“What good’s it for?”
“You’ve got a point, Sadie. It’s beautiful to some people. A challenge to grow. A gift from a student.” I stop, because the concept only has merit in another life.
“Would you like to help me at school?”
“Me?”
I’ve caught her off guard.
“Yes, you, Sadie Blue. I see potential when I look in your face.”
She’s puzzled. Few people have likely said she has potential except Eli Perkins. One moment her face glows, the next it closes. “Roy Tupkin don’t take to learning.”
“Roy’s your husband?” I guess.
“Yes ’um. Got married Thursday a week back.”
“Ah…and you carry his child.”
She nods.
I shift my load. “Teaching doesn’t take place only in a schoolhouse. It can happen anywhere and anytime. I’d be honored to teach you to read whenever we meet.”
“That’d be nice. But I gotta git,” she says quickly, as if remembering an obligation, and leaves. I hope I wasn’t too eager with my promise to the girl, not knowing the risk she takes to be my student or friend. But she came to me, and that’s a start.
? ? ?
September 5
My dear Rachel—
I’ve been in this hamlet of Baines Creek for a week and am still standing. I promised I’d tell you the truth about this adventure, and for your sake and mine, I won’t hold back. Already I know accepting this post is what I needed to do. What I don’t know is who will be the more successful teacher—the mountain or me.
Love,
K
? ? ?
Monday morning, I fortify myself with strong tea, brush my teeth, then shake wrinkles out of my shirt. Preacher Eli reminded families at church yesterday that school starts today, and I’m more excited than I can ever remember being on opening day. This is a day of firsts for many reasons. I don’t know if anyone will show. I don’t have a syllabus or textbooks but for those I found in a thrift store. I’ll be judged by everyone, but the good news is my predecessors left depressing track records, so I have nowhere to go but up.
I walk down the trail, whistling easily, and get to school early, all the while nursing the perpetual headache that feeds on thin air. The desks are separated again into islands, so I pull them and my desk once more into a circle. The books and supplies on the shelves have stayed where they belong. Two bushels of apples that I bought on my way here are in my trunk, and I put one on each desk along with the word apple printed on an index card. I get the fat-bellied glass jar of penny candy—Tootsie Rolls, bubble gum, Mary Janes, Black Cows, taffy, and suckers. The trunk will serve as my lockbox for all things school related. I write my name on the blackboard—Miss Shaw—then I sit at my desk and wait.
When I accepted this teaching post, Rachel was disappointed. She believed I had lost my sanity and was sacrificing my classical education for the rudimentary with little reward in exchange. She said I would quickly tire of the uphill fight. I said my whole life had been an uphill fight. What she chose not to see was how inspired I felt by Eli Perkins’s invitation to become his ally for a better cause. In the end, she had no recourse except to wish me good luck and say she was there for me.
I went to the Asheville library to find the backstory on Appalachia and was directed to a pitifully small section in the dusty stacks. In all I found, the message was repetitious: this has always been an isolated community, stretching across parts of thirteen states, a parallel existence, backward from the civilized world that has morphed into the modern day, leaving these people behind. With their isolation come foreign dialects they’ve held tight to, and that I fear the most. To be understood and to understand is essential to my role here. Without that tool, I’m left powerless to do my job, make friends, ask for help, or offer it.
Printed literature about the Appalachian dialect was difficult to find, but with the help of a historian in Asheville, I found a recent paper by West Virginian Wylene Dial titled “The Dialect of the Appalachian People.” I brought a copy with me to help translate. Prudence and I understood enough three days ago to muddle through our meeting. My concern is the children who come through that door and face different. My accent, mannerisms, and attitude will be strange. I don’t want to build a wall between us.
But students have to show up first.
I’m enveloped in an eerie silence. Minutes pass, and I wonder if my ears still work. I strain to catch the wind passing through and am relieved when it whispers and a crow caws.
It’s already nine fifteen. I check my watch every few minutes. Look out the window daydreaming. Study an industrious spider in the corner. Pick up my apple and polish it on my pants when I sense the arrival of little people.
The door opens and five children enter on bare feet, hair in tangles, faces dirty, bodies scrawny beneath thin clothes. They’re timid and will bolt if I sneeze. I stay seated, for my height may frighten them.
“Hello.” I speak softly. “Come in.” They shuffle across the floor with tentative steps.
“My name is Miss Shaw. Please sit.” I speak slowly and gesture with my hand.
They crawl up on the seats farthest from me and stare at the apples in front of them. “The apples are yours. While you eat, I’d like to read a story.”
The younger ones look at the oldest for permission, and when she picks up her apple and bites, everyone follows suit and licks the juice running down their dirty hands.
Mental note: Remember a wash bucket and soap tomorrow.
I’ve chosen to read The Story of the Three Little Pigs for its fantasy and moral: when you think the odds are stacked against you, preparation can sway the course. Plus, what child can resist the rhythmic line, I’ll huff and I'll puff, and I’ll blow your house in!
Each page I read, I hold the book up so the students can see the pictures. Natural curiosity pulls them forward like sunflowers to the sun. When the book ends, I pick up the round, glass candy jar from the floor and set it on my desk. The children sit up straighter, all eyes on the candy jar. I’m sure it is a mass of sugar treats they’ve never seen in one place. One of the boys licks his lips.
“Who would like candy?”
Their shoulders sag, and the oldest girl speaks for them. “Got no money, ma’am.”
“Oh, my candy isn’t for sale. No, you can’t buy my candy with money. An answer buys my candy, and then you get to pick the piece you like.
“Question one,” I ask the girl with long legs and straight hair tucked behind tiny ears. “What is your name?”
She sighs in relief because she knows the answer. “Lucy, ma’am.”
“And your surname, your family name?”
“Dillard, ma’am. Lucy Dillard, ma’am.”
“Excellent.”
“And how old are you?”