Brando Read Free Page B

have learned that it is easy to convince yourself that an event occurred a certain way when it did not—to think you know exactly what happened until someone tells you, “No, that never happened. You weren’t even there.” We all invent things in our minds and can be astounded to learn they really didn’t happen the way that they are recalled. So as I reflect on my life in these pages, I advise the reader of my limitations and the fallibility of my brain.
       I’ve often thought I would have been much better off if I had grown up in an orphanage. My parents seldom fought in front of us, but there was a constant, grinding, unseen miasma of anger. After we moved to Evanston, the tension and unspoken hostility became more acute. Why, I don’t know, but I suspect my mother was growing more disillusioned and angry with my father’s philandering, and he was growing more unhappy with her drinking.

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    CAROL HICKOCK HAD A curious malady that made her fall asleep suddenly. One moment she was awake, the next she was sound asleep even if she was standing up; then a minute or two later, her eyes blinked open slowly, she woke up and didn’t realize she’d been asleep. When one of our teachers at Lincoln School told the class about her problem and asked us to look out for her, I relished the assignment. I wanted to care for her. Then I decided I was going to marry her. I occasionally walked her home from school, and soon I asked her for a date. I felt very sporty inviting her to Coolie’s Restaurant for lunch, and then we went to see Boris Karloff in
The Mummy
. When the scary part of the movie came on, I told her that I had to go to the bathroom and left. The truth was, I was scared stiff. Instead of going to the bathroom, I went to the lobby and waited until the scary part was over, then returned to my seat. When the next scary scene came on, I disappeared again, then a third time. I don’t know what Carol thought of my bathroom habits.
    One afternoon I was visiting Carol and we were sitting on the sofa when she suddenly lost consciousness. I leaned over and kissed her—my first kiss. After she came to a minute later, I said, “How are you?” But I never mentioned my thievery.Maybe she was the girl I should have married. I don’t know whatever happened to her.
       There were only two black kids in Lincoln School, and they were both my friends, especially Asa Lee. I was at his house one day when he and his cousin and I decided to form a club. When it was time to elect the president, vice president and secretary, we had difficulty in deciding who was going to be president, and I said, “Well, that’s simple: ‘Eeny, meeny, miney, moe. Catch a nigger by the toe. If he hollers, let him go—eeny, meeny, miney, moe …’ ” At that moment I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Asa’s mother. She bent down and said, “Dahlin’, we don’t use that word in this house.” I looked up with some surprise and I said, “What word?” She answered, “Nigger.” I said, “Oh.” I had no idea what the word meant, but I could tell from Asa’s expression that it was significant. Then she put a sweet gum ball in my mouth, patted my head affectionately and said, “You’re a sweet thing.” That was my first experience with a sense of race.
    During my four years at Lincoln School, a few teachers liked me, but because I would not conform and was often rebellious, most had no hope for me. Among them was Miss Miles, whose name was appropriate because she was about six feet three inches tall and had the personality of a large granite obelisk.
    After noticing that Asa and I spent a lot of time together, Miss Miles called us out of class into the hallway one day and said, “All right, you two, tell me what’s going on here.”
    I had no idea what she was talking about. I said, “Nothing is going on.”
    “Don’t tell me that,” she said. “How come you two are hanging around together?”
    When I said we were in the same