The five-year-old entered kindergarten with bright eyes and a wide smile. He looked around the room with a curious expression that seemed to say he was ready to learn and he would have fun. He did learn and he did have fun. He was a quick learner always eager to go on the next new thing on the agenda.
A treat for the children was a ride on the local fire truck. (This was 35 years ago. The parents did have to sign a permission form.) The children looked forward to it every year. It was a big deal.
After the ride, the children drew a picture and dictated a story about the experience to my aide or to me. The little boy told me to begin his story “To ????” I had no idea what he said. I asked, “To whom?” He repeated it. I asked him to say it more slowly. He said it again carefully enunciating every syllable. I was still clueless. I said, “I don’t know how to spell that.” The look he gave me was a combination of surprise, disappointment, and exasperation. He thought I was supposed to know everything.
He sighed deeply. He asked in a slow, thoughtful voice, “Well then, can you spell Jose?” Yes, I could spell Jose. His story began, “To Jose.”
Children who did not ride a bus were usually met on the sidewalk outside the classroom after school. I went to his grandmother and told her what I thought he was trying to say. She immediately started laughing. “That is what he calls me.” The mystery was solved.
I met Jose at the open house a short time later. He was laughing as he approached me. He introduced himself and said, “I am so glad you can spell my name.”
The boy continued happily throughout the year. He skipped happily into first grade the next year curious and eager.
The boy was different. He didn’t know he was different. The children didn’t know he was different. He was the only black child in the
school. That is the way it is supposed to be.