The Chalkboard

We had a chalkboard on the back wall of our kitchen. It was green with a wood trim and big like a front door. It did more harm than good I think.

I was nine and my big sister seventeen. Every morning we ate breakfast together across from each other and it was usually the only time I saw her.

Every morning mom wrote a new word from the dictionary on it. Winsome. Subliminal. Inept. The word in red chalk and the definition in cursive white. Every morning a new word was there, under the Maxim — a short, pithy statement expressing a general truth or rule of conduct — mom made up and taped onto the top of the board.

The Early Learner Bird Gets The Word.

Between bites we said the word and the definition, over and over. Dad liked to say we sounded like broken record players. Mom said we were learning by Rote — mechanical or habitual repetition of something to be learned. After I said it ten times I could ask to be excused from the table.

It’ll let you express yourself better, mom said. I wish my parents would have made me do things like this. After she turned away to the sink she said quietly, Maybe then I would have finished school.

When she was not saying the word and the definition, my big sister told me all the places she would go and what her house would look like. She would say, It won’t have a chalkboard but big windows instead, and a big trunk that holds my wedding dress and lots of mirrors, and, oh, a little white picket fence.

I liked what will be my sister’s house. I would think about it when I was waiting.

After I got on the bus, mom went to bed. She worked at night and was always tired, always rubbing her eyes. After school, I stayed at my friend Joel’s house until his mom took me home at six. Six p.m. sharp. I reminded her when it was getting close. I was ready to leave because Joel had five Obese dogs and his house smelled like pee and Joel was Obese and he was mean. Obese — fat.

Sometimes after the streetlights came on and I came inside, there was a sentence written on the chalkboard. A sentence in all capital letters, written fast and over everything else. It always used the word of the day and I knew dad wrote it. When I saw it, dad was already passed out on the couch even though it was only six or seven or eight.

One day a sentence said it was time to Dispatch — send off to a destination — black people. I am using a Euphemism — a word or expression substituted for one considered too harsh or blunt when referring to something unpleasant or embarrassing.

In the morning the sentence was erased and the new word was Ignominious — deserving or causing public disgrace or shame. Dad said he was only joking. But I think he says what he really thinks when he’s only joking. Mom must think so too.

My sister was not at breakfast that morning. Instead there was a white mark at the bottom and left corner of the chalkboard. Like a little simple number one.

My sister was not there the next morning either. Or the one after or the one after that. But each morning there would be another mark in her place. It was easy to count because after four in a row, a line was drawn through them. So I knew each bunch equaled five. It was like when you stack your pennies in tens so they are easy to count.

After six mornings, I went into the kitchen and yesterday’s word was still on the chalkboard. Sundry — of various kinds. So I wrote a word on the board myself. And I did this for every morning after. Only words I liked, above the row of little white marks.

Valor — great courage in the face of danger.
Wunderkind — a person who achieves great success when relatively young.
Jackass — a stupid person or a donkey.

Dad wrote no sentences over my words and definitions.

After seventeen mornings, I went into the kitchen and my sister was home. But she would not say my words and definitions. She would not say anything at all. Not even about her house with big windows and lots of mirrors and a trunk with her wedding dress. And, oh, a little white picket fence.

The next morning there was another mark on the chalkboard. I did not understand why. I thought the marks counted the days my sister was not home. The word of the day was Acedia — spiritual or mental apathy.

The night of seventy-nine marks I heard screaming and yelling coming from the kitchen but I stayed in bed. Dad knew what the marks meant now and I heard a new word. The other words were mostly ones I already learned. My sister was going to be a mom and the dad was a black man.

The next morning I wrote and learned Abortion — the deliberate termination of a human pregnancy. I said it three times. Then my sister cried. And I did too. Mom erased it before dad came in.

At the bus stop my sister gave me a hug and a kiss and waved to me as the bus pulled away. On the bus I wiped off my lips. I would not have done that if I had known I was not going to see her again. There would be no more new marks.

Every morning after I ate breakfast quietly. On the chalkboard there was no word and no definition. But the marks were still there. Eighty neat marks, sixteen groups of five. They gave me comfort.

In a single row across the bottom of the chalkboard, the marks looked like a little white picket fence.

So I wrote Promise — an indication that something specified is expected to occur. It can never be erased.