4C » Wednesday,October23,2013 » THE C O M M E R C I A L A P P E A L **

The Other Wes MooreOne Name, Two Fates

By Wes Moore •"V•»

Chapter Four

Lost and Slipping at a New SchoolFrom the Book: THE OTHER WES MOORE: One Name, Two Fates by Wes Moore, Copyright © 2010 by Wes Moore.

Published by arrangement with Spiegel & Grau, an Imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc

Story so far: The other Wes Moore first met his fatherwhen he was six. When he was eight, his mother andhe moved from a rough part of town to a nice suburbanarea. He did poorly in school and at the age of eight, wasarrested for pulling a knife on a boy.

Like the other Wes Moore, the author Wes Moore grew upfatherless. His father died when he was a little boy. Chapter4 continues his story.

Since my father's death, my mother had made thetattered brown leather couch in the living room her bed. Ourneighborhood was getting more and more dangerous; therehad been a rash of break-ins in the houses around us. Mymother slept in the living room to stand guard, she said.

She rubbed her knees and grimaced as they straightenedout. She had started to gain weight, and what had oncebeen a sprightly step had begun to slow. Perpetual bagshung under her eyes. I watched her as she walked by me,looking worn, almost defeated.

People around us didn't think she was coping well with herhusband's death. They thought she needed help, not just inraising the kids but in raising her spirits. She was losing hergrip. She needed help only her parents could provide. A fewmornings later, Mom woke up, made breakfast for us, andgot Nikki and me off to school. Then she called her motherup in New York. Her mother had let her know that there wouldalways be an open door for her in the Bronx if she needed it.

"Mom, if it's still all right, I think we need to move up there.I can't do this alone anymore."

My grandmother was thrilled. Before she even answeredmy mother, she called out to my grandfather, "Joy and thekids are moving up to New York!"

Three weeks later, Nikki, Shani, and I all stood outside ourcar, staring with something like disbelief at our now emptyhome. This was it. We were actually leaving Maryland.

My mother prepared us for the move by telling us abouther wonderful childhood and the glories of the Bronx. Shetold us about the neighbors who always had a hot meal foryou and looked out for you if your parents weren't around.

She told us it was safe, that in all the time she'd lived thereas a kid, she had not once experienced crime or violence.But when we broke off the interstate and started navigatingthe burned-out landscape of the Bronx, we could feel herenergy shifting. Things had clearly changed.

The three-bedroom home always managed to somehowstretch itself when people were in need of a place to stay.The number of people who lived in the home at any giventime fluctuated between five and nine, which made for tightliving conditions. When we showed up that late summer dayin 1984, we brought the number to seven. My grandparentstold my mother about the changes that had been takingplace in the neighborhood. As I sat next to her, trying to spina basketball on my index finger, I heard my grandparentstalk about how drugs and violence had slowly crept in. Fearand apathy had become the new norm in what had oncebeen a close-knit community. I had thought my mother'srules were strict but soon realized that my grandparents'were many times worse. They made it very clear thatPaulding Avenue was their home and their rules wouldapply. When the streetlights went on, we had to be backhome. All chores had to be done before we even thoughtabout going outside to play. If we heard any gunfire or, asmy grandmother called it, "foolishness," outside, we were toimmediately return home, no matter when it was.

After completing my chores one day, I got permission toplay basketball at a park five blocks from our house.

"Go, play, and come right back!" were the orders Iheard as I began to dribble my basketball up the concretesidewalks toward the courts.

Whole blocks were abandoned, buildings blackened andhollowed out by fires set by arsonists.

I didn't know that drug fiends were still making use ofthose abandoned buildings for activities that would've blownmy mind, or that the swollen hands on the man leaningagainst a telephone pole by himself — eyes flickering, headnodding — were telltale signs of needle injections. I walkedpast neighbors whose eyes overflowed with desperation anddepression.

I finally arrived at the courts and saw a handful of guysplaying three on three. I played hard, lost pretty bad, butenjoyed every minute of it. These kids were different from

Author Wes's strict, but loving grandparents let Wes andhis mother live with them in the Bronx in New York City

when she was having difficult times.

my friends back in Maryland. I quickly started to pick up ontheir lingo and style, the swagger of my new teammates andneighborhood friends.

From this first moment on a Bronx court, I could tell therewas something special about it. The basketball court is astrange patch of neutral ground, a meeting place for everyelement of a neighborhood's young men. You'd find the highschool phenoms running circles around the overweight has-beens. You'd find the drug dealers there, mostly playing thesidelines, betting major money on pickup games and amateurtournaments but occasionally stepping onto the court.

You'd find the scrubs talking smack a mile a minute andthe church boys who didn't even bother changing out of theirpointy shoes and button-up shirts. You'd find the freelancethugs pushing off for rebounds, and the A students, quietlyshowing off silky jump shots. We were all enclosed by thesame fence, bumping into one another, fighting, celebrating.A brotherhood.

We played that first night until I saw the streetlights comeon, my cue to head to the house. I asked them when theywould be back out playing, and they said tomorrow, sametime, same place. So would I.

1987Justin and I bonded from the first time I met him. We wore

the same haircut, a towering box cut made popular by rapperslike Big Daddy Kane.

Justin lived in the Soundview Projects, just minutesaway from our house in the Bronx. We knew each other'sneighborhoods, each other's friends, and each other's families.There was one other thing that helped us bond quickly: hewas one of the few other black kids at my new private school,Riverdale Country School.

Just as the street corners of the Bronx had changed, so hadthe public schools. Things were falling apart, and the halls ofschool were no refuge from the chaos outside.

My mother first heard about Riverdale when she was a girlgrowing up in the Bronx. It was the sort of school you mightfind in a storybook, a fantasy for a public school kid. Its campusgave it the grand appearance of a university. When my momvisited the school again as an adult, she was immediatelyconvinced that this was where she wanted my sister and meto go. My mother saw Riverdale as a haven, a place where Icould escape my neighborhood and open my horizons. But forme, it was where I got lost.

Justin lived a few train stops away from me, and taking thetrain home from Riverdale School after dark was a differentjourney than the one we'd made earlier in the day. Justinknew the rules: Never look people in the eye. Don't smile, itmakes you look weak. If someone yells for you, particularlyafter dark, just keep walking. Always keep your money in yourfront pocket, never in your back pocket. Know where the drugdealers and smokers are at all times. Know where the cops areat all times. And if night fell too soon and Justin was forced to

go home by foot over the Bruckner Expressway overpass in thedark, he knew to run all the way.

Riverdale. The pristine campus and well-dressed kids hadstunned me on my first visit. Every time I looked around atthe buildings and the trees and the view of the river, I wasreminded of the sacrifices my mother was making to keep meat this school. And every time I looked at my fellow students,I was reminded of how little I fit in. I tried to hide the fact thatmy family was so much poorer than everyone else's at school.Every week I sat down to create a schedule for my clothes. Ihad three "good" shirts and three "good" pairs of pants. I wouldrotate their order, mixing and matching so that each day I hadon a fresh combination.

When the kids would talk about the new video game systemthat was out or how their family was going to Greece or Spainor France during summer vacation, I would sit silent, hopingthey wouldn't ask me where my family planned on "summering."

I was becoming too "rich" for the kids from the neighborhoodand too "poor" for the kids at school. I had forgotten how to actnaturally. My confidence took a hit.

Unlike Justin, whose maturity helped him handle thistransition much better than I did, I began to let my gradesslip. Disappointed with Ds, pleasantly satisfied with Cs, andcelebratory about a B, I allowed my standards at school tobecome pathetic. In third grade I was reading at a second-grade reading level. Later in life I learned that the way manygovernors projected the numbers of beds they'd need forprison facilities was by examining the reading scores ofthird graders. Considering my performance in the classroomthus far, I was well on my way to needing state-sponsoredaccommodations. One day, when we got to the train station,Justin asked me a question.

"Did you study yet for the English test for Wednesday?""Nope," I replied."You know they are going to put you on probation if you don't

start doing better, man."I knew, but I broke it down for Justin: the problem wasn't

what I knew or didn't know, the problem was that they didn'tunderstand my situation. My long trip to and from school everyday, my missing father, my overworked mother, the changingroutes I took every day from the train just so no one with badintentions could case my routine. I continued throwing excusesat Justin but started to wither under the heat of his glare. Justinhad it worse than I did but was still one of the best-performingkids in the class. My litany of excuses trailed off.

After a moment I broke the awkward silence by telling himmy mother had begun to threaten me with military school if Ididn't get my grades and discipline together.

"For real?" he asked and laughed.My mother had even gotten her hands on a brochure that

she'd haul out as a visual aid to her threats. But I knew therewas no way my mother would allow her only son to be shippedoff to military school. My mother couldn't send me away. Sheneeded a man in the house to look after Shani and Nikki, not tomention her, right? She had to be bluffing.

Continued Sunday, October 27rnf** *i1

IrVes's mother, Joy, married his father, Wes, who was aloving Dad, but died when Wes was a little boy.

Activities1. Write the following words and their definitions: perpetual, fluctuated,

apathy, arsonists, phenom, pristine.

2. To whom did author Wes Moore's mother reach out when she wasfeeling worn out and defeated? What was their reaction?

3. How had things changed in the Bronx since the days of Wes'smother's childhood?

4. What were some of the grandparents' rules? How would you like tolive by these rules? Do you think they were good rules or too harsh?

5. Describe what Wes saw around him as he walked to the basketballcourts.

6. What were some of the different types of kids in the "brotherhood"that played on the basketball courts?

7. The author's friend Justin knew the rules about how to act whenthey passed through a bad neighborhood on the way home from

school. What were some of these rules? Are you familiar with anyof them?

8. Wes wrote that he was becoming too "rich" for the kids from theneighborhood and too "poor" for the kids at school. What did hemean by that? What were some things that made him feel too"poor" at Riverdale School?

9. What excuses did Wes give Justin for his poor performance inschool?

10. With what did Wes's mother threaten him if he didn't do better inschool? Do you think she was bluffing?

About the AuthorWes Moore is a Rhodes Scholar and a combat veteran of Afghanistan.

As a White House Fellow, he worked as a special assistant to SecretaryCondoleezza Rice at the State Department. He was a featured speaker atthe 2008 Democratic National Convention. ' ;;

Moore is scheduled to speak in Memphis at the CBU Theater,650 E. Parkway South at 7 p.m. on Nov. 21. Wes Moore

Read "The Other Wes Moore"Sundays and Wednesdays through Nov. 20

For more information, contact shepherd@commercialappeal.com

^APPEALI N E D U C A T I O N

INTERNATIONAL PAPERFACINGHISTORYANDOURSELVES

For Teachers: How to Access "The Other Wes Moore" in the e-AppealGo to www.nieonline.com/memphis (bookmark the page as a favorite).

To register for the e-Appeal. click on "NIE Sign Up Form," Complete andsubmit it. You will be sent an e-mail with a link to click in order to confirmyour registration, (if you have already registered, skip this step.)

You and your students may log in with your confirmed e-mail addressand the password: niel. Since "The Other Wes Moore" runs on Sundaysas well as Wednesdays, many teachers will access the Sunday publicationon Monday. To locate Sunday's book serial page on Monday, use the datemenu at the top to find the Sunday edition and then the drop down menuto the left of it to find the "M: Making the Most" section. Click on the "Next"button above the drop down menu to go from page to page in the M Section.On Wednesdays, search the entire paper for the story. It will be a full pagetitled "The Other Wes Moore."

Once you click on the text on the e-Appeal page (left side of your screen),it should appear in text format on the right. Then you may print the bookchapter on letter-sized paper by clicking on the print icon above the text.To print the activities, click on them separately.