Talent and Hard Work Theme Analysis

My most endearing trait, and being as modest as I am I had to ask my brother Jimmie for this, is that I have the heart of a champion, am steady as a rock and can be counted on to do what is required. Jimmie also said that I am the smartest kid he has ever met but my all-encompassing and pervasive humility prevents me from putting that on this list.

My first pet peeve is when people don’t pronounce my name right. […] My second pet peeve is that the Gary Iron-Head Dogs, the best baseball team in the world, have been cursed and will never win the Negro Leagues championship.

My dream is to read every book in the Gary Public Library and to be a teacher who has the reputation for being tough but fair. Just like Mrs. Needham.

“Smile, kiddo,” the bad brain said. “Get as close as we can.”

Clarice had covered her mouth with both hands. It was easy to see that she was grief-struck that something this terrible could happen on the next-to-last day of school.

“Okay, kiddo, when she hands the paper to you, snatch her arm! We’ll get two or three bites in before she can slap us off or call for help!”

[…]

I held my breath, giving her one last chance to say, “Dear me, Miss Malone, I’m so sorry, I’ve made a terrible mistake, I should have called Clarice.”

Mrs. Needham looked right in my eyes, held my essay out and said, “Very good job, Deza.”

Very good job?

Was she playing a joke on me? I looked at what was written in red on the top of my paper. There was a big “A-” sitting there!

“Deza, I have been teaching longer than you could imagine, and I’ve always had the dream any teacher worth her salt has. I had thought, prior to this year, that I would have to be satisfied in coming close to the dream once, before, alas, ‘the best-laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley….’

“The dream is the gift of having one student, just one, who is capable of making a real contribution. One child who’d have no choice but to make a difference for our people.

“Out of the thousands of students I’ve had in the thousands of years I’ve been teaching, I’ve suspected for quite a while who the child I’ve been waiting for is.”

All I could think was, I love her like a sister, but, please, just don’t say Clarice!

“Miss Malone, you are that child.”

As I smoothed my fingers over the dress I started having worries. Maybe I should show her only my shoes … no, maybe only my dress. …

My other brain said, “He’s right, you know, kiddo…”

And just like that, I did know. If the bad brain was agreeing with him then Jimmie was wrong.

I gave myself a good soapy wash and smoothed my hair back with a little Vaseline. I put baking soda in my palm and brushed my teeth. I rubbed some more of the Vaseline into my legs and arms till they were nice and shiny. I put on the new slip, the socks and shoes. Then, being extra careful not to get any Vaseline on it, I slid the most beautiful piece of blue gingham clothes ever made over my head.

I’m not sure what’s more surprising about the first notes of any song Jimmie sings—what it does to me, or the changes it brings in Jimmie.

I have to close my eyes, just like he does. I can’t tolerate anything that would interfere with hearing his voice.

[…]

And it seems like Jimmie makes himself larger and larger as he sings. If I opened my eyes I’d see he’d grown so much that he was filling every square inch of the park. No room would be able to hold him, chairs and rugs would get crowded up against the walls.

His voice always stayed light and high-pitched and soft, but it was strong in a way that let on that there were stories behind each word.

The woman who answered the door was strikingly beautiful and long-limbed and dressed in a flowing robe that looked like an orange cloud had left the skies and was floating around her legs.

She smiled and hugged Jimmie. “Little Jimmie! I know you from the park! I love your voice, poppa!”

[…]

The woman told the numbers man, “I’m only doing this because it’s Little Jimmie’s family. You already dumped that Carter woman and her brat in the basement and that’s that. This ain’t no hotel or no orphanage either.”

Marvelous Marvin said, “Woman, please.”

She pointed at me. “I’d best not catch you snooping round my sister’s room neither.”

He’d written, “Good for you!” and put a giant C+ with three exclamation points.

I turned the paper back over. Maybe I saw it wrong.

I looked again but it was the same.

One sign that I had toughened up was that instead of crying I thought of a little joke that Jimmie said he did whenever he didn’t like his grade.

“I turn the paper over, then, the same way people bang on a machine when it ain’t acting right, I smack my hand on the paper. Maybe if I bang it hard enough my grade will jump up a mark!”

It was nonsense, but I slapped my hand on Mr. Smith’s essay.

I turned the paper back over and smiled.

I’d have to tell Jimmie that it still wasn’t working.

“But it wasn’t me singing, it was my brother, my big brother!” I don’t think a prouder sentence has ever crossed my lips. […] “We tell him all the time that thee isn’t anyone else in the world with a voice so beautiful.”

The harmonica man said to him, “I played all over this country and I ain’t never heard nothing like that in my life. […] My name’s Zeke Greene, folks call me Saw-Bone Zee and it’s a true honor to make the acquaintance of a brother musician like you, sir.”

Sir!

It’s horrible what one tiny word can do to you. […] I’d learned not to cry or even get angry when all sorts of calamity befell us. […] I thought I could control it all.

And then this man called Jimmie “sir” and all my hardness melted away.

The curtain split in the middle and a man in a beautiful blue suit with a pair of two-tone blue shoes and a matching blue hat stood with his head bowed. His face was completely covered by the brim of the blue hat. […]

I froze. Maybe this man was going to introduce Jimmie.

The drum banged. The people cheered louder. The drum banged one more time and the music stopped.

The man kept his head down and raised the microphone to his mouth. […]

Then a clear, strong voice sang, “More or less resigned to crying over Angela…” The band jumped in, the crowd screamed louder and I found out for a fact that I am not a swooner, because if there was anything in the world that could make you swoon, it was […] the voice of the Genuine, Gentle Jumpin’ Giant, Jimmie Malone!