C. Nicole Mason - Born Bright: A Young Girl’s Journey from Nothing to Something in America

born bright

a young girls journey from nothing to something in america

c. nicole mason

St. Martins Press

New York

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To Ms. Slaughter, Blythe Anderson, Lillie Motley, Joanne Parker, Roylestine Bowman, Clarence Lee, Joseph P. McCormick, Bonnie Thornton Dill, Seung - kyung Kim, Linda Faye Williams, Fred Alford, Ronald Walters, Ana Oliviera, and the elementary school teacher who told me I was a beautiful writer. Thank you for seeing my light.

For Charli and Parker

We are all born bright. The difference between you and me is small. From the start, we all have the same potential for greatness and reach for the same things. However, our experiences and interactions in the world and the denial of humanity in very subtle but meaningful ways threaten the light. And then it is gone.

After going dark, some of us learn to reignite ourselves.

With the exception of immediate family, the names of most people have been changed. Much of the book is based on the oral histories of my family, interviews, and my direct recollection of events. The dialogue is an approximation of what was actually said or relayed to me.

The author, age 7

I got to school early and found Ms. Ward in our empty classroom erasing the chalkboard and shuffling papers at her desk. I had never had a conversation with her that was not related to an assignment, so I crept to my desk, pulled out a book, and began to read silently, hoping she would not notice me.

Ms. Ward, a brawny woman with silver wires in her mouth, was my second-grade teacher at Abbott Elementary, a predominantly Black and Latino school in Lynwood, California. Whenever we misbehaved, her voice rolled like thunder and bounced off the walls. My sole purpose in class, besides trying to impress her with my reading skills, was to keep from getting my ear twisted and my arm pinched or from being told to stand next to her desk while she continued to teach as if I were a lamppost. In horror, I watched the other kids squirm as she grabbed hold of their body parts and lectured them about the need to follow directions, stay in their seats, or not talk out of turn. It looked painful.

Chataquoa, come here, she said.

Oh no, I thought. This was it. She was going to twist my ear for coming to school early. I knew I should have waited for the bell to ring. Now, it was too late. I pushed my chair from underneath the desk and carried the book with me to the front of the classroom.

Where do you live? she asked.

Down the street, I said, exhaling. Our little pink house at the foot of a cul - de - sac was not far from the school. I walked the short distance alone.

With who?

My mother, my brother, and grandfather.

She continued to write in her grade book as I stood fully prepared to answer any question she threw my way. To keep from getting pinched, I would tell her anything she wanted to know. She dropped her pen and looked up at me.

Youre smart. Do you know that? What do you want to be when you grow up? Her unblinking eyes were trained on mine. She wanted me to understand what she was saying.

I shrugged. No one had ever asked me that question before and I did not have an answer.

It doesnt matter if you dont know now. Youre a smart little girl and you can go far, just keep it up.

I stood there, feet glued to the floor, waiting for her to say more, but she did not. She returned to her grade book. After a few moments, I retreated back to my desk. What did she mean by keep it up or that I could go far, I wondered. Go where?

I remembered my conversation with Ms. Ward decades later, when I came across a study revealing that when inner-city kids were asked to draw the world, they drew their immediate neighborhoods the corner stores, the local carryouts, and their houses. Conversely, when middle - class and affluent kids were asked to do the same, they drew countries such as China or those in Europe. I believe if I had been given the task of drawing the world as a young child, I would have drawn my neighborhood, too. That was my world, and I could not see beyond it.

The chandelier with its dangling diamond - shaped cut glass seemed brighter than usual as I looked up at it from the stage. I surveyed the audience, consisting of the usual lot of do - gooders , social workers, politicians, and policy advocates. I jotted SYSTEMS down in all caps and underlined it twice. The oversized room was elegant, the tables dressed in white linens, and it had good chairs, the ones with cushiony, carpet - like bottoms.

I was there to talk about poverty. I had delivered some version of the same speech nearly a dozen times in the past year. I barely had to prepare. Each time I gave a talk, polite applause circled the room and I was flooded with invitations to speak at the next event. I knew just what to say to not ruffle any feathers stronger programs, more money, stricter rules, and the development of life skills for the impoverished. However, I was growing uneasy with the lie. What we were saying worked, did not.

When my turn came, rather than give my usual spiel, I wondered aloud whether or not it was the systems that were broken rather than the people. I spoke about the need to examine the institutions and structures in society and in the communities that impede rather than support self - sufficiency and economic mobility for individuals and families.

Standing behind the podium in my nicely tailored suit, I felt safe saying what I had been thinking for so long. I was the director of a research center at New York Universitys Robert F. Wagner Graduate School of Public Service. I felt comforted by the position and believed perhaps I would be heard. I was an authority.

During the question - and - answer segment of the program, a woman stood and identified herself as a social worker employed at one of the many agencies scattered throughout the city that supported poor and low - income individuals. This comment is for you, Dr. Mason, she said. While she agreed that the systems did need some tinkering, she opined that what was really missing from the equation was individual responsibility and that people needed to help themselves.

A flash of heat washed over my body as I realized she was talking about me. In that moment, I was transported back to the countless hours I spent as a child waiting with my mother for social services in oversized rooms in unmarked city buildings. At the break of dawn, we rose to catch several buses only to be told to come back on another day because we were missing some document or that our application was still under review. For their part, the social workers seemed contemptuous and treated us as if they were doing us a favor by allowing us to receive ration - sized aid. Undeterred, we would repeat the trip the following day.