Taneesha Never Disparaging

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Praise for
TANEESHA NEVER DISPARAGING

“A
FAST-PACED
portrait of a girl grounded in her Buddhist practice and loving family, coping with the daily struggles of growing up.”

—Kathe Koja, author of
Buddha Boy

 

“Taneesha's voice is
FRESH, FUNNY
, and
TRUE
as a lotus blossom in a muddy pond. Readers will become familiar with Nichiren Buddhism—and the word
disparaging
—as Taneesha navigates her way through fifth grade as a Buddhist, daughter, and good friend to all.”

—Kelly Easton, author of
Hiroshima Dreams

 

“A JOY TO READ
. This book addresses the issues many kids face today with a fresh and positive perspective. Don't miss this beautifully and skillfully written novel.”

—David Richardson, columnist for
Reading Today

 

“I will definitely use this as a ‘
BOOK OF THE MONTH' IN MY CLASSROOM
. I can hardly wait for the next installment!”

—Magnolia Walker, reading teacher (4th and 5th Grades), Crawford County Elementary School in Roberta, Georgia

 

“
INSPIRATIONAL
and highly recommended.”

—
Midwest Book Review
(on
Taneesha's Treasures of the Heart)

CHAPTER 1

T
here I was, scribbling Taneesha Bey-Ross, a Monday, January 7, 2008, across the top of a fresh page in my writing notebook, without a clue that chaos was just minutes away. I looked through a classroom window at the freezing outside—cloudy, like it was all the time lately, with snow on the ground and everything. But you'd never have known it in Room 509 of North Cleveland's Jane Hunter Elementary School. Toasty. Just the way I like it. So toasty that even though I'd forgotten to wear a sweater, I stayed warm in my “dress-code” get-up—white blouse, navy blue pants, black shoes.

I looked around at the astronomy sculptures, geometry mobiles, and A and B+ papers that decorated the walls, shelves, and ceiling. With a leg stretched out, I silently bounced a rubber heel on the blue-grey carpet, the kind for inside and outside, and breathed in its new-car smell. Glad to be back in 509.

It was the first day of school after Winter Break and I'd actually wanted to get back to Hunter. The break had been getting boring. Nothing to do.

So there I sat, scribbling with one hand and tangling the fingers of the other in the nappy tip of one of my twisty African locks.

“And so, fifth graders—” Trim Mr. Alvarez, who had the exact same tan as the oat flakes I'd had for breakfast over three hours ago, pointed to the list of words he'd written on the chalkboard:

“These are just some character traits that good leaders possess. Keep them in mind when you consider who to nominate for class officers in our
coming election.”

I couldn't help thinking how Mr. Alvarez was always so sharp. Today his short, coal-black hair looked especially shiny. Like he'd Vaselined it up or something. Neatly combed, of course. He had on this crisp, beige shirt, a dark blue necktie and matching suit pants. The crease in his pants could have sliced a hunk of cold cheddar cheese.

For some reason, the more I stared at Mr. Alvarez's crisp, beige shirt, the more I thought of whole grain wafers.

My stomach gave a long growl. I quickly swept my eyes around the room and saw Rayshaun Parker, a hefty kid, look at me and then look away, bored. Good. That would have been all I needed—Rayshaun catching me growling. It seemed like he hadn't heard my stomach. Nobody else seemed to either. Thank goodness.

Now that Rayshaun was in my head, he parked his irritating self there. Great. Mainly, that boy and I only talked to each other when we had to. You would have never known we used to be best friends back in the day, in kindergarten.

See, one time, back then, Rayshaun and I were playing House together in the little kitchen area in
our classroom. He was the daddy and I was the mommy. Rayshaun was clobbering a baby doll's back over his shoulder, “burping” it. It was one of those dolls whose hair is really just molded plastic.

He picked that particular doll for our “daughter” because he said her skin looked like the chocolate outside of an ice-cream sandwich just like mine. He said that since she was just a baby it didn't matter that she didn't have cornrow braids or lips like me (she basically had no lips; I have plenty). Our “son” was always this little white doll that looked more like Rayshaun—just without his nappy hair.

The whole “family” thing was all Rayshaun's idea, not mine, since he wanted to marry me and I wasn't sure I felt the same way about him. But I liked to play House though.

So there he was, pounding our poor daughter's back, while I stood at the ironing board ironing a red-and-white cotton bandana—the kind farmers and gang members wear. The iron wasn't hot or anything, of course. It didn't even have a plug.

All of a sudden, Rayshaun stopped whopping that doll, looked straight at me, and said,
“Taneesha Bey-Ross, my mother says you going to hell because you ain't Christian.”

Rayshaun's hair wasn't black like most kids'. It was this dusty brown like somebody had dumped a bucket of sand over it and he'd shook it off—only some stayed.

When he told me I was going to hell, I'd felt like he'd dumped dirt all over me. But I couldn't shake it off. I didn't let him know I felt that way, though.

After school that day, I stood in my kitchen and cried, “Mama, why'd you tell?!”

The week before, my mother had come to my class for Cultural Traditions Day. She brought food like other parents did—collard greens. She talked about how African American slaves ate them back in the day and how collards were healthy because they had a lot of fiber and more calcium than a cup of milk. All the kids kept saying her greens tasted good and that we looked just alike, except I was a pretzel stick and she had a shape.

But Alima Ross couldn't leave it at that. Oh, no, not my mother. True to form, she had to go all extreme and tell everybody about our family's
unique
little tradition.

“Mama, why'd you tell we're
Buddhist
?!” I'd
screamed in the kitchen. “Rayshaun said his mother says I'm going to hell!”

Mama had had on a nurse's uniform—a scrub top and pants—that was pinkish red like grapes. She stooped down and made her dark brown face even with mine. I smelled apples in the grayish afro puff on her head. With a white ball of Kleenex in her hand, she started wiping away the tears and snot that ran down my face.

“Taneesha,” she said, “I'm so sorry Rayshaun said that to you. But sweetie, hell and heaven aren't places. They're right in here.” She patted my chest. “Buddhahood is too. Do you know what that is?”

I sniffed and shook my head. I thought Mama might have told me what Buddhahood was before but I couldn't remember.

“It's happiness that's as big as the whole universe. And when you chant Nam Myoho Renge Kyo, you make it come out.”

She told me to chant for Rayshaun and his mother to be happy.

Mama and I chanted together at the altar in our living room and that made me feel okay.

Oh, the simple mind of a kindergartner. I'd
actually thought that would be it. Chant and the world would go back to normal.

But what really happened was this: For a long time—on the school playground, in the lunchroom, standing in line, whenever and wherever he could—Rayshaun, who was chubby back then, not solid like he is now, kept following behind me, saying “You going to
hell
, Taneesha. You better get
saved
.”

I never told our teacher. I was afraid if the other kids found out what Rayshaun said, they'd agree with him.

And I didn't say anything more to Mama about it either. Even when she asked. I just acted like it was all over.

Why'd I do that? For one thing, her chanting idea had obviously been a big fat
dud
. For another, I didn't want her coming up to Hunter to talk to Rayshaun because then my whole class would have
definitely
found out about the whole situation.

So I'd just whisper back at that boy, “No I'm not going to hell, Rayshaun Parker. Hell's not a place, it's inside.”

After a while, he stopped bugging me. But we
never went back to being friends like before. Far from it. Whenever Rayshaun got the chance, he'd laugh at something dumb I did.

Guaranteed public humiliation: one more reason why what was coming next in Room 509 was totally out of the question.

I glanced at the clock. I wondered how long we had 'til lunch. I imagined chowing down on a cool slice of cheese laid out on a piece of Mr. Alvarez's crunchy shirt.

“Now, let's get started on the task at hand,” he said, looking mighty cheesy. “Are there any nominations for class president?”

A terrifying sight ripped me from my cheddary daydream—Carli's hand shooting up into the air. I wanted to scream at that girl flat out, instead of only in my suddenly splittingheadachy head.