Something She Can Feel Read Online Free PDF Page A

wrong for most of the things she did, but being bad and stepping out of line was the only thing she thought she could control. If I was fifteen, poor, and had a child with a high school student who was now expecting another baby with my classmate, I might be duck-walking and rolling my eyes, too.
    â€œFirst, it’s, ‘Yes, Mrs. DeLong—’ ”
    â€œ Yes, Mrs. DeLong ,” she said under her breath, repeating my words with no trace of sincerity.
    â€œAnd second, what’s wrong with your hair?”
    â€œI ain’t felt like combing it today.”
    â€œBut you knew you had to come to school, didn’t you?”
    â€œYeah, but my mama took my braids out last night and then my auntie ain’t come over to braid it.”
    â€œPersonal situation aside—what’s the rule about hair grooming at the school?” I asked. The classroom grew quieter with each exchange. I didn’t want to embarrass her, but the hair was really standing up high and now that she’d mentioned that she’d just taken out braids, I noticed that it hadn’t been combed out and drifts of dandruff cradled her balding edges.
    â€œI know the rule. We can’t come to school without our hair combed.”
    â€œYou know I have to send you to the office.”
    â€œIt ain’t my fault,” she said. “I told my mama my auntie wasn’t coming. She took my mama’s money and went to smoke it.”
    It seemed every student knew what she was talking about—some had drug addictions of their own—and it was no longer a hidden Southern secret, not something these children felt they should be ashamed of. Zenobia hadn’t lowered her voice.
    â€œMs. Hamilton,” I whispered, leading her to the door. “I can’t allow you to sit in my classroom with your hair like that.”
    â€œI know.” She crossed her arms and shifted her weight again.
    â€œThen, if you know, why would you—” I stopped myself. I could hear my voice becoming frustrated. “Just go to the bathroom and comb it. Put it in a ponytail or something and—”
    â€œMy hair don’t fit in no ponytail. I ain’t got no gel ... no weave.”
    â€œWell, just comb it down and come back.”
    She sucked her teeth and flicked a red, widetoothed comb out of her back pocket. One she could’ve used hours ago.
    â€œFine,” she snarled. “I’ll be back.” She turned and waddled through the doorway and as she exited, I saw the promise of a firm belly imprinting the edges of her oversized T-shirt. I closed my eyes for three short seconds to say a little prayer of “no” and “God, please, no” over the pudge before turning back to the students.
    â€œLet’s do a quick warm up and then we’ll pick back up where we left off on Thursday with ‘Swing Low’—we have only five more weeks to get this perfect for graduation,” I said, looking up at the other students in front of me. Some were other Zenobias, others were coming close, and fewer, Opal included, were fighting their best to escape it. The rest simply hadn’t come to school.
    On cue, they groaned and rolled their brown eyes as if they’d thought there was some chance I wouldn’t require them to sing—in chorus. Send them all home for not having combed their hair. Zippers unzipped and song sheets rustled as they were taken out to be held in front of the faces of the few kids who still had their copies or needed the words.
    â€œSwing Low, Sweet Chariot” was the traditional spiritual the choir had sung at every graduation since Black Warrior was founded for Negro students in the early 1900s.
    â€œLet’s go.” I walked to the organ I’d placed in front of the old piano.
    Hum.
    Hum.
    Hum.
    Hummmm.
    I keyed and sang each note for all of the sections to warm them up and just as they did whenever I sang in class, the students relaxed