered that only a few students believed in their ability to learn. My job was clear: I needed to help them appreciate the knowledge within themselves.

            Several had been in the reformatory and that was rich fodder for writing. We began by sharing their life stories, some of which were acutely poignant while others had us all laughing.            

            We spent days sharing stories, then we began to write. I didn’t want spelling to get in the way of their writing so we began with their calling out words they’d need for their compositions. I printed these on the chalkboard.

            Next they wrote. Then came the reading of their stories. By this time, a community was forming in each of the classes—freshman through senior. The students now felt bound to one another within this community, so they supported one another’s efforts in finding the “telling” word; forming alliteration, analogy, simile, metaphor; and developing the story arc. We discussed sustaining suspense and preparing for the denouement.

            Once we trusted one another, the students shared their dreams about what they’d like to do with their lives. Clearly, they needed to be prepared for work that would earn the necessary funds to fulfill their dreams. And yet their spoken English was non-standardized. Who would hire them?

            The day came when I said, “ You know all of you are so smart.”

            “What makes you say that, Ms. Ready?” they asked.

            “Well, I can speak only one language but all of you speak two. That’s smart.”

            The statement astounded them. Two languages? What did I mean?

            To illustrate, I asked one student to pretend to be in a downtown Dayton office for a job interview with a white personnel director. “What questions do you think that man or woman will ask you?” I inquired.

            The students reeled off a list of things they’d heard asked before: What job experience do you have? How old are you? What are your skills? What was your attendance like in high school? How about your grades?

            As the students asked the questions, I printed them on the chalkboard, just as the students said them—in Black English. Beneath each question I printed how I—a speaker of standardized English—would ask it. “Notice any difference?” I asked.

            Yes. They saw that how they spoke and how I spoke were different. “If you want to get work out there in that big white world, you need to speak what’s known as Standardized English,” I explained.

            “So what are we speaking?” one student asked, “Dayton English?”

            “You’re speaking Black English.”

            “Bad English?”

            “No. Black English. It’s a real language. Just like French or Spanish. Or any other language. It has rules and something called syntax. You speak it. So you speak two languages. When you’re with one another you speak Black English.”

            “But white people don’t seem to understand me when I talk,” one young man complained. “They say I speak ‘broken English.’”

            “Not broken. Black. But you’ve put your finger on the problem. We’ve got to practice speaking what is known as ‘standardized English’ if you’re going to get past that first job interview.”

            So we began. They asked questions in Black English. I printed these queries on the chalkboard. Beneath them, I’d print standardized English. We’d practice saying this second set of questions. I wanted them to get used to the questions they’d be asked.

            Then we practiced answers in Black and standardized English.

            Slowly, as the weeks passed, the students became adept at switching from Black to standardized. I participated in countless mythical interviews as the personnel manager or the boss of a Dayton business. The students participated as Black English speakers and as standardized English speakers.

            Time passed and they beamed at their growing expertise to shift from Black to standardized English. “Just look at us,” their smiles declared. “We speak two languages! We’re downright educated!”

            I agreed. “Yes. The cat’s meow!”

            Next Tuesday I’ll continue the story of my work at the dropout center with these students, who were so eager to learn.

Afterword #1: Thanks for all your comments on my posting this past Tuesday and for the suggestions about how to keep the newly cleaned shower stall pristine. I’ve now taken a shower and “ah, my foes, and oh, my friends” the wiped stall “gives a lovely light”—with an acknowledgement to the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. I just got a call that tomorrow—Sunday at 10 am—I'll have my first "showing" of this house. Send those good wishes winging this way! I'm on Central Daylight Time!!!

Afterword #2: For my postings from January through March, a number of you commented on my “courage.” I thank you for that, and I’d like to introduce you today to a storyteller whose courage and fortitude I greatly admire. Some of you read Rita’s blog Soul Comfort’s Corner, so you’ve met this extraordinarily talented woman who lives daily with the aches and pangs of fibromyalgia and fills those days with painting, journaling and creating exquisite note cards. However, fewer of you know her second blog: Soul Comfort’s Stories.

            During April, Rita posted a two-part story on this second blog about her youth during the Vietnam War. I urge you to read Installment 1, which is entitled “The Helpful Hooker: Running Away to Canada” and Installment 2, “Innocents on the Road: Running Away to Canada.” Once you read her stories, you’ll go back for more. Her latest is “Uniform.”  

The Decision Is Made

Dear Blogging Friends, Readers, Commentators, 

                   and You Who Fit All Three Categories,

Hello again.

            Today marks my blogging re-entry. In April, life became too complicated for me to write new postings. So I reposted eight stories from 2011. I didn’t respond to comments on these because I was pursuing a dream.

            Many of you thought I spent April working on a memoir. I didn’t. I began the month by getting ready for a trip to Minnesota. On April 6th, I journeyed forth from my Independence home and headed north. For eleven days, I cavorted with friends of thirty-eight years—friends I’d left behind when I moved to Missouri three years ago.

At the Good Earth Restaurant with a friend.

            In addition, I looked at a unit in a cooperative, three units in condos, a townhouse, and two refurbished houses. You see, this journey was a fact-finding one in which I sought answers to three questions: Could I financially afford to move back to Minnesota? Could I find a condo that would allow three cats? And . . .  Had I romanticized my years in Minnesota? The answers, in order, are yes, yes, and definitely no.

            A fourth question also presented itself: Did Meniere’s Disease still have a firm grip on my life? So much so that I wouldn’t have the psychic and physical energy to make a move?

            As I met with friends, almost all of them commented on my vitality. My vim and vigor. The answer was swift and sure: Meniere’s has relinquished its control. Healing has taken place here in Missouri. That is one of the great gifts of my being here. I have come home to health.

            Missouri has helped me come home in other ways. Part of that coming home is the acknowledgement that during those thirty-eight years I spent in Minnesota, the apricot sunsets, the multitudinous lakes, the acres of parks, the blustery winters, and the ever-changing political scenes rooted themselves within me. It is there I wish to spend my final years.

            And so this past Thursday, a realtor placed my Missouri home on the market. I so wish I could move it to Minnesota and settle it gently on a plot of ground in some wooded area. But I’ve never learned the art of levitation, and so must find a new home for the cats and myself. Financially I must consider only what I really need, not what I simply want.

            And what I need in a home is a bed in which to sleep, a kitchen in which to cook, an office in which to write my manuscripts and postings, and a space in which to place kitty litters for Ellie, Maggie, and Matthew.

            During the last full week of April, a cousin from Seattle visited me for six days. Within her I met a wholeness that touched my life while she was here. Perhaps she knows the art of levitation. I didn’t ask because I needed a more immediate gift from her: cleaning the walk-in shower to make it presentable to a buyer.

            She applied her considerable skills to this task. That bathroom is now pristine. So much so that I hesitate to take any more showers. It’s the other bathroom for me—the one with the tub. I know how to keep a tub clean as I did that in Minnesota. But perhaps you can suggest a product that will enable me to use the walk-in shower while keeping it looking factory new. If so, HELP!

            So that’s the month of April. If you have any unassigned prayers, vibes, visualizations, good wishes, thoughts, energy, please send them my way. In this lifelong questioning of “Where and what is home?” I’ve lived in expectation of goodness. It just keeps rolling in, inundating me with the mystery of what being human means.

             Peace ever and always to you.

A Child Living with Asthma

(Edited repost from June 2011)
I was born with asthma. During the first five years of my life, Mom and Dad rushed me to Emergency six times. I almost died four of those times—or so mom told me.

            She kept me alive. She put her finger down my throat when it clogged. Thumped my back. Rocked me. Gave me mantras to recite in the midst of an attack.

            “Distract yourself,” she told me. “If you think about breathing you won’t be able to. Just think about something else. Ice cream cones. Raggedy Ann. Look at picture books.”

            Distracting myself helped. In fact, those library books helped me learn to read when I was four. Ever after, The Little Engine That Could, Ferdinand, and The Story about Ping have been dear to me. One may explain why I push myself to accomplish things. The other two, why I so love animals.

            Another thing Mom told me was to “tough it out.” The fact is that I did this so well for so long that ultimately, as an adult, I had trouble acknowledging pain or extricating myself from difficult situations. I kept toughing it out. Maintaining a stiff upper lip. Much of my adult life has been given over to enduring and so I've caused myself unnecessary pain and stress.

            But back then, when I was a child, Mom’s advice kept me alive. As a child of three, I knew that I had to will myself to live.

            As I grew older, the asthma didn’t lessen in intensity. In kindergarten and first, second, and third grades, I missed three out of nine months of school. I’d miss a day or two or even a whole week at a time.

            Every time I returned to school, I was behind. The other kids had moved on from where I’d been. They knew more spelling and arithmetic. They reeled off answers to the Baltimore Catechism questions.

            Teachers would call on me, with or without raised hand. I had no ready answers. So the kids thought I was dumb. On the playground they shouted, “Dummy. Dummy. Pain in tummy.” I hid behind the trashcans. 

            I was always trying to catch up and always exhausted from trying to breathe. So exhausted that I couldn’t think of answers.

            Mom wanted to change all that for me. So the summer before the fourth grade, she and Sister Corita who’d taught me in the third grade—and would have me for the fourth—encouraged me to try for perfect attendance that year. Each of us committed to doing something.

            Sister Corita would watch me carefully in class. If I looked overly tired, she’d send me to the cloakroom to nap.

            Mom would watch me carefully at home. She’d send me to bed immediately if I came home from school drooping. She’d make sure I got lots of extra sleep on the weekends.

            I’d rest whenever it was suggested to me. I’d try to breathe slowly when an attack started and not panic. I’d “go the extra mile,” as Mom said.

            She promised that if I pulled this off, I’d get a charm bracelet like the one the scout leader had. Incentive enough for going that extra mile. In June of 1946, at the completion of fourth grade, I actually got two rewards: a certificate for perfect attendance and a bracelet, which jangled seven small, silver objects whenever I moved. Wow! 

            The frosting on the cake came in fifth grade. The class voted on who were the five smartest students. Out of twenty-eight, I was number five.

            I beamed all the way home. I wasn’t a dummy. I was number five. Five! Imagine.

Photographs from Wikipedia

A New Definition of Woman

(Edited repost from June 2011 . . . )

I didn’t take the circuitous routes Dad suggested to my first post-convent job. So men did approach me. They didn’t “hit on” me. They asked for money. I always gave them whatever change or dollar bills I had.

            I’d been taught that we could come upon Jesus unawares and not recognize him. In my mind, these men were Jesus. I couldn’t say no.

            One day the vice-president of the publishing firm where I worked saw me handing money to a man sitting on the sidewalk, his back against a wall. “Thank you, Ma’am,” the drifter said and smiled. A serene smile over the gaps of missing teeth. Surely Jesus.       

   

            I crossed the street to where my employer waited on the corner. “Dee, don’t give these guys money,” he said. “I know how much you make.”

            “They might be Jesus.”

            “What?”

            I explained. He shook his head. “If you have to give them something, tell them you’ll buy breakfast. They'll never take you up on that. They’re looking for booze money.”

             As we passed the café I could see Jesus and myself eating together there. And as time passed, I did have breakfast with several of the men who inhabited the sidewalks, their heads drooping between tented knees. As we ate, they shared their life stories with me. They were down on their luck.

            One had a different definition of woman from what I’d learned in the Scholasticate. On the spring day we met, I wore a new dress. Short-sleeved. Bright yellow splotched with white daisies. A narrow belt.

             I was standing across from the office, waiting for the light to change. A man in soiled clothes shuffled toward me. His face sported whiskers and dirt. His straggly hair hung against his hunched shoulders. This is Jesus I thought.

            I started to dig for coins.

            “Ma’am, you’re one mighty fine woman,” he mumbled.

            The coins tumbled to the sidewalk. Flustered, I leaned over to pick them up. My thoughts tumbled with them: He’s talking about my figure. This dress is too clingy. My body’s not hidden in black serge. He can see the outline of my bosom. I covered it with my purse.

            “Did ya hear what I told ya? One damn fine woman,” he slurred.

            “Thank you.”

            “Real perky.”

            “Thank you.”

            The light changed. I started across. He followed.

            “One damn fine figure of a woman.”

            “Thank you.” I walked faster.

            “I’m tellin’ ya the truth, Ma’am. One mighty fine figure.”

            “Thank you.”

            I wanted to run, but this was Jesus. He might smell like whiskey, but who says Jesus has to be a teetotaler? He was the most famous brewer of all time. Witness Cana. Who says he has to wear newly laundered clothes? This was Jesus.

            “How’d you like some breakfast?” I asked.

            I treated him to a meal. Hank was a fine man.

            And I?

            I wasn’t a scout or a seamstress. But I was one fine figure of a woman.

            Damn fine.

Art and photographs from Wikipedia

Circuitous Routes

(Edited repost from June 2011)
In mid-January 1967—a month after leaving the convent—I  began to work for a Catholic publishing house in Dayton, Ohio. Its office occupied a brick building in a rundown section of town. Lots of bars, vacate buildings, men down on their luck.   

            I lived a few blocks away in a home for working women. Each of us had a narrow room with a twin bed, a dresser with three drawers, a straight-backed chair, a nightstand with a lamp, a sink, and a miniscule closet. We used communal showers and toilets and had both cafeteria and curfew. I felt right at home there—the convent with amenities.

            I took off my habit for the last time on the morning of December 24, 1966. Because the convent had no stash of ordinary clothing, my mom brought me an outfit she’d borrowed from my sister-in-law. Putting on those cotton panties, silky slip, pleated skirt, and patterned blouse felt strange. Alien.

            Mom included lipstick, rouge, and powder. I hadn’t worn makeup in almost nine years. My hand trembled as I picked up the lipstick. I meandered over my lips. Powdered. Over-rouged. Looked in the mirror and saw a clown. I teared up. What was I leaving? What was I going to?

            A few days later, I flew to Ohio for a job interview at a publishing house. Later, a senior editor gave me a tour of the city. He pointed out the Dominican-run, brick, four-story building where I could stay should the firm offer me a job.

             If hired, I’d exit the brick building, turn left, walk to the corner, turn right, cross the street, walk down five blocks, wait for the light, cross the street, turn left, pass the café, and open the door to the publishing house. An easy daily route.

            Three weeks later, I learned the job was mine. Before I departed for Ohio, Dad gave me some considered advice. “Dolores,” he said, “tell me approximately where the place you live will be in relation to where you’ll work.”

            My dad respected blueprints and maps, so I drew him one with both the living quarters and the workplace clearly labeled.

            “How are you getting to work?”           

            “I’ll walk.”

            “Tell me your route.”

            I walked it off on the map.

            “That’s not good,” he insisted. “I want you to go a different way each day.”

            “What do you mean, Dad?”

             “One day, turn right instead of left. It’ll be longer but safer,” Dad said, using his index finger to show me the proposed route on the map. “The next day, turn right but walk beyond the corner, up a block or two. Then turn right and walk to the office. You'll be coming from a different direction.” His finger followed that route. “Some days I want you to walk down six or seven blocks and then come back up to the office. Change your route each day.”

            “Why would I do that?”

            “Honey, all sorts of men lurk out there. They’ll know your route if you take the same one each day."

            “Yes . . .?”

            “They prey on women,” he said.

            “Dad, who’d want to prey on me?”

            “Dolores, they don’t care what you look like. You’re a woman.”

            Thanks, Dad.

            I didn’t take his advice. No circuitous routes.

            He was right though. I did meet men. But no one “hit on” me. That’s the phrase I learned from a woman with whom I worked. Men “hit on” her.

            The truth is I’m not sure I’d recognize a “hit” if it happened. Some things just don’t occur to me. It’s often only later—hours, days, weeks, years—that the match sparks and I say, “Oh, that’s what that was all about.”  So if someone “hit” on me those long ago years, the hit never landed.

Photo from Wikipedia