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of black people who had come before us. “You must be able to read thoughtfully, speak clearly, and understand everything,” she’d tell us, and point to a new page in the dictionary.
    Philbert and I talked of Papa’s friend Marcus Garvey and their movement to unite black people in demanding their equal rights. We all chanted one of Garvey’s famous phrases together:
Up, up, you mighty race. You can accomplish what you will.
    Mom sat listening, a slight smile on her face. Her expression grew distant at times, the same thinking expression she had worn earlier while she was working. And when we came around to discussing Papa’s work, a fresh shadow crossed her face. I wondered, somewhere deep in me, what Papa would do if he were here. If I concentrated hard enough, I could almost hear his voice:
Malcolm, my son, you can be and do anything you put your mind to.
    So why couldn’t I figure out how to help our family?
    I sipped the gray-green water gathered in my bowl. Dandelion broth? Not exactly. A surge of desperation growled low in my stomach. There had to be something we could do to get everyone’s mind off the meager supper. The stories offered some distraction, but not enough.
    I caught Philbert’s eye across the table. Then I tapped my remaining heel of bread against the side of my bowl. When I let go of it, as if on cue, Philbert reached over and snatched it. Jamming it between his teeth, he tore a huge bite.
    “Hey!” I grabbed at his face. “That’s mine.”
    In retaliation, I snatched his piece of bread, which was identical to mine — the opposite heel. I bit into it.
    Philbert squealed in mock outrage. “That’s mine.”
    “It’s mine now,” I mumble-shouted, my mouth jammed with crust.
    We gnawed the heels, staring at each other like bulldogs. Reginald’s laugh snapped through the air like a starting pistol. Philbert and I dove dramatically across the table at each other. My fingers at his lips tried to retrieve the remains of my supper. He scratched my face in return. I squealed in response.
    We both chewed frantically, trying to down as much bread as we could before the other wrenched any out of our mouths: teeth versus fingers on tough old bread that didn’t want to give in to either. My brothers and sisters laughed, choosing sides and chanting our names.
    “Philbert! Philbert!”
    “Chew, chew, Malcolm!”
    “Boys!” Mom’s tone turned sharp. “What’s this? Stop it, now.” She laid her hands flat on the table and leaned into them. “Sit down,” she ordered us. “And finish your suppers.” Then she fell quiet again.
    We turned our heads away from each other, toward her. Philbert, no doubt, thinking the same as me:
That’s it?
Mom, when things were right, would scold us raw for fighting over food. Scold us for not being grateful. For not being civil. For not doing everything we could for the family. That’s the reaction we were expecting. Hoping for, even. To see the spark in her eyes. To feel like things were normal for a minute.
    But this time, Mom just shook her head, as though she were too tired to deal with us. “Please, boys,” she added.
    “Yes, Mom,” we mumbled. I drew my hands back, coming away with the last morsel of my bread. Victorious, at least technically. Philbert chomped through the rest of his own meal, freshly silent. Sullen.
    My plate was nearly empty. My hands. My heart.
    Mr. Franklin wanted us to believe that Mom was crazy. Crazy for being too proud to take more welfare handouts. Crazy to let us go hungry during the Depression when what they’re giving free is pork, which we don’t eat. Crazy for standing on her principles: no buying on credit, no giving up her children, no eating of unclean meat.
    Across the table, Mom dipped her spoon delicately into her bowl of foraged greens, as though she were eating a gourmet meal. But her forehead was wrinkled. She still looked distracted. Frustrated. Thoughtful.
    Mom wasn’t crazy. Our family was broken. Her