Deliverin'

Virginia B. Ward
James Island High School
Charleston, SC

Having failed the writing portion of the Basic Skills Assessment Program exam (BSAP) her sophomore and junior years, she was there to get specialized tutoring in hopes that she would pass the BSAP's writing assignment administered that fall. Three male students joined us—Will, Earl, and Tracy.

I soon realized that Louise's wisdom was worldly. She had not memorized all the hundreds of little grammar rules of the English language, but with her own language, she introduced me to a world from which—at least in Louise's eyes—I had been culturally deprived. I proceeded to teach her standard English, and she proceeded to teach me rich idioms and images characteristic of her nonstandard language.

Using peer revision techniques, the five of us sat around the table and read our papers to one another to "praise, question, and polish." As was so often the case, when Louise read her works, Will and Earl admired her renditions of her wild scenarios. In the middle of her paper—in black and white print—would be dialectal phrases such as "And, Girl, I mean to tell you." She just didn't see why such comments had to be stricken. Unwittingly, Tracy's blue eyes would cut over in disbelief to catch my facial expression. Louise often stopped to elaborate orally about her written piece, and being thoroughly entertained as well as engrossed, I found myself wanting to spur her on; she fascinated me.

All too often Louise's temper flared during our group sessions. In her squeaky voice, she'd declare, "Miz Wawd, these boys are botherin' me." I'd question, "What do you mean, Louise?" Continuing her complaint, she'd say, "They is stretchin' they long legs out under the table and takin' my space." Defending Will, Earl, and Tracy, I'd say, "Louise, they aren't bothering you." " Yes, they is, Mis Wawd. They pullin' one on you, Miz Wawd. Look at them bad boys. They don' shame." and so the bickering would go on until I'd have to separate the four at different tables in the lab.

One day early in our program, I asked Louise to show me her narrative that had been assigned over the three-day weekend. She had not done one. Sternly, I asked, "Louise, why didn't you write your paper?" She responded with what seemed logical to her: "I didn't have no picnic." Perturbed, I questioned her further, "Louise, what does a picnic have to do with your not having your paper?" She quipped, "We didn't have no money. We didn't have no picnic. I ain' got nothing to write about." Aggravated, I retaliated, "Well, Louise, I didn't have a picnic either, but I did my homework." "Humpf," was her only response.

One day I asked the group to write about their favorite childhood memory. Louise then shared hers about how her cousin and she would beat up on another cousin—hit him the head with a plastic bat and laugh. Then the grandmother would come out to scold and lecture, "Don' y'all gang Henry," and Louise and her counterpart would make temporary apologies through their giggles, wait for the grandmother to disappear, invite the unsuspecting Henry back into their circle, and proceed with the same mischievous antics again.

At first, Louise's papers were short, scrawled in laboriously drawn letters. She insisted on doing all her writing by hand. Initially reluctant to touch the computers, Louise made a gradual transition from pen and paper to keyboard and screen. As the weeks lapsed into months, I realized that Louise was writing two, three, four, and more pages per writing assignment. She gradually became a prolific author, turning out many more pieces of writing than the other three students in the writing workshop. By the end of the semester, Louise was computer literate, even helping others who came into the Writing Center and who needed some help with their disks, saving, and printing.

Once I asked the group to write a description of how their dream house would look. Louise began hers with an account of an uncle running around on his wife, the wife divorcing him, and the wife—who turned out to be Louise's aunt in the fantasy—called her to say she could have the house. So the wild, adulterous account was merely her introduction to her description of a luxuriously, colorfully furnished home and how she would acquire it.

What seemed significant, though, was that this was the only paper in which she mentioned her infant son. Louise had had a Caesarian delivery the year before—had gotten onto the school bus not realizing she was in labor, but put off at her aunt's house by an insistent bus driver who had recognized the signs of labor. Like Prissy, Louise didn't know about "birthin' babies." I wonder why Louise mentioned her little baby boy only this one time. Perhaps it is that Louise is still childlike herself at times, even writing about playing with her little cousins' toys; yet, ironically, she could express the wisdom of a sage in some accounts.

Other students or classes often joined us second period in the Writing Center. Louise would get mad about "them chi'ren takin' up our space." Jealous when I heeded other students, Louise would shout across the room, "Miz Wawd, I want individual attention," and she did. She basked in the one-on-one attention she received as we "proofed" her papers. Secretly, I wondered how much individual attention she had gotten elsewhere in her life.

Autobiographical writing bares the writer's soul. Over the months in which Louise shared her pieces, I grew to know and love this cantankerous, feisty, vulnerable little imp.

Other papers brought forth more revealing details—the fish and grits for a holiday breakfast, her liking colored and not white lights at Christmas, her account of an old witch lady who "come out of her bag," the beatings she had gotten from an elementary school teacher, her warding off a dog who attacked her as she walked home, the placement of a heavy canned food item in her pocketbook to weight a swing at any purse-snatcher in the mall, her lavender homemade prom dress that she never got to wear to the prom because she had no way to get to the dance.

Often I'd burst into a spontaneous gut laughter. At other times I bit my lower lip and looked away so could not see my sympathy. She did not want to be pitied. She was proud—little and poor and deprived and proud. Our worlds were worlds apart, but I hesitated to tamper with her portrayal of her world—her portrayal was so real, so nakedly honest. She had a powerful writer's voice. Somehow my bland words and standard syntax stripped Louise of her voice of color.

One day I was absent—out on school business. When I returned, I found a three-page letter from my irate substitute who had had to deal with an obstinate Louise. Another teacher and the substitute had had the audacity to ask Louise to give up the reserved computer on which she had started working. When one of them touched her shoulder, Louise flinched, said things no lady says, and stormed out. On the following day, having received the letter from my very competent sub, I took Louise to my principal.

She was mad and so was I. The two of us sat side by side, arms crossed, our backs almost turned to each other as we huffed and fumed and waited for our turn to enter Mr. Hiott's office and air our gripes. Our body language revealed powerfully what words could not. Looking back, I now understand the barely suppressed smiles of amusement on the faces of assistant principals and office secretaries who saw us waiting there. The only thing Louise and I saw at the moment was red. Inside the principal's office, Louise began in her high-pitched, defensive voice, and Mr. Hiott asked her to be quiet. Ignoring him, she continued until he himself became loud and firm with her.

The BSAP being only a few days away, my fear was that Louise would still be in her angry mood and fail the test out of spite. After my own anger with her had subsided, I took her hand and told her that all that nonsense had to be put aside in order for her to do well on the test. I think beyond the pout there was a tacit agreement to try.

Towards the end of the semester, one day as I was absorbed in teaching my third period English class, a tapping at my door interrupted us. When I opened it, there stood a beautiful little brown-faced girl with a beaming smile and a squeaky announcement, "Miz Wawd, I passed! I passed!" Louise had earned a score of "3.0" on her BSAP writing exam and was now on her way to earning a South Carolina high school diploma. I swept the little frame in my arms and swayed from side to side as I embraced her. Teacher and student—we were one for a moment—a unity that had created a victory on paper.

Now, second semester, Louise is no longer assigned to me for class. But it is not unusual to find her at a computer composing on her own now. Her most recent story deals with a boy who has failed miserably in school but is getting a second chance through stubborn determination. She had some of her homespun philosophy to preach within the narrative. I see the writer exposed in her autobiographic fiction.

Now I work with Louise's friend Temeka in the Writing Center during lunch. But not far away Louise often sits, listening and watching, as if to see that I'm doing my job right. She, too, confidently points out comma rules and fragments and misspellings to her friend, subconsciously mimicking my mannerisms as she does so.

Louise knows all about creativity now—not a baby from the womb, but a story from the heart. She delivers her thoughts on paper and then nurtures them as they grow. and I, too, have grown. My words spoke to her mind; her words spoke to my soul.