THE SEPTEMBER AFTER Granny Ruth died, I enrolled at the prestigious Park School on a full tuition scholarship. My St. Ambrose classmates and my fellow parishioners lauded my achievement, and I believe the timing of my school change unduly boosted my mother’s pride in me. She began to show me undeserved preferential treatment. I had siblings who were just as smart as me. Smarter even.

My brother Kelvin, two years my junior, barely spoke before age three. Then, at age four, he taught himself to read . . . the newspaper. I learned to read in first grade, like most children of that time.

I still remember sitting in the living room chair, studying my green vocabulary card. My brother would stand behind me as I read the words aloud. When I stumbled over a word, Kelvin would pronounce it correctly, audibly. “Mama,” I bellowed, “he’s doing it again. Makes him stop.” Then came my mother’s reply from the kitchen. “Kelvin, leave your sister alone.” He’d walk away, for five or ten minutes.

And, as Karen dutifully reminded me through the years, I was “sucking up the family’s resources at that school.” I agreed. The money my mother spent for incidentals, like lunches purchased from the school cafeteria, gym uniforms and books, should have been spent on my siblings instead. My excitement over attending Park was tempered by guilt and a feeling that I would be beholden to my family forever, like an indentured servant whose debt would never be repaid.

St. Ambrose School educated black and white working class, mostly Catholic students. My first day in seventh grade, I discovered I was the only black girl in the class. My new school educated an affluent, largely Jewish population. I felt like a foreign exchange oddity.

To keep me from “smelling myself,” as Granny Ruth would say, my mother would remind me of my station, saying things like, “You might go to that school, but you’re still a poor little black girl.” The comments not only bruised my spirit, but also confused me. Up to this point in my life, I considered myself to be like every other person. No better. No worse. Her comments heightened my awareness of the disconnect between my working class home culture and my upper middle class school culture. Then I noticed, all the black adults at school worked in the cafeteria or on the janitorial staff. In my mind, it seemed they were the schools lower stratum, the subservient class.

One day, in math class, a boy mocked my incorrect pronunciation of fourth. I had pronounced it “fourf.” I laughed along with some of my classmates. Laughter became my defense mechanism at school. Though the teacher reprimanded him, my confidence took a hit. After that incident, I sometimes withheld correct answers, fearing I might pronounce something wrong and be the object of another cruel joke. Though unaware of its genesis, my eighth grade science teacher corrected this reticence. He told me, “I won’t know what you’re thinking if you don’t speak up. It’s okay to give a wrong answer. I can only help you correct incorrect answers I hear.” Because of this comment, I recommitted to my right to be heard. One of my seventh grade teachers had already warned us against pairing diarrhea of the mouth with constipation of the mind. I would still avoid those maladies.

By the end of seventh grade, I had become close to my classmate, Denise, another first year Park student. I was no stranger to wooded areas, but she was a nature expert, able to name more types of trees than oaks, elms, and pines. During our free periods, we would cross over a wooden bridge into the woods on the school grounds. On these excursions, we’d walk along the trails, talking and singing. On warm days, we would take our shoes and socks off and walk in the stream. She taught me how to find its spring in order to drink cool, clean water without having to go back inside. As much as I enjoyed my friendship with Denise, the Park School was an alien culture I was ready to escape.

By eighth grade, my home life was becoming increasingly unpleasant. I was still highly sensitive. The atmosphere in our overcrowded row home overwhelmed me. Sometimes, I would go into the basement, sit atop the washing machine, and read, sing, or cry. I needed to rest my nerves.

Unlike in my early years, my parents never seemed to get along. In 1968, Daddy wanted to move our family to Delaware where his job was being relocated. Mama, pregnant with my youngest sibling, nixed the idea of uprooting the family. We stayed in Baltimore. Daddy got a new job, but this seemed to place a wedge in their relationship.

Mama tried to get me—and all of her children, for that matter—to align with her against Daddy, making disparaging marks to us about him. I attempted to get along with both parents. I often ended up in the crossfire of their disagreements. I eventually became the mediator child, trying to keep peace between parental factions, while also serving as go-between for my parents and my siblings. On more than one occasion, when I agreed with my father on a point of contention, my mother snarled, “That’s right, Charita. You’re the wife. You understand him.”

Yuck, I would think. For me this statement had unnatural overtones. I was too young to understand my mom was simply venting anger over her marital situation. Personalizing her comments, I found it necessary to try harder to make her know I wasn’t a complete defector.

Mama related how she met my father at a birthday party for one of her students. The party was at the child’s house, where Daddy was a boarder. After serving in the Korean War, he and Uncle Willie had relocated to Baltimore from Chapel Hill, NC, hoping to improve their circumstances. According to my mother, “Leonard seemed like a gentleman. He worked every day and seemed like he cared for his mother.” They married in 1957.

Daddy was usually open to answering any of my questions One day, alone in the kitchen with him, I asked, gently, “Why don’t you and Mama just get a divorce?” Why did I ask that? His answer exploded from his mouth. Had I been a cartoon character rather than a living eighth grader, the force of the response would have caused me to complete a backward roll. I was shocked by the intensity of his reply. I don’t remember exactly what he said.

Apparently, my parents shared a love I didn’t understand. Nor did I want to. I now understand that my father took the vows “to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse,” seriously. It didn’t matter that I would have labelled their relationship, worser, if that had been a word.

This incident taught me not to meddle in grown folks business. For the rest of my childhood, I never discussed any opinion I might have held about my parents’ ending their marriage. At least, not with either of them. After this interaction, I added fear to the love and respect I held for my dad.

In September of eighth grade, during my physical, the school doctor asked, “How are you enjoying The Park School?” At Park, most adults asked students questions, expecting thoughtful answers. My response revealed my general unhappiness, while remaining true to my father’s credo, “What goes on in this house, stays in this house.” I told her about being in a different section than my friend, without mentioning any personal family business. My real feelings about my life were summed up in the Jackson 5 song, “Corner of the Sky.” I sang it often from my perch on our washing machine.

        Cats fit on the windowsill.

        Children fit in the snow.

        Why do I feel I don’t fit in anywhere I go?

        Gotta find my corner of the sky.

The doctor shared our conversation with my eighth grade English teacher, Richard Peyton. A Park School graduate himself, he believed in making The Park School a racially and socioeconomically diverse, progressive learning environment. He encouraged me to remain at Park. Throughout the year, he suggested specific ways for me to make school and life more enjoyable. Initially, he offered to have me reassigned to the same eighth grade section as Denise, my stream walking friend. Making that change would have removed me from his class, so I declined. Per his suggestion, each of my older sisters shadowed with me for a day at Park to become more familiar with the school culture. I had shared my guilt about attending Park while my siblings went to public schools. We hoped, after a school visit, they, Karen especially, would acknowledge Park was a better fit for me than their citywide magnet school would be.

Valerie enjoyed her visit. She ended up shadowing a friend of hers from Western High who was now a student at Park. Karen had a great day, but retained her belief that I should go to public school.

Noting my love of reading, Mr. Peyton taught me to search for meaningful solutions to life’s problems in books. I also learned to connect themes between texts. These lessons became life-affirming habits.

Once a week, I read to second grade students during their library period. I’m sure I had opportunities to share Russell Hoban’s books about Frances the Badger with them. Frances had spunk, like me. She even made up songs to correspond to life’s struggles, like I did. Francis’ wise mother loved her unequivocally, always making decisions that were best for her. I now understand my Mama also made decisions that were best for me.

In our final conversation about where I would attend high school, I attempted to convince my mother I could receive a great education at Western High, the public magnet school Valerie and Karen attended. I never mentioned craving Karen’s friendship and approval. Mama told me, simply, “You don’t understand the opportunity you’ve been given.”

In September 1973, I entered ninth grade at The Park School.