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Tanya Bennett English A111 M. Steele, Instructor October 13, 2013

and the blind shall see

Have you ever learned somethinggotten some news, perhapsthat you realize you had to learn eventually, but wished you didnt? I dont mean something as shocking as the news that your parents are Santa Claus, or that the Tooth Fairy isnt real. I mean something deeply life-changing, that reshapes the world in which you live; a revelation that strips you of your innocence, leaving you raw and exposed. It started out harmless enough. It was simply a story. Just one of a hundred delightful childrens books I had accumulated over the years, traveling around the world. A world which would become, in an instant, a much less friendly place. When I returned to the United States and started kindergarten in 1968, I had already been around the world three times. I had filled one passport, begun another, and been in 32 countries some of which no longer exist today. I wouldnt know it for many years, but this time of travel and discovery had shaped my view of people, culture and ethnicity. By this time my view of these things was simple: all people were human beings, all deserving of the same level of compassion and respect and dignity, and all our differences only made things better. I had seen many different people in different cultures. There were foreign customs, different foods, exotic smells and all manner of new textures, sounds, climates, and environments. America was my home, though the world was my playground. But in America, there were issues brewing over discrimination and poverty, war and politics, crime and freedom and equality and peace. None of these things should have been the problem of a small girl, but when my parents discovered that one of my favorite books, Little Black Sambo had been banned in America, I gained an education on a subject I had

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previously known nothing aboutprejudice. I guess you could say that the day my parents took away my copy of Little Black Sambo, in hopes of teaching me about an equality already rooted deeply within, was the day I began my first true lesson in ethnic and racial literacy. It was the day I learned I was a spic. The story of Little Black Sambo, written and illustrated by Helen Bannerman, was originally published in 1899. Published all over the world, in a dozen languages or more, it was both a favored story and a controversial one by the time I got a copy from a bookseller in London in 1966. The first country to find it controversial was the United States. Every other nation that banned it thereafter did so in an attempt to embrace the American way of addressing equality itself a very telling gesture about a world trying to mimic a single country that is perceived to be better in some way. Little Black Sambo is a story about an East Indian boy whose mother gave him a wonderful set of new clothesa beautiful red coat and lovely blue pants that she had sewed for him, a fabulous pair of purple shoes which curled up to a point at the toe, and a brand new green umbrella. After getting dressed in his new clothing, he went for a walk in the jungle where he encountered four different tigers, one after another. To keep from being eaten by the tigers, he offered each one something from his new ensemble, creatively suggesting how they might wear or use the items. The tigers each felt that he was the best-looking in the jungle, with his new item, and so they stripped off their new finery and began to quarrel amongst themselves. When the tigers caught each other by the tails, angry and snarling, Sambo called out that if they didnt want all the nice items he would take them back. The tigers growled louder, beginning to chase each other around a tree faster and fasteruntil they melted away into butter. Sambos mother collected the butter or ghi as it was called in India, and planned to make pancakes for dinner for the family. Although this

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story was about a little boy from India, because of Americas dark past involving the business of slavery, this dark-skinned boy and his delightful story were seen as an offense to the American black community. My parents nurtured in me a love of books and reading. Both of them could often be found reading casually by the poolside during idle time, and I was encouraged to read anything around at any time. Bedtime required the nightly story, absent only if Id been naughtywhich I only recall happening once in my life. This night started out indistinguishable from any other. Lying comfortably in my soft cotton nightgown, on well-worn sheets with my miniature seal-point Siamese cat, Nit-Noi next to me, I waited for the nightly ritual to begin. What story would you like tonight, pussycat? my mother asked. Little Black Sambo, I answered. Mother looked at me for a long momentdark brown eyes meeting dark brown eyesand said, Honey, why dont you pick another one? There are some stories you havent heard yet, She began listing them offTheres The Jungle Book, we havent read that yet, or the new Curious George story we bought No, I want Little Black Sambo because the tigers melt into butter. I told her. Again, dark eyes meeting mine. Honey, lets pick another story for tonight and maybe we can read about Sambo another night. I knew there was something wrong because my parents never tried to change my mind about books, nor had they ever told me I couldnt hear the one of my choice. One of the things we did when reading was practice word recognition, so reading the same stories over and over was important. Why cant we read Sambo, mama? I asked. My mother didnt answer me right away, and I thought Id done something wrong. Then she began to explain. Tani, honey, remember how all the children in India would follow us around and tried to touch your hair and clothes? And how the people in that restaurant in Japan were all so amazed that a little American girl could eat so well with chopsticks? Do your remember having to cover your

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head when we were in certain countries, even though it was so hot? And how some places we visited expected you to remove your shoes and sit on the floor to eat, while others wont serve a person who doesnt have all his clothes on? Can you tell me what is the same about all of those things? I shook my head. They seemed to be the same, but so different. I didnt have the answer. Mother told me, They show our differences. Can you tell me how you are different from your Daddy? That was an easy question. Daddy is a boy and Im a girland Daddy has grey eyes but mine are brown like yours. Mother smiled, Very good, honey, thats right. Can you tell me what is different about you and Lek? This was harder. Lek had been our housekeeper in Thailand for almost two years. Lek is a grown-up, and she is Thai. My mother smiled, but pushed a little harder. She said, Thats good, but what is different about her? Does she look like you? No, I said, her hair is black, and her eyes are sharplike this,I pulled the outer corners of my eyes out toward the side, making them into thin slits. My mothers musical laugh eased some tension. Yes, her eyes are sharpthey call that slanted. My hair is also black. Are Lek and I the same? she asked. Another hard question. I answered, trying to use the whole of my vast five-year-old knowledge, No, you are Puerto Rican and Caribbean Indian, she is oriental. Mother nodded silently. Thats right, pussycat, she is Thai, and I am Puerto Rican. Were both dark, with black hair and brown eyes, but we are nothing alike. Mother asked another question. What is different about you and Angela? Angie was my best friend in the whole world. In fact, we were so alike that we would say each others words and liked everything the same. Angie is older, and tallershes almost a big kid, I paused, thinking harder. And my hair is much longer than hers. My mothers dark eyes looked like she was

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seeing something I didnt understand. Yes, she replied, Is there any other way you are different? she asked me. Angie is darkshes black, I said. Mother explained to me that night that for all the right words in the world to call people Spanish, Chinese, Russian, English, Italian, African, Mexican, Japanese, Blackthere were even more words that people used that were wrong and hurtful. She told me that when the boys said I was a cootie and it hurt my feelings, it was because we all believed a cootie was a bad thing and so they said it to hurt. In the same way, people used those other words to hurt because they knew those words made people feel bad. She said that in my life, I would hear people call the Chinese man who worked at the grocery store a chink and my classmate Colin, who was from England, would be called a limey. She explained about how people made fun of what people wore or what they ate, like calling a Mexican a beaner. She said that one day I might even hear someone call my very own Angie a nigger and that even if someone said it was so, that she was just Angela. We never read a story that night, but we practiced a type of word recognition that armed me for the tumultuous times in which I was living. She helped me understand that those types of names were wrong, like when people called the police pigs or the fuzz, and that we should call them all by their right names, even if the other words seem hip or groovy. We made a little game of it, learning what these wrong words werethen I had a thought. Mama, what am I? I asked. She looked sad for a moment, as though she had already robbed me of enough of my innocence. You, my darling daughter, are a spic. We are Hispanic, and mean people shortened that word to spic to try to hurt our feelings. But my mother wasnt ready for my response. I began to giggle, and then I began to laugh. Mama got a confused grin and asked, What is so funny? I had been the brunt of the bullies at my new school and often came home with bruises and tears to show for my daily adventures on the playground. Both my manners and

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speech were a little different, after so many years abroadI made a convenient target for them since my difference stood out. So my mother wasnt prepared for my answer. In between choking laughter, I said, The words are dirty but spic means Im clean! More uncontrollable laughter followed, which brought my father to the room. Laughing even harder now, with my mother chuckling, he asked Whats all this racket in here? feigning irritation. I said, Im spic & span! Im spic & span! My parents were chuckling with me, and still my mother didnt understand the joke. When I could catch a breath, I told them, Im Spanish like Mama and Im a spic. Im not dirty, Im clean because Im Spic & Span! My mother finally got the joke. As a housewife, she was familiar with cleaning products and Spic & Span was a popular floor cleaner, available in any modern supermarket. They got me calmed down, we said our good nights, and my parents left me to ponder and sleep on such deep thoughts. We never actually discussed it, nor did I ever see my copy of Little Black Sambo again. Over the years, I did indeed hear such things said to me, about me, about my friends and others. But my experiences around the world had already shaped my view on people of differing cultures and ethnicities. It taught me that we need them all. It taught me that being different is what makes the world such a fabulous place, and that without it the world would be colorless and flavorless. It taught me that I could be both American and a patriot, and Puerto Rican and Taino Indian and value that culture as well. On that day, I learned that being a spic wasnt dirty at all. That since my heart and mind were free of the hatred and intolerance that brings prejudice to the forefront, I truly was Spic & Span.