A New Beginning: My Journey with Addy

Sixth Street School sits close to Trinity A.M.E. Church, and it takes barely any time to walk there from Addy’s home. Her classroom feels half familiar and half like nothing I have ever seen. The desks sit in tidy rows, and clusters of kids talk and laugh while they wait for the day to start. A black stove crackles in the corner, bigger than the one in Addy’s room, and it keeps the whole space warm. Chalkboards line the walls instead of whiteboards, and there isn’t a computer or a television screen anywhere in sight.

Every student looks about my age. Some wear faded, patched clothes like mine, and others wear crisp dresses or ironed shirts with funny bow ties. Every single face in the room is African American. Addy leads me to a cloakroom, which is what she calls the spot for hanging up my shawl and bonnet, and two girls arrive just as we are about to leave it.

Addy greets them warmly. The first girl, Sarah, has a round face and short hair, and her jacket is thin and patched like mine. She calls back a cheerful hello and gives me a wide smile the moment Addy introduces us. The second girl, Harriet, peels off a fancy coat to reveal a yellow dress trimmed in white lace, and she looks dressed for a party rather than a classroom. She studies my wrinkled dress without saying a word.

I offer a hello anyway, but Harriet has already turned her back to pull a little mirror from her pocket and check her curls. Addy and Sarah just shrug at each other and head inside. I guess some things do not change between now and my own time. There are unfriendly girls at my school too, so I suppose 1864 has its share of snooty ones as well.

Addy walks me over to meet the teacher next, and my stomach flips with nerves. Miss Dunn puts me at ease the second she shakes my hand and welcomes me. She tells me she understands how hard freedom is to adjust to, because she never set foot in a schoolroom herself until her own family escaped slavery. The words catch me off guard, and I blurt out whether she was really enslaved before I can stop myself. She answers simply that she was, and adds that her first days of school felt confusing too, though things got easier with time. She trusts Addy to help me find my footing, and Addy promises she will.

With a smile, Miss Dunn rings her handbell, and everyone rushes to a seat. Addy and I share a double desk in the middle of the room, with Sarah just beside us and Harriet right in front. Addy leans in and asks whether I know my letters. I nod, a little confused by the question, since I assumed everyone my age already did.

Miss Dunn starts the morning with a song. Everyone rises to sing about welcoming the loyal and the brave and shouting the battle cry of freedom, and the unfamiliar words remind me all over again how far from home I really am. Afterward we recite the alphabet together, following a cloth banner strung above the chalkboard. I read along easily with Addy, but I can hear several classmates stumbling over the letters, and suddenly Addy’s earlier question makes a lot more sense.

Next comes reading time, and Addy leads me to a small circle of crates at the back of the room. Miss Dunn hands one book to each group instead of one per student, and when I ask Addy why, she explains simply that there are only enough copies if everyone shares. The girl holding our book cradles it like something precious, nothing like the way kids at my own school toss books around or turn them in scuffed and water-stained at year’s end. It hits me that sharing this way also means no one gets to bring a book home to practice or study.

Addy whispers that the girl is named Fanny, and that a plantation master’s daughter in Virginia secretly taught her to read back before she escaped. Addy’s eyes go wide telling it, but there is fear laced through her voice too, since both girls could have been punished terribly for it. I am too stunned to respond, and I think again of Gran back home telling me what a rare opportunity school is.

Fanny reads first, from a book so simple that Danny, a five-year-old, could manage it. Addy goes next, sounding out each word slowly but correctly, clearly determined to do her very best. When she finishes, she holds the book out to me and offers gently to help if I want to try. I chew my lip, caught between not wanting to draw attention to myself, not wanting Addy to feel embarrassed about her own reading, and not wanting to pretend I cannot read at all. I have no idea what to say.