In our class, we were about 10 black students out of the total 70 students. Three girls and six boys.
‘Tell us your name,’ I remember that was the first question our history teacher asked when I was introduced as a new pupil (Manning 109). She was white, buxom, and motherly, but wearing horn-rimmed glasses that she would tilt in such an intimidating way if one did not answer her questions in class.
‘It is the white man who has made the black person who he is today.’ I remember I felt bad. It was an awkward moment. My father, a cotton picker, had affirmed in me that my race had an exciting history because we African Americans came from a placed he called Africa (Hamlett 167).
The following lesson, I decided to ask questions if the teacher talked about the black people again (Caldwell 156). Encouraged by the rage I had seen in my mother last night, when Mrs. Stewart came and abused black people again, I