The Chalk Story: How I Learned Who Gets Believed

childhood memory

I’ve written for as long as I can remember.

The first story I ever remember writing was in second grade—the year North Carolina schools were integrated. I remember it clearly: we started the year at one elementary school, but after Christmas, I was among half the students transferred to another.

We were told to write a story about something we saw in the classroom. I saw two pieces of chalk—one brown and one white—sitting side by side on the chalkboard ledge. I wrote a story about a piece of brown chalk and a piece of white chalk who were friends.

Looking back, it’s strange that even at seven years old, I was already noticing the world and trying to make sense of it through stories. I didn’t have the language for race, class, or power, but I could make a comparison with chalk.

I was proud of that story.

When I turned it in, I was certain the teacher would tell me I’d done well. Instead, she accused me of cheating—of copying another girl’s paper.

I was stunned. At first, I didn’t even understand what she was saying. I hadn’t copied anyone. The story came entirely from my own head.

I was hurt and confused. But even then, I understood something I wouldn’t have been able to name: rich kids were treated differently from poor kids, and I had no power to make the teacher believe me.

I was the poor kid, accused of plagiarism.

The girl who was credited with the story was a rich kid. Her father owned the most expensive restaurant in the state. Her grandfather was among the highest-ranking and longest-serving politicians in the state. Her family wasn’t just wealthy—they were powerful. That made her somebody.

I lived in a house with bathroom-tile siding across the street from a trailer park.

So, of course, the teacher believed the story belonged to the girl with the educated, influential family—not the kid in homemade clothes and hand-me-downs who didn’t come from money or power.

I’ve remembered that moment—and that girl—for more than fifty-five years.

 I don’t know who she became or what kind of life she lived. But now, at sixty-four, I take a little pride in the fact that the girl from the wealthy, politically powerful family felt the need to copy my paper.

I doubt she remembers the chalk story she plagiarized in that little red-brick elementary school classroom.

But I do.

And maybe that’s why I never stopped writing.