Bad Boy Read Online Free PDF Page B

considered abuse. Black families, often working very hard to make ends meet, wanted to clearly define which behavior was acceptable and which was not. There was precious little anger involved with a beating, just a lecture explaining why you were getting one and why it was good for you. When there was nothing else to do, and we heard somebody was going to get a beating, we might even go so far as to gather around his door to hear it. Each kid knew just what he would get a beating for. At myhouse, a red conduct mark on my report card meant a beating. A note that said my mother had to go to school to see about my behavior meant a beating. Everything else resulted in a backhand lick, a warning, or being sent to my room.
    By September and the opening of school I was deep into sports and became a baseball fanatic. Along with the pleasure of playing baseball there was the joy of identifying with the ballplayers. I loved the Dodgers. Maybe it was because Mama loved the Dodgers and especially Jackie Robinson. All summer long, kids playing punchball—hitting a pink “Spaldeen” ball with your fist and then running bases drawn in chalk on the streets—had tried to steal home to copy Robinson. We even changed the rules of stoop ball, of which I was the absolute King of the World, to include bases when more than one kid played. You played stoop ball by throwing the ball against the steps of a brownstone. The ball coming off the steps had to clear the sidewalk and land in the street. If it landed before being caught, you could run the bases. My speed and ability to judge distances made me an excellent fielder. We did occasionally play actual baseball, but not enough kids had gloves to make a good game.
    My new school was Public School 43 on 128th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, across from the TransitAuthority bus terminal. Mrs. Conway was my teacher, and it took me one day to get into trouble with her.
    In the elementary grades I attended, reading was taught by having kids stand up one at a time and read aloud. Mrs. Conway had us up and reading as soon as the readers had been handed out. When it came to be my turn, I was anxious to show my skills. I read quickly, and there was a chorus of laughter in response. They were laughing at my speech.
    â€œSlow down and try it again,” Mrs. Conway said.
    I slowed my speech down and started reading from the top of the page. Johnny Brown started laughing immediately. Johnny always had something to say to make the class laugh. I threw the book sidearm and watched it hit his desk and bounce across the room.
    â€œDon’t you dare throw a book in my classroom!” Mrs. Conway, red-faced, screamed. “Into the closet! Into the closet!”
    I had to stand in the closet for the rest of the morning. That afternoon Mrs. Conway divided the class into reading groups. I was put into the slowest group. I stayed there until the next week, when the whole class was given a spelling test and I scored the highest grade. Mrs. Conway asked me to read in front of the class again.
    I looked at Johnny Brown as I headed for the frontof the class. He had this glint in his eye, and I knew he was going to laugh. I opened my mouth, and he put his hand across his mouth to hold his laugh in. I went across to where he sat and hit him right on the back of the hand he held over his mouth. I was sent to the principal’s office and had to stay after school and wash blackboards. Later in the year it would be Johnny Brown who would be in Mrs. Conway’s doghouse for not doing his homework, with her screaming at him that he couldn’t be a comedian all his life. He went on to become a television comedian and is still doing well.
    Being good in class was not easy for me. I had a need to fill up all the spaces in my life, with activity, with talking, sometimes with purely imagined scenarios that would dance through my mind, occupying me while some other student was at the blackboard. I did want to