Having been dunked in her gene pool, I am very much my mother's child. She gave me a lot of stuff, much of which I would like to have foregone. I'll skip the gory details. There is one thing I'm glad she did give me: a voracious appetite for reading, and a appreciation for words.
While other kids grew up playing card games, dominoes and checkers (okay folks, chess was not popular in my neighborhood), Scrabble was the game in my house. And reading was the thing to do in that downtime between after school and before dinner. My daddy (not dad, and definitely not father) gave me an olive drab folding cot (I guess it was an old military issue, which is strange because he was not allowed to serve) and I would lay on that cot in the back yard, just feet from the kitchen door, and read a book while my mama (it was not until years later that she became mom and is now the boss) cooked the kind of meal I rarely get these days, unless, of course, I go to her house for dinner.
Anyway, by the time I started kindergarten I was reading. In first grade we were divided into groups -- one, two and three. I was in group one. Something about that, even back then, made me feel funny about that numbering of the groups thing. It became painfully clear that the group one folks were, for lack of a better term, smarter than the group two peeps, and the group three students lagged behind group two. I was called on to read so much that it became an assignment I dreaded. My teacher spent more time with the group one students than any other. I felt guilty. I knew I didn't need her attention as much as others did. It didn't seem fair then, and 48 years later it still fails the smell test. Later, in junior high (middle) school, we were placed in sections by alphabet. Sections A, B, and C were the so-called "accelerated" sections. Everyone else fell in behind them. Different label -- same old stigma.
Just a couple of days ago I was speaking to a very good friend, and while I don't remember how we got on the subject, we logically deduced that there are people who were set on a path more likely to result in failure in their early years by the stigma of being a group three student. One might say it is a joy to work with students who are not only eager to learn, but quick as well. On the other hand, those students are not the ones in need of more attention. The ones who need more attention and go without, tend to become discouraged and many times just fall off the grid. The inability to get it breeds resentment, callousness, bitterness and carelessness. Behavior becomes erratic and unacceptable. Students get into trouble. School becomes boring. Instead of a worthwhile pursuit, an education becomes a dream deferred, then an impossible one.
And what happens to a dream deferred? It may fester like a sore. It may dry up like a raisin in the sun. It may swell until it explodes. It may stink. Or it may become the big chip on Johnny's shoulder. Or just a heavy load. And while Johnny carries his festering, dried-up, swollen, smelly, heavy load, he looks at pictures on menus and on grocery store labels to know what he will feed his body. He pretends to read the newspaper on the bus, and sometimes doesn't realize it's upside down. He cashes his checks and pays an exorbitant fee at the local check cashing place, sends payments via Western Union or buys money orders that may or may not be honored. Because he cannot read, he can barely write his name, and he cannot open a checking account. He doesn't send his mom a card on mother's day or his sweetie a love note. His opportunities for work are limited, and when they run out he gets desperate.
So what does Johnny do now? Johnny, the child-victim, is all grown up. No longer the victim, he is now the predator.
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