The school house was little more than a dilapidated barn that once housed wounded Confederate soldiers. Becausethe lost war was about keeping slaves in their place, Mrs. Culpepper, the plantation owner’s wife, thought it just plain wrong to let slaves use it to educate themselves. Fortunately, her husband Colonel Culpepper was a reasonable man. Those who returned were promised a school house and a plot of their own. He believed thatsuch agesture would increase productivity so that all would not be lost.
Luckily, Eubie’s mother did extra chores so that could stay in school because he wasn’t thinking
about working in anyone’s field. His head was full of the many worlds formed by Miss
Porterhouse, the local no-nonsense schoolmarm. Even though it appeared as if he wasn’t paying
attention, he hung on her every word as she fueled his imagination with stories of hidden treasure
and strange coming-of-age rituals. Her pupils thought her strict; one steely look could turn the
most obstinate student into a genteel scholar. Miss Porterhouse had little patience for passages
that told of well-intentioned missionaries trying to tame heathen, simplistic savages who were
content to live naked in mud huts. While some of the information from the Freeman’s Third Reader
proved false, it was the only primer available and everyone had to learn to read from it. Miss
Porterhouse reasoned that one book was better than none at all. Despite her rough-hewn
appearance and stern manner, she smelled of lavender and lilac. On the rare occasion she did
smile, her cinnamon colored face reminded Eubie of the impish grin on gingerbread cookies
baked fresh from the oven.
To offset the inaccuracies of the single book, Miss Porterhouse enjoyed telling vivid stories of the Dark Continent that boasted of opulent jewels and gold set against rich, ebony skin. These illustrious details had Eubie sinking into ancient lands of Egypt, Zanzibar and Timbuktu. He was so mired in reverie that he didn’t sense Miss Porterhouse slipping up from behind with an attention grabbing hickory stick.
His best friend Henry tried to warn him by widening his lids until the whites of his eyes were as big as a hoot-owl’s. They had known each other for so long that speech was no longer necessary; the slightest facial expression was an acceptable form of communication between them. Unfortunately, it was also a signal that did not escape the hawk eyes of Miss Porterhouse. Within seconds, her hickory stick whacked down so hard on the barrel that served as Eubie’s makeshift chair that he nearly fell over. “I hope your fate won’t rival that of the poor natives once your father learns you’re not paying attention,” she said.
“Ma’am?” a confused Eubie asked while trying to maintain his balance.
“I’m not amused by people who don’t pay attention while I’m trying to impart knowledge.” Then under her breath she muttered, “Regardless how false.”
“I’s listnin’.” His words escaped Miss Porterhouse’s ears as her accusatory eye twitched in annoyance. Even though her “up-north” education served her well, she had little patience for the author’s colonial point-of-view.
The class held its breath waiting to see what punishment would befit the crime of day dreaming. However, the only thing Miss Porterhouse did was take a deep breath with the hope that her pupils would realize that the penalty was in missing the information. Frustrated, she looked at her pocket watch and closed the book. “You are dismissed.”
Eubie went to scramble out with the others as they spilled into the late afternoon sun. “Everyone except, Mr. Till,” Miss Porterhouse said catching him by the collar. With hickory stick firmly in hand, she ambled back to a wobbly table with Eubie trailing forlornly behind. He stood at the front, automatically held out the back of his hands, squeezed his eyes tight, and waited for the painful rap on his bare knuckles.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Porterhouse said. Eubie tried to keep his fingers rigid to endure less pain. “You’re one of my best pupils, but your mind is elsewhere these days. Doesn’t school interest you anymore?”
Eubie opened one eye and saw that Miss Porterhouse was tearing pieces of fresh thin bark that when stripped away from a certain trees tree, provided a pliant surface that was sometimes used for paper. The one slate board and two pieces of chalk were saved for more complex lessons, but the bark was good enough for sending notes home. Relieved that he didn’t have to feel the sting of the hickory stick, he dropped both hands to his sides. “Don’ mean no disrespect Ma’am.”
“Any disrespect.” Eubie welcomed the correction. He knew that he needed proper English if he was to be out in the world.
“But…”
“But what?” Miss Porterhouse asked without looking up.
“Them peoples in Africa - the ones in the book?” He now had her full attention and she stopped what she was doing.
“Those people. What about them?”
“I’s wondrin’.” Eubie hesitated. Miss Porterhouse instinctively knew what he was thinking. It was about what all seekers of knowledge want to know once they realize that learning is a never-ending process. Still, she was savvy enough to recognize that each person had their own inquiry. It was quite possible that what was on Eubie’s mind kept him distracted. She gave him a moment to gather his thoughts. Finally, he spoke.
“Is we really free?” When Miss Porterhouse first met Eubie, she knew right away that despite his physical appearance, how exceptional he was from the other students. Although he was painfully shy at first, she noted that he compensated by plunging into an imaginary world. With the slightest prompt, Eubie could embellish the simplest story. Puddles became oceans, the slimmest of trees – an impenetrable forest. Even the old lame hound that barely had any bark was a formidable foe. The taller the tale, the stronger Eubie’s confidence grew. Miss Porterhouse spared the knuckle rapping because she figured that Eubie’s vivid imagination was a coping strategy used with less than kind classmates. She believed that once he grew more self-assured that nothing would prevent him from finding his place in the world. Although she had faith in his perseverance, Miss Porterhouse also realized that the true test would be how he would be received in a world away from the plantation. The quest to know more was an appealing quality in any student, yet there was also the realization of the limitations of a sharecropping life. It pained her that not only would he struggle with being black, but having the peculiarities of a head that appeared to grow with every bit of information.
“For some, freedom comes all at once like a sudden spring shower. But folks like us get it drop by drop. Either way, it still refreshes,” Miss Porterhouse answered. The glimmer of hope faded from Eubie’s restless eyes. “The Lord gave you a good mind, and someday it will serve you well,” she said not wanting to deflate any aspirations that might be hovering upon the horizon. Eubie could not imagine how this was possible when all of his life he felt as though he was someone that needed to be apologized for. Miss Porterhouse shook her head in sympathetic amusement as she neatly printed letters onto the makeshift paper. She didn’t need to write much. Her name alone was enough to let the intended reader know that there was cause for concern.
“Schooling is a privilege that is not to be wasted or disrespected,” she said collecting her belongings.
Eubie sighed as he gave her a weak, “Sorry, Ma’am.” Even though he was truly apologetic, his eyes kept shifting over to the pane less window where Henry’s head bobbed up and down in an effort to see what was going on.
“You’re wise to only concern yourself with what happens in this classroom,” Miss Porterhouse said handing Eubie the piece of birch bark. “Give this to your father, and bring it back with his mark.”
“Yessum.” His pained expression clued her to the misfortune that would no doubt come about. Sensing his discomfort, she smiled and said tenderly, “You can worry about being out in the world when you’re grown.” Then what seemed as an afterthought she interjected, “It’s are we really free, not is.”
