I Wanted To Be A Writer. I

And I Thought To Myself, What Am I Doing? Am I Reaching Them At All? They Are Acting Exactly As The Old Men Did Earlier. They Are Fifty Years Younger, Maybe More, But Doing The Same Thing Those Old Men Did Who Never Attended School A Day In Their Lives. Is It Just A Vicious Circle? Am I Doing Anything?

Now, About That Mulatto Teacher And Me. There Was No Love There For Each Other. There Was Not Even Respect. We Were Enemies If Anything. He Hated Me, And I Knew It, And He Knew I Knew It. I Didn't Like Him, But I Needed Him, Needed Him To Tell Me Something That None Of The Others Could Or Would.

We Looked At Each Other, And I Could See In Those Big Reddened Eyes That He Was Not Going To Scream. He Was Full Of Anger - And Who Could Blame Him? - But He Was No Fool. He Needed Me, And He Wanted Me Here, If Only To Insult Me.

You Learn From Music, From Watching Great Athletes At Work - How Disciplined They Are, How They Move. You Learn These Things By Watching A Shortstop At Work, How He Concentrates On One Thing At A Time. You Learn From Classic Music, From The Blues And Jazz, From Bluegrass. From All This, You Learn How To Sustain A Great Line Without Bringing In Unnecessary Words.

I Wanted To Be A Writer. I Wanted To Say Something About Home.