by Katherine Grace Bond

The summer of 1964 was the hottest Marcus could remember—so hot you could see heat rising in waves from the red dust. When the college students came to Mississippi to preach about voting, it got even hotter.

They started a new kind of school—a Freedom School. The teacher was white. It made Marcus nervous.

The day the teacher strolled onto the porch, Marcus shrank behind the door. The girl extended her hand to Daddy. "I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Goodloe," she said.

Mr.! No white person had ever called his father anything but "Joe," unless it was something mean.

"I’m glad to meet you, too, Ma’am," Daddy replied.

"Please," the girl said, "call me Susan." She tipped her head. "You must be Marcus."

Marcus examined his bare feet and didn’t answer.

"I hope you’ll come to Freedom School tomorrow night," she said. "You’ll learn about who you are and where you come from."

Marcus thought of his school. The benches were hard, and bugs crawled through holes in the walls. Reading was a waste of time. Daddy didn’t know how to read, but he was one of the strongest men in Sorroville. Besides, Marcus had to help Daddy work in Mr. Paisley’s cotton field from May until October.

"Don’t like school," Marcus said.

"Marcus!" Mama came from the kitchen, dusting her hands. "Mind your manners!" She nodded at Susan. "He’ll be there."

"Where I come from?" Marcus grumbled after Susan left. "I come from this house, from you and Daddy. What else is there to know?"

Daddy set his hand on Marcus’ head. "Plenty more, Son," he said. "There’s plenty more to know."

He turned to Mama. "I’ll be there, too," he said.

Mama sang the rest of the evening.

Hiding Place

No one knew about Marcus’ hiding place in the oak tree. The leaves screened him from the ground where people gathered with Susan. Kids sat in the grass, grandmothers in straight-backed chairs. He thought of Granny in Alabama. She was big on school. She’d want him down in the grass. But seven months of school a year was enough.

The white kids across the railroad tracks had school August through June. But they didn’t work the cotton fields. Marcus had heard their schools were like palaces—warm in the winter, with hot and cold running water and meals in a shiny cafeteria. Susan had probably gone to a school like that. Marcus couldn’t figure why she was here.

Every night, Marcus arrived early at his tree. He felt almost jubilant being there without Susan knowing.

Freedom School was like nothing Marcus had ever seen. The books were new, not old, beat-up ones from the white school. And Susan taught about influential black people like Ida B. Wells and Frederick Douglass.

Soon Daddy learned to read. "I’ve never, ever seen anyone learn that fast," Susan said one night.

"Well," Daddy said, "every day I bend over and chop cotton. But I got to thinking, it’s time to stand up."

From his branch, Marcus saw Daddy rise from his chair. "If a man can’t read, a man can’t vote," he called out. "If a man can’t vote, he can’t stand up. It’s time to stand up!"

"Glory to God!" grandmas shouted.

"Amen!" Men leapt to their feet. The children clapped their hands.

After the students left, Marcus watched Susan collect pencils from the grass. She gave a funny sigh. Then she smiled and looked straight up into the tree.

"I think your daddy should teach this class," she said.

Marcus almost let go of his branch.

"It’s okay to come down," Susan said. "I won’t bite."

Marcus slid across the branch and dropped carefully to the ground. It was funny to look up at Susan instead of down. She had a nice face, like a flower opening. Suddenly he wanted to give her something.

"Hold fast to dreams," "For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly."

"Langston Hughes!" She laughed out loud. "Marcus, that’s wonderful!"

"My daddy found it in that book. That’s only the first part."

"Well, it’s one of my favorite—" Susan stopped. A white man was striding toward them. It was Mr. Paisley, Daddy’s boss.

"You!" he barked. "You’re Joe’s boy."

"Yes, Sir," Marcus dug his toes into the grass.

"I got a message for your daddy." Mr. Paisley spat.

Susan put a hand on Marcus’ shoulder. Mr. Paisley narrowed his eyes at her. "What makes you want to teach these people?" he asked.

"These people are my brothers and sisters," Susan said. Her hand trembled, but she didn’t lower her head.

Mr. Paisley looked at Marcus. "Your daddy’s getting too smart for his own good," he growled. "You tell him he don’t need to come to work tomorrow. He can sit and read his books. He don’t need to come back ever." He patted Marcus’ cheek with a smirk. "You tell him that for me."

Marcus clenched his teeth.

"What was that, Boy?"

"Yes, Sir," Marcus mumbled.

"Come again?"

"Yes, Sir!" Marcus shouted. Then he ran for home.

"Marcus! Wait!" It was Susan.

Marcus stopped, panting, in front of the porch. He didn’t want to talk to Susan.

"Marcus, I’m sorry."

Sorry. Easy for her to say, Marcus thought. She’ll never chop cotton until her hands bleed or worry about where to live. She’ll never have to tell her daddy he doesn’t have a job anymore. It’s her fault Daddy learned how to read—her fault he wants to vote!

"Marcus?"

"Ma’am?"

She flinched. "You don’t have to call me ma’am." She reached out her hand. "I’m not like them. We’re not all alike."

Marcus fled into the house to tell his dad the bad news.

Daddy didn’t seem worried that Mr. Paisley had fired him. "God will provide, Son," he said. "He always has."

Standing Up

Marcus didn’t go to Freedom School the next two nights. The third night, he climbed into his hiding place an hour before class. People would be buzzing like bees below, but the branches were comforting, like familiar arms. If only he could rid himself of the ache in his gut.

He dozed through most of class, cushioned by the moist heat. When he woke, Susan was gathering books below him.

Suddenly, she wasn’t alone. Six men glided out of the shadows. One of them was Mr. Paisley.

"You’re the schoolmarm," he snarled.

Marcus clung to the branch, barely breathing.

"Yes," Susan said, never once glancing up.

"You’re teaching things you shouldn’t be," one of the men said.

Another gave her a shove. "We don’t want these people voting."

Sweat dripped down the backs of Marcus’ legs.

"All men," Susan quoted, "are created equal. . . ."

Mr. Paisley snatched a book from the ground.

Susan’s voice didn’t waver. ". . . And are endowed by their Creator with certain, inalienable rights—"

Mr. Paisley hurled the book. It caught Susan in the leg, sending her sprawling. The other men scooped up books.

Marcus thought his heart would burst from his chest. Stand up! something inside him said. Stand UP!

With a shout, he swung from the branch.

"Freedom!" he roared. "Freedom!"

He sprinted. The men tore after him. They had long legs, but it was dark and Marcus knew the neighborhood. He dodged behind chicken coops and utility poles. He didn’t want to think about what they’d do if they caught him. But they were running after him and away from Susan.

He darted behind a store. At the foundation of the building was a hole he often used during hide-and-seek. He slid inside. He saw shoes rush by, crunching gravel. Then he heard a car engine start.

He lay there an hour, waiting for his heart to slow down.

A New Beginning

Marcus dragged his suitcase on the porch until it stood by Mama’s and Daddy’s. The furniture belonged to Mr. Paisley, so there wasn’t much to take to Alabama. Granny had asked them to come. She was doing freedom work, and there was a job for Daddy at the church.

"Susan!" Mama threw her arms around the girl as she came up the steps. An angry red scratch ran down her left cheek.

"Thank you, Susan." Daddy took her hand.

"No," Susan said. "Thank you— for your courage and wisdom. I’ve never learned so much."

She turned to Marcus and looked into his eyes. "Thank God for you, Marcus."

Marcus felt tears sting his eyes. Thank God. Not a black God or a white God but the Creator of them all. He put his arms around Susan.

"Freedom," he whispered. "Hold on to freedom."

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