Jacqueline Woodson

When the kids in my class ask why I am not allowed to pledge to the flag I tell them It's against my religion but don't say, I am in the world but not of the world. This, they would not understand. Even though my mother's not a Jehovah's Witness, she makes us follow their rules and leave the classroom when the pledge is being said. Every morning, I walk out with Gina and Alina the two other Witnesses in my class. Sometimes, Gina says, Maybe we should pray for the kids inside who don't know that God said "No other idols before me." That our God is a jealous God. Gina is a true believer. Her Bible open during reading time. But Alina and I walk through our roles as Witnesses as though this is the part we've been given in a play and once offstage, we run free, sing "America the Beautiful" and "The Star-Spangled Banner" far away from our families —knowing every word. Alina and I want more than anything to walk back into our classroom press our hands against our hearts. Say, "I pledge allegiance . . ." loud without our jealous God looking down on us. Without our parents finding out. Without our mothers' voices in our heads saying,You are different. Chosen. Good. When the pledge is over, we walk single file back into the classroom, take our separate seats Alina and I far away from Gina. But Gina always looks back at us —as if to say, I'm watching you. As if to say, I know.

It's almost May and yesterday I saw a firefly. You don't see them a lot in the city. Sometimes in the park in the near dark one comes out you'll hear a little kid shout Lightning bug! Firefly! It's almost May and yesterday I caught a firefly in my hand. First firefly I seen in a long, long time. Make a wish, Miss Edna said. Make a good one. Firefly wishes always come true.

I am born on a Tuesday at University Hospital Columbus, Ohio, USA— a country caught between Black and White. I am born not long from the time or far from the place where my great-great-grandparents worked the deep rich land unfree dawn till dusk unpaid drank cool water from scooped-out gourds looked up and followed the sky’s mirrored constellation to freedom. I am born as the South explodes, too many people too many years enslaved, then emancipated but not free, the people who look like me keep fighting and marching and getting killed so that today— February 12, 1963 and every day from this moment on, brown children like me can grow up free. Can grow up learning and voting and walking and riding wherever we want. I am born in Ohio but the stories of South Carolina already run like rivers through my veins.

Last night this commercial came on TV. It was this white lady making a nice dinner for her husband. She made him some baked chicken with potatoes and gravy and some kind of greens —not collards, but they still looked real good. Everything looked so delicious, I just wanted to reach into that television and snatch a plate for myself. He gave her a kiss and then a voice came on saying He'll love you for it and then the commercial went off. I sat on Miss Edna's scratchy couch wondering if that man and woman really ate that food or just threw it all away. Now Ms. Marcus wants to know why I wrote that the lady is white and I say because it's true. And Ms. Marcus says Lonnie, what does race have to do with it, forgetting that she asked us to use lots of details when we wrote. Forgetting that whole long talk she gave yesterday about the importance of description! I don't say anything back to her, just look down at my arm. It's dark brown and there's a scab by my wrist that I don't pick at if I remember not to. I look at my knuckles. They're real dark too. Outside it's starting to rain and the way the rain comes down — tap, tapping against the window —gets me to thinking. Ms. Marcus don't understand some things even though she's my favorite teacher in the world. Things like my brown, brown arm. And the white lady and man with all that good food to throw away. How if you turn on your TV, that's what you see —people with lots and lots of stuff not having to sit on scratchy couches in Miss Edna's house. And the true fact is alotta those people are white. Maybe it's that if you're white you can't see all the whiteness around you.

On Sundays, the preacher gives everyone a chance to repent their sins. Miss Edna makes me go to church. She wears a bright hat I wear my suit. Babies dress in lace. Girls my age, some pretty, some not so pretty. Old ladies and men nodding. Miss Edna every now and then throwing her hand in the air. Saying Yes, Lord and Preach! I sneak a pen from my back pocket, bend down low like I dropped something. The chorus marches up behind the preacher clapping and humming and getting ready to sing. I write the word HOPE on my hand.