assgnmt

"My Father's Hands and American Indian" b

http://www.cerisepress.com/02/06/my-fathers-hands-and-american-indian

Jackie's Debut a Unique Day By Mike Royko reprinted from "One More Time: The Best Of Mike Royko"

October 25, 1972 (Mike wrote this column the day Jackie Robinson died.) All that Saturday, the wise men of the neighborhood, who sat in chairs on the sidewalk outside the tavern, had talked about what it would do to baseball. I hung around and listened because baseball was about the most important thing in the world, and if anything was going to ruin it, I was worried. Most of the things they said, I didn't understand, although it all sounded terrible. But could one man bring such ruin? They said he could and would. And the next day he was going to be in Wrigley Field for the first time, on the same diamond as Hack, Nicholson, Cavarretta, Schmitz, Pafko, and all my other idols. I had to see Jackie Robinson, the man who was going to somehow wreck everything. So the next day, another kid and I started walking to the ballpark early. We always walked to save the streetcar fare. It was five or six miles, but I felt about baseball the way Abe Lincoln felt about education. Usually, we could get there just at noon, find a seat in the grandstand, and watch some batting practice. But not that Sunday, May 18, 1947. By noon, Wrigley Field was almost filled. The crowd outside spilled off the sidewalk and into the streets. Scalpers were asking top dollar for box seats and getting it. I had never seen anything like it. Not just the size, although it was a new record, more than 47,000. But this was twenty-five years ago, and in 1947 few blacks were seen in the Loop, much less up on the white North Side at a Cub game. That day, they came by the thousands, pouring off the northbound Ls and out of their cars. They didn't wear baseball-game clothes. They had on church clothes and funeral clothes suits, white shirts, ties, gleaming shoes, and straw hats. I've never seen so many straw hats. As big as it was, the crowd was orderly. Almost unnaturally so. People didn't jostle each other. The whites tried to look as if nothing unusual was happening, while the blacks tried to look casual and dignified. So everybody looked slightly ill at ease. For most, it was probably the first time they had been that close to each other in such great numbers. We managed to get in, scramble up a ramp, and find a place to stand behind the last row of grandstand seats. Then they shut the gates. No place remained to stand. Robinson came up in the first inning. I remember the sound. It wasn't the shrill, teenage cry you now hear, or an excited gut roar. They applauded, long, rolling applause. A tall, middle-aged black man stood next to me, a smile of almost painful joy on his face, beating his palms together so hard they must have hurt. When Robinson stepped into the batter's box, it was as if someone had flicked a switch. The place went silent. He swung at the first pitch and they erupted as if he had knocked it over the wall. But it was only a high foul that dropped into the box seats. I remember thinking it was strange that a foul could make that many people happy. When he struck out, the low moan was genuine. I've forgotten most of the details of the game, other than that the Dodgers won and Robinson didn't get a hit or do anything special, although he was cheered on every swing and every routine play. But two things happened I'll never forget. Robinson played first, and early in the game a Cub star hit a grounder and it was a close play. Just before the Cub reached first, he swerved to his left. And as he got to the bag, he seemed to slam his foot down hard at Robinson's foot. It was obvious to everyone that he was trying to run into him or spike him. Robinson took the throw and got clear at the last instant. I was shocked. That Cub, a hometown boy, was my biggest hero. It was not only an unheroic stunt, but it seemed a rude thing to do in front of people who would cheer for a foul ball. I didn't understand why he had done it. It wasn't at all big league. I didn't know that while the white fans were relatively polite, the Cubs and most other teams kept up a steady stream of racial abuse from the dugout. I thought that all they did down there was talk about how good Wheaties are. Late in the game, Robinson was up again, and he hit another foul ball. This time it came into the stands low and fast, in our direction. Somebody in the seats grabbed for it, but it caromed off his hand and kept coming. There was a flurry of arms as the ball kept bouncing, and suddenly it was between me and my pal. We both grabbed. I had a baseball. The two of us stood there examining it and chortling. A genuine major-league baseball that had actually been gripped and thrown by a Cub pitcher, hit by a Dodger batter. What a possession. Then I heard the voice say: "Would you consider selling that?" It was the black man who had applauded so fiercely. I mumbled something. I didn't want to sell it. "I'll give you ten dollars for it," he said. Ten dollars. I couldn't believe it. I didn't know what ten dollars could buy because I'd never had that much money. But I knew that a lot of men in the neighborhood considered sixty dollars a week to be good pay. I handed it to him, and he paid me with ten $1 bills. When I left the ball park, with that much money in my pocket, I was sure that Jackie Robinson wasn't bad for the game. Since then, I've regretted a few times that I didn't keep the ball. Or that I hadn't given it to him free. I didn't know, then, how hard he probably had to work for that ten dollars. But Tuesday I was glad I had sold it to him. And if that man is still around, and has that baseball, I'm sure he thinks it was worth every cent.

THE CAT AND THE OLD RAT

http://mythfolklore.net/aesopica/milowinter/129.htm

My First Job in America

BY Janko Deur

A Morning Snow — Hudson River, 1910 (Oil on canvas, 45 1/16 x 63 3/16 in) BY George Wesley Bellows

It was December, 1968. The cold had already arrived in New York. One late afternoon around 4 p.m. I was taking one of my most important rides to Manhattan. I boarded the RR (then double R) in Bay Ridge, Manhattan bound. The level of noise on the train was unbearable. This was my third ride there, and it was as annoying as the first. I never experienced something as noisy in my whole life back in Europe. My ears were hurting from the brutal onslaught pushing against my ears. My hands were coming up on their own to cover and protect them. How could New Yorkers take the train noise on a daily basis and not flip out of their minds? A forty minute ride from Bay Ridge to Manhattan seemed an eternity. When my hands weren’t covering my ears, they were searching for a piece of paper in one of my pockets. In doing that, I arrived at Times Square. Once above ground I felt the pressure in my ears easing. That made me feel somewhat better. Gradually, my other senses numbed by the noise came back to life as I walked on 42nd Street towards the East Side of Manhattan. The smell of food from a street vendor teased me… my hands were still fishing for that piece of paper. I was alone at that moment (having arrived in America only three weeks ago) and that paper was like my friend helping me out in a strange city filled with aggression every step of the way. Besides, the address for my first official job in America was written down on it! Without it I would have been completely lost. My whole life in those moments depended on it. I was broke. My wallet had already forgotten the smell of money. It felt uncomfortable, too. If it could speak, it would probably criticize me for failing to help it to maintain its purpose and dignity safeguarding the money I was supposed to supply. I found the piece of paper, and pulled it out: 390 Park Avenue/Lever Brothers. According to the employment agency, my job was going to be in Building Maintenance Service.

A long walk awaited me on my way to the Lever Brothers Building, between 53rd and 54th Street, but I did not know it. I had to fight the Manhattan crowds. Everybody was rushing to catch the train back home. People were heading in the opposite direction, building human resistance and creating more obstacles. It was funny, too — in retrospect. People were returning home from work. I was leaving home to work. Something was telling me right there and then that something was different and very unusual about my situation. And it was! Only the immigrants were walking my way. (They’re always easy to spot!) Natives were going their own way home to rest. Their way seemed more natural, judging by the numbers of them, and also judging by the watchful hands of the wall clocks in lobbies along the way. Who works at 5 p.m.? I thought. Remembering the work force back home, that seemed even more awkward. The majority would already be at their jobs at 7 a.m. At, or around 4 p.m., they would be enjoying themselves drinking Turkish coffee, fortunetelling using the empty coffee cups — afterwards, strolling around, or visiting “kafics” (Croatian bars), and discussing trivial things as if they held such importance for humankind, like what a dog thinks when he/she wags its tail, or whether “Hajduk” (the Croatian pride — soccer team) was going to beat the Serbian “Red Star” in Belgrade.

Entering the Lever Brothers Building through its marbled lobby, I thought of that place as a first class hotel. When the uniformed security guard at the front desk asked me where I was going, I just handed the paper to him. “Aha, another one! Welcome to the immigrants’ paradise!” He greeted me in a rough American English. His voice sounded sarcastic. Next to his feet, under the reception desk, a brand new whisk broom stared at me like a souvenir which wanted to be lifted and examined, as if to tell me that it wanted to change its spot… This security guard was looking at this broom when he spoke to me. His face was pale, almost wax-like. He looked as though he had been resurrected just one hour before I walked in. His appearance stirred anxiety and fear deep in my stomach.

The cold marble in the lobby of 390 Park Avenue was actually proving my thought that the security guard (and others, too) were being “resurrected.” It also roused my imagination further… All the Manhattan lobbies were mausoleums for special people who died naturally, and who resurrected a short while afterwards — with their own sheer willpower. They put on their uniforms and took their positions at the front desks of all those magnificent skyscrapers. They were allowed to have a little hobby on the side, for being special. The hobby was to make fun of immigrants with half-smart remarks: “How’re things on the other planet? Did you just get here? Did you ride a donkey all the way here? Or did you jump the ship?” Sometimes they would overdo it and scare those foreign job hunters out of their shiny lobbies. The (un)fortunate ones had to look for a job in Manhattan restaurants, instead. I speculated on that thought seeing a group of four immigrants leaving the building with unhappy faces, after talking to this guard.

The main job of any security guard was to safeguard mighty business secrets from evil spirits. And to those shallow-minded guards, all the immigrants entering their buildings were potential evil spirits: communist conspirators, voodoo priests, bohemian poets (cynics), polygamists, KGB agents, Castro’s men, street girls from Havana, ship jumpers from the Hellenic Line, anarchists, sexual intimidators, true-blue adventurers, atheists…

Leaving the lobby and proceeding towards the elevators, according to the guard’s instructions, I dropped that thought. I was happy that he let me in (I did not wish to look for a restaurant job at that point). Still, I was alone, running a few minutes late for my first job. I was anxious to reach the basement and minimize my lateness. Once on the elevator, I forgot to press B and ended up on the 21st Floor. When the doors opened, a mahogany hallway from some forgotten American movie I had watched back home exposed itself in its materialistic beauty. Then it hit me: “THIS IS AMERICA!” I knew right away that this was the wrong floor, and couldn’t be the destination for an immigrant whose clothes still smelled of European corn fields. The paper which read See Bob at the Allied Maintenance Office in the basement was another indication of the wrong place for the wrong person. The elevator was in agreement, too. Oops! Wrong floor! — the cables squealed. The elevator doors got the message, also, producing a gentle closing sound by forcing their rubber strips into a hot, long — all the way to the basement — kiss! It descended with me, the only passenger.

As I exited, the sign Allied Maintenance Corporation, Bob K., Supervisor was ready to “reprimand” me for being late. Something deep in me reminded me that I was a stranger in a strange land. The arrow next to the sign “took” me to the office where the office cleaners were supposed to report for work. A throng of immigrants were speaking different languages. I thought: This is it! This is that biblical Tower of Babel which was started and never finished in Babylonia. It continued to be built right here in America, in Manhattan, at 390 Park Avenue — in the twentieth century, after so many centuries proving the impossible task of completion. I felt like the lost spirit who accidentally forgot his body and was now floating in a strange land. All around me I saw a human bazaar: Blacks, Puerto Ricans, Argentineans, Cubans, Polish, Italians, a few Russian escapees, South Slavs and their neighbors, Greeks and Albanians, Haitians… Everybody was engaged in some linguistic murmur, at the same time grabbing their cleaning tools and supplies, getting ready to go to their designated floors.

My attention was sinking in anticipation of taking my first work assignment and training from a short, white man in his late fifties, with a thick cigar squeezed between his dark yellow teeth. It looked as if it were trying to escape from his mouth. He looked mean and fast, like a cotton plantation manager from an outdated book. Seeing him, I felt a bowling ball strapped to my feet. Though I wanted to run back to the elevators and forget all about this “nonsense” of cleaning the office buildings in America, my feet couldn’t move. I stayed.

Finally my turn came to speak to this capitalist boss, who was about to put his own imprint on my American destiny. This was much different than my job situation back home. There, when I worked summers as a parking lot attendant at the hotel “Beograd” in Zadar, my boss was one of my own. It was easy to relate to him, a short, calm guy with nice manners. He studied Economics at the University of Zagreb. After finishing his studies, he found the job running the hotel in Zadar.

But this American boss with a thick cigar I knew nothing about. He did not know anything about me either. I had an impression that he wasn’t overly curious about me. After all — why would he be? To him, I was just another immigrant addition to his cleaning crew. And he was ready to show his prestige and power. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Janko,” I said.

He continued: “How do you spell that?”

This question came as a big surprise to me. Back home I took classic Greek, Latin, French, German and nobody ever asked me how to spell. People there say words… nobody spells them. In Croatian you tell your name and everybody automatically understands it… thoughts came quickly to my mind for those few seconds of confusion which he generously allowed me. I had a solution to it (again!) on that piece of paper where my full name was written down. He glanced at it as if contained nothing important.

“What country are you from?” a question came from his, this time, cigar-free mouth. It made me think that the country I came from was more important to him than my individual name. I said Yugoslavia (when I really wanted to say Croatia), feeling some bitter aftertaste in my mouth, saying the word Yugoslavia, as if I swallowed a full spoon of spoiled yogurt.

His eyes widened up: “Aha, my friend Tito’s country!” He made a sweet friendly gesture with his short, fat hand through the air to stress his statement. I couldn’t tell him that Tito was a hardcore communist who probably wouldn’t shake his capitalist hand… (But, this “my friend Tito” reaction from Americans would happen to me often, making me believe that Tito was a very skillful global-relations politician, fooling even the sharp-minded Americans.)

Finally we got down to the business of cleaning. As my understanding (of English) led me to believe, he told his Puerto Rican assistant to take me upstairs where I was supposed to join a crew of three men working on stripping and re-waxing the hallways. He did remind him, looking at me, that he would check up on me, to see if I fit the job. Working on the hallways, it was revealed to me later, was the highest sophistication of the building cleaning business. Those who were in that category were the “PhDs” of the cleaning industry, as opposed to those “High School graduates” of less important cleaning aspects: toilet cleaning, low dusting, high dusting, Venetian blinds dusting etc. (This deep thought of job classifications was the American brain-child to individualize the work, giving it some importance.)

Once on the floor I was introduced to the three “PhD” floor-waxers. A burly black American with a shaved head, about 6’4’’ was the leader in the group. I remember the other two in the group referred to him as Mr. Slow. It took me a while to figure out correctly why; because, at first, it sounded as “Mr. Toe,” which I thought was more appropriate. He had an old pair of shoes, size 14, coated with a thick layer of wax. But, in retrospect, both names would fit him nicely, considering he was about 280 lbs., which he had to carry around. The second one in the group was a light-skinned Puerto Rican, happy “hombre” Jose. He struck me with his constant singing in Spanish, at the same time dancing (while floor mopping) cha-cha and meringue. He had a fascination with the Spanish word “cho…” which, at the time, I did not know its meaning. Only on the correct observation on my part of Jose’s behavior, when around the nice-looking cleaning girls, did the full meaning of it come to my mind. (One would be surprised how the office cleaners interacted relatively easily in those neon-lit hallways at times when five or six different groups would be working on those deserted floors).

The third member of this group was an Albanian. He was a chain smoker, a white man who looked tired as if coming from another full time job, where his work energy was drained already. He would rarely utter a word. When I was introduced to these guys, and when somebody in this group mentioned Yugoslavia, this Albanian guy let out a heavy sigh, out of some unpleasant deep-rooted feeling. He did not say much to me. He shook my hand as if it were a dead fish. Then, after a few puffs from his Marlboro, he forced a few Croatian words mixing them with Serbian. I translated them all into a question: “What brought you here?”

When the Albanian asked me what had brought me here, I couldn’t tell him because I did not have a clear answer. I started telling him something about wanting to become a college professor, about the harsh communist system, about… then this black man said: “Let’s cut the bull… and let’s do the job!” He already had a grip on the large and round machine which (when operated) was turning in place, reminding me of my dog Lisco back home, playfully trying to catch his own tail. This machine was making some monotonous stripping sound, creating waves of dirty water on the floor while extracting the old wax. Mr. Slow was pushing it slightly with his left knee and “dancing” with it from the left to the right side of the hallway. Watching him, I thought of the creature trapped in American minds as Big Foot… yet I had a different name for him for cutting my chit-chat with the Albanian short. He decided to give me work orders. First he handed me a mop, and told me to help out. This was the lowest moment in my life. Officially I was forced to abandon my road to a professorship in that moment, and made a first step on another path with a mop in hand.

In that instant I felt like all my dreams died right in the grip of the mop. I squeezed it to death… my “life’s vehicle” started going the wrong way from a one-way street into two-way traffic… all the hard work I did back home was a waste now… nobody could hear my inner voice’s loud calls for help. With the mop in hand I was supposed to join in when the black man told me. I obeyed. This trio worked in unison as an experienced team of TV reporters: the camera man, the interviewer and the light man. The black man was on the stripping machine. The Puerto Rican was in front of him splashing the stripper and clean water with a mop. The Albanian was mopping the dirty water after the black man stripped the old wax in strings of dirt. At that point the floor resembled a farmer’s field after the flood. Everything seemed well coordinated. Mr. Slow would bark at me in his deep bass: “Take over!” pointing first at the Albanian, then the Puerto Rican. I would jump in, jump out. I tried to make the mop to work with me. But — that wasn’t easy. The mop would be overweight, lazy with the large amount of sucked-up water. It was hard to move it. It wouldn’t follow my orders. It made me pull-push, drag… The mop — in such a condition — was supposed to be squeezed of the excess water using the squeezer strapped on the bucket. In the process of doing it, somehow it would spill back on the floor, making me work harder. My way wasn’t their way! Those cleaning experts looked down on me. To them I was a sloppy beginner. But somehow, I was managing it. The “pros” did not complain much, but they were yelling instructions to me left and right, “Hold the mop the other way! Move quicker! Do not go into the wet area! Back off from the mop a little! Do not splash so heavily!”

I heard their voices, but understood very little of their intended instructions. To them it was fun ordering me around and watching me struggle with the mop. Even Jose stopped dancing just to watch me fight with that mop. He was commenting something to himself in Spanish. I wasn’t anxious to find out, either. Mr. Slow was puffing on his cigarette, watching me, motionless. Behind him through the large window I felt the American night peering in, curious as a newspaper reporter working on a documentary. Mr. Slow had a brilliant idea. He wanted me to try to operate his machine. Something was telling me that that was too premature on his part. On my first try I slipped and fell. They all giggled like a bunch of elementary school girls. I tried again. This time the disobedient machine swayed away from me. I tried to hang on to it. But — it was too late! The machine hit the wall making a hole in it. Now, they all cursed repeating the “f” word like the possessed, mixing it with Bob’s name as the one to blame for sending me to them. My attempt was to say something in my defense, but Mr. Slow gave me a look making me “feel” my body slamming against the wall. The Puerto Rican started singing again, and I thought that their anger was surpassing. And it was for a while… then Mr. “Thick Cigar” (Bob) came to the floor. He asked Mr. Slow how I was doing. The black man started a hysterical laugh “infecting” the other two. They couldn’t stop laughing an angry laugh! Bob’s eye caught that hole in the wall. He did not have to ask any more questions. He decided right there to transfer me. On the way out of the building at one o’clock that morning he gave me a piece of paper with “522 — Fifth Avenue” written down on it. It was going to be my job location for the next three and a half years. Needless to say: I fell from the “PhD” cleaning division to the “High School” division — all in one night, on my first official job in America.

— FROM The Blue Moon Across the Fence

View All

 

A native of Croatia (the former Yugoslavia), and of French heritage, JANKO DEUR studied languages at the University of Zagreb, Zadar. He holds a BA in journalism from Baruch College, New York. Author of six books of prose and poetry, he has written a column for the Bay News and Newsday in New York City, where he presently lives and works.

Facing Famine by Tom Haines (2003)

ADERE LEPHO, Ethiopia - Burtukan Abe braces against the hard mud wall as Osman, her 2-year-old son, wails and wobbles on stick legs.

Are there others? I ask.

Yes, one, she says. A boy,1 month old. He is inside.

There is no turning back. Through the low, narrow doorway, in the darkness that guards cool by day, heat by night, lies little Nurhusein.

May I see him?

This journey began weeks earlier, when yet another report described widespread drought and the threat of famine across much of Africa.

What can that life be like?

Travel often approaches boundaries of wealth and health. But what does it feel like to cross those boundaries and enter a place that is, everywhere, collapsing? What comes from knowing people who, with an empty grain basket or a thinning goat, edge closer to death?

The route led first to Addis Ababa, a highland capital, then east and south, down into rolling stretches of the Great Rift Valley. In the tattered town of Ogolcho, Berhanu Muse, a local irrigation specialist, agreed to serve as translator and guide.

A narrow road of rock headed south, through one village, then another, for one hour, then two.

In late afternoon, before evening wind lifted dirt from north to south, east to west, we stopped and parked near a hilltop. A man and woman collected grain from a tall stick bin on the corner of their rectangular plot of land.

Gebi Egato offered his hand from his perch inside the bin. Halima, his wife, smiled warmly, then carried a half-filled sack toward the family's low, round hut. Abdo, a 3-year-old with determined eyes, barreled out the door.

I asked if we could stay.

"Welcome," Gebi said.

For four nights, a photographer and I would sleep here, beneath open sky, then wake to wander this village of 1,000 people. We would step into a schoolhouse, a clinic, and other thatch-roofed huts, including the one that held Nurhusein.

But that first afternoon, the village came to us. They were mostly old, all men, a group of perhaps two dozen. Many held walking sticks, one a long spear. One man said he would like to show us something: a hole, not too far, that used to hold water. The hole was shallow and wide, perhaps the size of a Boston backyard. It was empty, nothing but hard earth.

The men calmly debated how many months it had been since water filled the hole. Flies buzzed and jumped from eyelids to lips.

A young schoolteacher, a specialist in math and science, sat at my side, his legs crossed, hands in his lap.

"Thirst is thirst, hunger is hunger," he said.

Hours later, I awoke to a setting moon and could imagine this land as it long had been: Beneath my cot, wheat, barley, and teff shot from the ground. Birds swarmed tree branches, trading throaty, bubbling calls. Water pooled in ditches and holes. Thick green hedges framed the farmyard.

Gebi would describe to me what this can feel like. The land offers so much bounty, so much comfort, he said, that even when the sun is high and hot, you want to lie down on the earth, close your eyes, and sleep.

In the hut's outer room, there is a low, wooden bench, but little else. The food, furniture, even a grandmother and three uncles have gone.

Now, five people remain: Burtukan, the mother, age 19; Abdurkedir Beriso, her husband, 27; Abduraman Beriso, his brother, 16. And the children, Osman and Nurhusein.

They have no animals, no money. Neighbors share hard bread and flour.

"I have nowhere to go," Abdurkedir told me. "I will die here."

From behind a curtain, in the hut's back room, I hear the rustle of blankets, a whimper, a soothing voice: sounds of a mother gathering a baby in her arms.

On our first morning, as nighttime hilltop sounds - a howling hyena, a barking dog, a farting donkey - gave way to those of dawn, we were outsiders, in the cool air, listening.

Beneath Gebi and Halima's thatch roof, Abdo squealed and pouted. Bontu, barely a year old, cried for breakfast.

Soon, with the fire made, the children fed, Halima strapped plastic canisters on the back of the family donkey and began to walk. Gebi followed with the ox.

Halima sauntered gracefully, as though out for a stroll. She crossed a parched soccer field to a footpath lined with huts. She greeted a woman walking toward her. They held hands and talked.

Farther along, in an empty cradle of land set back from the trail, a stack of branches and twigs covered a hole, roughly 12 inches in diameter. Three times, the government had tried to dig a well in this village, which sits far from any river. The last time, a powerful machine made the narrow hole and bore in search of water. Villagers gathered and watched as earth spit upward. Then the drill bit broke, 820 feet underground. It was there, still.

Halima walked on, for more than an hour, then stopped in a spot of shade. She untied the canisters and knelt by a wide pond of muddy water. The pond teemed with salmonella, the root of typhoid fever, and parasites that thrive in intestines, infecting 70 percent of Adere Lepho's children.

Another young woman leaned at the pond's edge and filled every last ounce of space in her canister. She stuffed the spout with a plug of withered grass.

Hundreds of people came each day to this pond, the only water source for Adere Lepho and two neighboring villages, and carted home water to quench the thirst of thousands.

A month earlier, this pond, too, had been nearly empty. Then two days of heavy February rain filled it. How long would it last? Even village elders, men and women 40, 45, and 50 years old, had never seen this kind of drought.

Two years earlier, and two years before that, meager rains had fallen. Families had to sell animals, eat thinner harvests, and spend precious savings just to survive. But this was worse: The February downpour was the first time it had rained in nearly a year.

Late the next afternoon, rain fell. As the drops landed thick and heavy, men, women, and children took shelter in the low, open building that houses the village's grain mill. After three, maybe four minutes, the rain stopped.

Women heaved sacks of grain, some of them holding well-rationed harvests from years past, others gifts from farmland half a world away, onto a scale. Across the room, the mill owner sat alongside a conveyor belt spun by a howling generator, the only power in the village. The owner opened sacks into the mouth of a grinder that turned kernel to flour. Dust filled the air, sticking to hair and eyelashes.

Outside, dozens of men gathered beneath the branches of a wide tree.

Gebi Tola, elected leader of a local farmer's group, explained that the government had offered land for 10 volunteers to move to another region. The government owns all land in Ethiopia. This resettlement program provided a rare chance.

The men, sitting on the ground in orderly rows, faced Tola. He explained that some plots of land were north, in a neighboring district. Most would be farther, 300 miles to the west.

Voices rose. How can we know this land is good, one man asked. How can we trust that life will be better there?

Kedir Husein, a young father who had stood to ask many questions, stepped away from the group. He told me he had decided not to volunteer to leave.

"I am afraid," he said.

Nurhusein emerges, his head resting in the crook of his mother's left elbow.

A soft cotton blanket opens to shocks of slick, curly hair. Tiny fingers spread in the air. I touch Nurhusein's forehead, cool and smooth.

"He is beautiful," I say.

Nurhusein bleats softly. His lips often latch on to a dry breast. He has a small stomachache, Burtukan tells me.

The bleating rises then falls, just beyond the blanket's edge.

Nurhusein is already too wise. It is as if he knows.

Morning inside Gebi Egato's hut: Glowing coals. Boisterous children. Hearty porridge. A calf, head low, softly chewed its cud.

Shilla, the oldest at 5, licked her fingers and pondered her favorite foods as Abdo crammed both hands full of porridge.

"Milk," she said. She raised her head and smiled. "And sugar."

Finished, Shilla and Abdo scrambled to waiting friends. Gebi and Halima took turns digging a wooden scoop deep into a jug decorated with shells.

Each bite brought more peril.

Gebi's tired cow and thirsty goats were giving little milk. The porridge was made from wheat that had been meant as seed for planting if the spring rains came. Neighbors with less were already selling cows and goats, driving prices down.

As the coals darkened, I asked how long the family could last.

Gebi told me that in two weeks the family's wheat would be gone. He would then sell his goats, then the cow. Then the ox and, finally, the donkey. He paused.

“Five months," he said.

Gebi, like most villagers a Muslim, said he was confident rain would come. Then, he could partner his ox with that of a neighbor and together they could churn the dark, moist earth.

"We have seen so much hardship already, God will not add more," Gebi said. "I hope."

After breakfast, Gebi took the donkey and walked beneath the high sun for three hours. He crested three low ridges and crossed three shallow valleys. The first was carpeted in six inches of dust. The second traced the steep gorge of a dry creek. The third, staggered with acacia trees, opened widely toward the village of Cheffe Jilla.

A group of men, women, children, and donkeys swayed in the village's main square. White sacks of grain sat in lopsided piles. Gebi joined the hopeful and registered his name in a government office.

I saw Gebi Tola, the leader of Adere Lepho's farmer's association, standing beneath a tree. He told me families from his village would take home 500 sacks of grain. But they could use 1,000. How do you judge the needy when a whole village is staggering?

He spoke quickly. A crowd of dozens, young, old, pressed in around us.

I asked Gebi how he felt.

"I feel sorry," he said.

I had grown used to stoicism. But sorry? I stepped aside with Berhanu, our translator. "Sorry" does not feel like the right word, I said.

In English, I explained, "sorry" often has a light sense. Sorry I stepped on your toe. Sorry I'm late for dinner. It is not something felt by someone watching his friends and neighbors beginning to starve.

Berhanu is a compassionate, intimate man. He raised his hand to his chin.

He told me that, in that case, "sorry" was not the word he meant.

The crowd moved in again and curious eyes followed our exchange.

I asked Berhanu to choose another English word that more closely matched the Oromigna word Tola had used.

He could not find an exact translation. I asked him to describe the feeling.

"Well," Berhanu said, "it is the feeling you have when something bad happens. Say, for example, when you lose your lovely brother. Is there a word in English for that?"

Misery?

Yes, Berhanu said calmly, that is part of it.

Emptiness? Yes, he said, that too.

Anguish, despair?

His eyes sparked at the connection.

Anger? Yes.

Frustration? Yes.

Fear? No.

Fear, Berhanu said, like sorry, was too light a word.

Terror?

Yes, Berhanu said, "terror" is a good word.

I stand before Nurhusein and start to cry.

Is it empathy? I have a 10-month-old son, a spirited boy with muscles across his back and a quick laugh.

Or am I crying from fear?

In the hot sun, looking from hut to hut, from face to face, the problem was always too vast.

I stare at Nurhusein. I cannot look again into his mother's eyes.

Theme for English B (1951)

by Langston Hughes

Langston Hughes

The instructor said,

      Go home and write

      a page tonight.

      And let that page come out of you—

      Then, it will be true.

I wonder if it’s that simple?

I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.   

I went to school there, then Durham, then here   

to this college on the hill above Harlem.   

I am the only colored student in my class.   

The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,   

through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,   

Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,   

the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator   

up to my room, sit down, and write this page:

It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me   

at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I’m what

I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you.

hear you, hear me—we two—you, me, talk on this page.   

(I hear New York, too.) Me—who?

Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.   

I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.   

I like a pipe for a Christmas present,

or records—Bessie, bop, or Bach.

I guess being colored doesn’t make me not like

the same things other folks like who are other races.   

So will my page be colored that I write?   

Being me, it will not be white.

But it will be

a part of you, instructor.

You are white—

yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.

That’s American.

Sometimes perhaps you don’t want to be a part of me.   

Nor do I often want to be a part of you.

But we are, that’s true!

As I learn from you,

I guess you learn from me—

although you’re older—and white—

and somewhat more free.

This is my page for English B.

Langston Hughes, “Theme for English B” from Collected Poems. Copyright © 1994 by The Estate of Langston Hughes. Reprinted with the permission of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated. Source: Selected Poems (Vintage Books, 1959)

Top of Form

After you have read the Narrative reading please answer the following questions.  Your responses should be written in concise, but complete sentences.

  "Facing Famine" by Tom Haines

1. Haines is travel writer.  Is this the type of article you would expect to find in a travel magazine?  Why or why not?

2. Why is Haines emotionally affected by the infant Nurhusein?

3. Why do you think Haines wrote this article/essay?  To whom is this essay directed?

  "Jackie's Debut a Unique Day" by Mike Royko

1. How old do you think the narrator was when he attended this game?  What clues in the essay hint at what American society was like at this time in history?

2. How is racism illustrated in this recollection?

3. How is black and white perceived by the adults at this game?  Do the kids have the same perception?  What surprises him about their reaction?

"My First Job in America" by Janko Deur

1. Do you think the author/narrator is trying to elicit sympathy from the reader?  How so and why?

2. While custodial work is necessary and even lucrative depending on the establishment's address, why is there a stigma attached to this kind of work?

3. How does Janko Deur feel about his job?  Would he feel otherwise if he were working somewhere else?

4.  What are your thoughts about this selection?

“The Cat and the Old Rat” by Aesop

Provide a real-life example of the following adage: “The wise do not let themselves be tricked a second time.”

“Theme for English B” by Langston Hughes

1. Do you detect any resentment on the student’s part toward the writing assignment he is given? Why or why not?

2. How their differences (the teacher’s and the student’s) actually unite them through this writing assignment?

3. What do they actually learn about each other?

Bottom of Form