In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson

by Bette Bao Lord

That afternoon Mrs. Rappaport had a teachers’ meeting, so she dismissed Shirley with the rest of the class. Shirley had reached the top of the stairs when suddenly from nowhere Mabel appeared. “Hey, you wanna play stickball?”

  Shirley turned to see whom the girl was asking. No one else was around. “Me?”

  “Yeah, you. How about it?”

  Shaking her head, Shirley smiled and started down the steps. Mabel, riding on the handrail, whizzed by and blocked her progress on the first landing. “Why not?”

  “Dumb hands. No can catch.” Shirley slipped past and continued on, only to find the way blocked again on the second landing.

  “Nothing to it. I’ll show ya.”

  Shirley shook her head again.

  “Come on, it’s fun.”

  “Yes, fun. But nobody take me on team.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Shirley still hesitated. But Mabel was hardly the patient sort and pulled her by the sleeves into the school yard. When the others saw her coming, they groaned.

  “What ya want to bring the midget for?”

  “Oh no, ya don’t. Not on my team.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “Yeah. She’d bow first and then ask permission to cop a fly.”

  “Send her back to the laundry.”

  “The only way she can get in this game is to lie down and be the plate.”

  Shirley was ready to leave quietly, but Mabel hissed through her teeth, “Who says my friend Shirley here can’t play?”

  Advancing with mighty shoves, she pushed each objector aside.

  “You, Spaghetti Snot?

  “You, Kosher Creep?

  “You, Damp Drawers?

  “You, Brown Blubber?

  “You, Dog Breath?

  “You, Puerto Rican Coconut?”

  Mabel was most persuasive, for everyone named now twitched a shoulder to signal okay. “That’s what I thought. And as captain, I get first pick and Shirley’s it.”

  When the sides were chosen, Mabel pointed to a spot by the iron fence. “Shirley, you play right field. If a ball comes your way, catch it and throw it to me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Where you be?”

  “I’m the pitcher.”

  “Picture?”

  “Ah, forget it. Look for me, I’ll be around.”

  Resisting the temptation to bow, Shirley headed for her spot.

  Mabel’s picture was something to see. First, hiding the ball, she gave the stick the evil eye. Then, twisting her torso and jiggling a leg, she whirled her arm around in a most impressive fashion, probably a ritual to shoo away any unfriendly spirits, before speeding the ball furiously into the hands of squatting Joseph.

  Once in a great while, the stick got a lucky hit, but the Goddess Kwan Yin was again merciful and sent the ball nowhere near the fence.

  After the change of sides, Mabel stood Shirley in place and told her she would be first to hit. Shirley would have preferred to study the problem some more, but was afraid to protest and lose face for her captain. Standing tall, with her feet together, stick on her shoulder, she waited bravely. Dog Breath had a ritual of his own to perform, but then, suddenly, the ball was coming her way. Her eyes squeezed shut.

  “Ball one!” shouted the umpire.

  “Good eye!” shouted Mabel.

  Shirley sighed and started to leave, but was told to stay put.

  Again the ball came. Again her eyes shut.

  “Ball two!”

  “Good eye!” shouted the team. “Two more of those and you’re on.”

  Shirley grinned. How easy it was!

  Sure enough, every time she shut her eyes, the ball went astray.

  “Take your base,” said the umpire.

  Mabel came running over. “Stand on that red bookbag until someone hits the ball, then run like mad to touch the blue one. Got it?”

  “I got.”

  Mabel then picked up the stick and with one try sent the ball flying. In no time, Shirley, despite her pigeon toes, had dashed to the blue bookbag. But something was wrong. Mabel was chasing her. “Go. Get going. Run.”

  Shirley, puzzled over which bookbag to run to next, took a chance and sped off. But Mabel was still chasing her. “Go home! Go home!”

  Oh no! She had done the wrong thing. Now even her new friend was angry. “Go home,” her teammates shouted. “Go home.”

  She was starting off the field when she saw Joseph waving. “Here! Over here!” And off she went for the green one. Just before she reached it, she stumbled, knocking over the opponent who stood in her way. He dropped the ball, and Shirley fell on top of the bag like a piece of ripe bean curd.

  Her teammates shouted with happiness. Some helped her up. Others patted her back. Then they took up Mabel’s chant.

  “Hey, hey, you’re just great

  Jackie Robinson crossed the plate.

  Hey, hey, you’re a dream

  Jackie Robinson’s on our team.”

  Mabel’s team won. The score was 10 to 2, and though the Chinese rookie never got on base again or caught even one ball, Shirley was confident that the next time . . . next time, she could. And yes, of course, naturally, stickball was now her favorite game.

  On Saturday, Mabel taught her how to throw—overhand. How to catch—with her fingers. How to stand—feet two shoes apart. How to bat—on the level.

  On Sunday, Mabel showed her how to propel herself on one skate at a time, then pulled her about on both until Shirley had learned how to go up and down the street without a fall.

  Until that day, Shirley had never really understood something Grandfather had told her many times. “Things are not what they seem,” he had said. “Good can be bad. Bad can be good. Sadness can be happiness. Joy, sorrow.

  “Remember always the tale of Wispy Whiskers, who did not cry when his beautiful stallion ran away. All his neighbors, though, were certain that it was a sign from heaven of his ill fortune.

  “Later, when the stallion returned leading a herd of wild horses, he did not boast of his newfound wealth. This time his neighbors were equally certain that it was a sign from heaven of his good fortune.

  “Later still when his son broke his leg taming one of the mares, the wise man did not despair. Not even when behind his back all his neighbors spread the terrible rumor that anyone with even one droplet of Wispy Whiskers’ blood was forever cursed by the gods.

  “And in the end, only his son lived. For the sons of all the inconstant neighbors, being sound of body, were forced into military service and one by one perished in a futile battle for a greedy emperor.”

  How wise Grandfather was, Shirley thought. Only he could have foreseen how two black eyes would earn her the lasting friendship of the tallest, and the strongest, and the fastest girl in all of the fifth grade.

  June

  I Pledge a Lesson to the Frog

  It was almost summer. An eager sun outshone the neon sign atop the Squibb factory even before the first bell beckoned students to their homerooms. Now alongside the empty milk crates at Mr. P’s, brown paper bags with collars neatly rolled boasted plump strawberries, crimson cherries and Chiquita bananas. The cloakroom stood empty. Gone, the sweaters, slickers and galoshes.

  At the second bell, the fifth grade, as always, scrambled to their feet. As always, Tommy O’Brien giggled, and each girl checked her seat to see if she was his victim of the day. Susie Spencer, whose tardiness could set clocks, rushed in, her face long with excuses. Popping a last bubble, Maria Gonzales tucked her gum safely behind an ear while Joseph gave an extra stroke to his hair.

  Finally Mrs. Rappaport cleared her throat, and the room was still. With hands over hearts, the class performed the ritual that ushered in another day at school.

  Shirley’s voice was lost in the chorus.

  “I pledge a lesson to the frog of the United States of America, and to the wee puppet for witches’ hands. One Asian, in the vestibule, with little tea and just rice for all.”


  “Class, be seated,” said Mrs. Rappaport, looking around to see if anyone was absent.

  No one was.

  “Any questions on the homework?”

  All hands remained on or below the desks, etched with initials, new with splinters, brown with age.

  “In that case, any questions on any subject at all?”

  Irvie’s hand shot up. It was quickly pulled down by Maria, who hated even the sound of the word “spider.” Spiders were all Irvie ever asked about, talked about, dreamed about. How many eyes do spiders have? Do spiders eat three meals a day? Where are spiders’ ears located?

  By now, everyone in the fifth grade knew that spiders come with no, six or eight eyes. That spiders do not have to dine regularly and that some can thrive as long as two years without a bite. That spiders are earless.

  Since Irvie was as scared of girls as Maria was of spiders, he sat on his hands, but just in case he changed his mind, Maria’s hand went up.

  “Yes, Maria?”

  “Eh . . . eh, I had a question, but I forgot.”

  “Was it something we discussed yesterday?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s it.”

  “Something about air currents or cloud formation, perhaps?”

  “Yeah. How come I see lightning before I hear thunder?”

  “Does anyone recall the answer?”

  Tommy jumped in. “That’s easy. ’Cause your eyes are in front, and your ears are off to the side.” To prove his point, he wiggled his ears, which framed his disarming smile like the handles of a fancy soup bowl.

  Laughter was his reward.

  “The correct answer, Maria,” said Mrs. Rappaport, trying not to smile too, “is that light waves travel faster than sound waves.”

  Shirley raised her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Who’s the girl Jackie Robinson?”

  Laughter returned. This time Shirley did not understand the joke. Was the girl very, very bad? So bad that her name should not be uttered in the presence of a grown-up?

  Putting a finger to her lips, Mrs. Rappaport quieted the class. “Shirley, you ask an excellent question. A most appropriate one. . . .”

  The Chinese blushed, wishing her teacher would stop praising her, or at least not in front of the others. Already, they called her “teacher’s dog” or “apple shiner.”

  “Jackie Robinson,” Mrs. Rappaport continued, “is a man, the first Negro to play baseball in the major leagues.”

  “What is a Negro, Mrs. Rappaport?”

  “A Negro is someone who is born with dark skin.”

  “Like Mabel?”

  “Like Mabel and Joey and . . .”

  “Maria?”

  “No, Maria is not a Negro.”

  “But Maria is dark. Darker than Joey.”

  “I see what you mean. Let me try again. A Negro is someone whose ancestors originally came from Africa and who has dark skin.”

  “Then why I’m called Jackie Robinson?”

  Mrs. Rappaport looked mystified. “Who calls you Jackie Robinson?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Then I’ll have to ask them. Mabel?”

  “’Cause she’s pigeon-toed and stole home.”

  The teacher nodded. “Well, Shirley, it seems you are not only a good student, but a good baseball player.”

  There, she’d done it again! The kids would surely call her “a shiner of apples for teacher’s dog” next. Shirley’s unhappiness must have been obvious, because Mrs. Rappaport evidently felt the need to explain further.

  “It is a compliment, Shirley. Jackie Robinson is a big hero, especially in Brooklyn, because he plays for the Dodgers.”

  “Who is dodgers?” Shirley asked.

  That question, like a wayward torch in a roomful of firecrackers, sparked answers from everyone.

  “De Bums!”

  “The best in the history of baseball!”

  “Kings of Ebbets Field!”

  “They’ll kill the Giants!”

  “They’ll murder the Yankees!”

  “The swellest guys in the world!”

  “America’s favorites!”

  “Winners!”

  Mrs. Rappaport clapped her hands for order. The girls quieted down first, followed reluctantly by the boys. “That’s better. Participation is welcome, but one at a time. Let’s do talk about baseball!”

  “Yay!” shouted the class.

  “And let’s combine it with civics too!”

  The class did not welcome this proposal as eagerly, but Mrs. Rappaport went ahead anyway.

  “Mabel, tell us why baseball is America’s favorite pastime.”

  Pursing her lips in disgust at so ridiculous a question, Mabel answered. “’Cause it’s a great game. Everybody plays it, loves it and follows the games on the radio and nabs every chance to go and see it.”

  “True,” said Mrs. Rappaport, nodding. “But what is it about baseball that is ideally suited to Americans?”

  Mabel turned around, looking for an answer from someone else, but to no avail. There was nothing to do but throw the question back. “Whatta ya mean by ‘suits’?”

  “I mean, is there something special about baseball that fits the special kind of people we are and the special kind of country America is?” Mrs. Rappaport tilted her head to one side, inviting a response. When none came, she sighed a sigh so fraught with disappointment that it sounded as if her heart were breaking.

  No one wished to be a party to such a sad event, so everybody found some urgent business to attend to like scratching, slumping, sniffing, scribbling, squinting, sucking teeth or removing dirt from underneath a fingernail. Joseph cracked his knuckles.

  The ticking of the big clock became so loud that President Washington and President Lincoln, who occupied the wall space to either side of it, exchanged a look of shared displeasure.

  But within the frail, birdlike body of Mrs. Rappaport was the spirit of a dragon capable of tackling the heavens and earth. With a quick toss of her red hair, she proceeded to answer her own question with such feeling that no one who heard could be so unkind as to ever forget. Least of all Shirley.

  “Baseball is not just another sport. America is not just another country. . . .”

  If Shirley did not understand every word, she took its meaning to heart. Unlike Grandfather’s stories, which quieted the warring spirits within her with the softness of moonlight or the lyric timbre of a lone flute, Mrs. Rappaport’s speech thrilled her like sunlight and trumpets.

  “In our national pastime, each player is a member of a team, but when he comes to bat, he stands alone. One man. Many opportunities. For no matter how far behind, how late in the game, he, by himself, can make a difference. He can change what has been. He can make it a new ball game.

  “In the life of our nation, each man is a citizen of the United States, but he has the right to pursue his own happiness. For no matter what his race, religion or creed, be he pauper or president, he has the right to speak his mind, to live as he wishes within the law, to elect our officials and stand for office, to excel. To make a difference. To change what has been. To make a better America.

  “And so can you! And so must you!”

  Shirley felt as if the walls of the classroom had vanished. In their stead was a frontier of doors to which she held the keys.

  “This year, Jackie Robinson is at bat. He stands for himself, for Americans of every hue, for an America that honors fair play.

  “Jackie Robinson is the grandson of a slave, the son of a sharecropper, raised in poverty by a lone mother who took in ironing and washing. But a woman determined to achieve a better life for her son. And she did. For despite hostility and injustice, Jackie Robinson went to college, excelled in all sports, served his country in war. And now, Jackie Robinson is at bat in the big leagues. Jackie Robinson is making a difference. Jackie Robinson has changed what has been. And Jackie Robinson is making a better America.

  “And so can you! And so must you!”r />
  Suddenly Shirley understood why her father had brought her ten thousand miles to live among strangers. Here, she did not have to wait for gray hairs to be considered wise. Here, she could speak up, question even the conduct of the President. Here, Shirley Temple Wong was somebody. She felt as if she had the power of ten tigers, as if she had grown as tall as the Statue of Liberty.

  July

  Toscanini Takes a Walk

  “Have a good time!”

  “Take care!”

  “See you in September!”

  On the way home that last day of school, Shirley heard their voices echoing. Beset, she wavered. Sometimes she ran, couldn’t wait to get away. Sometimes she dallied, turning back for one more glimpse of P.S. 8.

  Without books to carry, her arms were free. But to Shirley, they seemed to sway from her shoulders as awkwardly as a chimpanzee’s. Without stickball, the school yard had an eerie look, as desolate as Chungking during an air raid. Where had everyone gone? Mabel was not due at her grandmother’s house in North Carolina until next week. Tommy’s cousins did not expect him before Saturday. Only Maria had to catch a bus. There had been enough players. But each had replied, “Oh I can’t, not today.”

  All had changed. Vacation was here. Her classmates had plans, plans that included their clansmen, not her. For the first time in a long while, Shirley thought of the courtyards. If only they were not so far away. She could join her own cousins and go skimming in a dragon boat, attend parties in honor of the Weaving Maid, visit temples set above the clouds, enter contests for hoisting the highest kite, harvesting the most silk cocoons. Surely they would welcome her . . . surely.

  Suddenly she felt a tiny stab of fear. Had they forgotten her too? She vowed to answer Fourth Cousin’s letter that afternoon. It had lain on the table for months. There was always so much to do, so little time. Also, writing in Chinese had become a chore. Too many of the characters were lost to her now. Again, that fear. Mother was right. She must never forget China or lose her Chinese.

  But then, Shirley stuffed her hands in her pocket—and fingered the report card. Slowly, pride took hold. She had passed every course, and had gotten A’s for effort. Mother would be delighted. Father would present her with a surprise. And tomorrow, she could sleep late, read books she had picked herself, even do nothing if she pleased. And almost every day, there would be baseball games on the radio, games to listen to all summer long.