Caleb Assam Character Analysis

Day in and day out Kinjari eyes me, staring like he sees the sun rising in my eyes. I want to ask him why he looks at me that way. Am I something so beautiful he can’t help but stare? I keep quiet. Beauty is where one finds it, my father used to say. […]

I was sick, bad, for a long while. When I woke up, Kinjari was gone. Dead. “He had the mark. The pocks,” the girl chained to me said, sucking her front teeth like they was soup bones. “The slavers tossed him over the side,” she said.

But this one, she steals my food. Can I trust her with the truth? I don’t know.

I didn’t plan it that way. I just froze, I guess. The school is so big. So clean. So fancy. And them girls…they looked like they come out of a magazine. Long, straight hair. Skin the color of potato chips and cashews and Mary Jane candies. No Almond Joy-colored girls like me. No gum-smacking, wisecracking girls from my side of town.

That didn’t bother Sweets none. She says she deserves to be in that school as much as anyone.

“You got the right color skin,” I said, poking her fat tan face.

“It’s not about color,” she said. “It’s how you feel about who you are that counts.”

He says something stupid-crazy. Says it was back in second grade when I first moved to the Heights. I walked into class that first day with my new pink polka-dotted dress on and black patent leather shoes. The teacher told me to sit in the desk next to his. I said I didn’t want to. I wanted to sit in the one up front, next to Caleb.

“That half-white punk,” John-John says, knowing full well Caleb ain’t mixed.

Now my mouth’s hanging open. “I didn’t even know Caleb back then,” I say. “I wanted to sit up front, ‘cause I couldn’t see the board,” I explain. […]

“No matter,” he says. “You given me plenty of reasons not to like you since then. Thinking you super-smart. Acting like you too good for me.”

Mostly I’m thinking and writing in my diary—our diary, Akeelma’s and mine. Lately it’s hard to know where Akeelma’s thoughts begin and mine end. I mean, I might be starting off with her talking about how scared she is with the smallpox spreading around the ship and killing people. Then I end up the same paragraph with Akeelma saying she’s scared that maybe people will always think she’s ugly. But I’m really talking about myself. I’m scared people will always think I’m ugly.

I showed this last part to Miss Saunders. She said this is powerful stuff. “Writing is clearly one of your gifts, Maleeka,” she said. I know it sounds stupid, but when I was leaving Miss Saunders’s classroom, I hugged them papers to my chest like they was some boy I’ve been wanting to press up against for weeks. It feels good doing something not everybody can do.

“Listen up, Maleeka,” Caleb says, grabbing hold of my arm, and whispering in my ear. “Your girl Char is whacked. You better stay clear of her before she ends up taking you down with her.”

“Char and me are friends,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, right,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “Char’s the kind of friend that will get you locked up or shot up,” he says, walking away.

“All I done for you,” Char says. “You gonna leave me out to dry like this. Wait till later, you ugly, stupid black thing.”

Call me by my name! I hear Akeelma say, and I scream it out, too. “Call me by my name! I am not ugly. I am not stupid. I am Maleeka Madison, and, yeah, I’m black, real black, and if you don’t like me, too bad ‘cause black is the skin I’m in!”

Would you be my Almond Joy
My chocolate chip, my Hershey Kiss
My sweet dark chocolate butter crisp?

Caleb’s poem makes me cry. It is so sweet. I look at my face in the mirror and smile. I promise myself to hang Caleb’s poem on the wall with Daddy’s and the one from the library.

Day in and day out Kinjari eyes me, staring like he sees the sun rising in my eyes. I want to ask him why he looks at me that way. Am I something so beautiful he can’t help but stare? I keep quiet. Beauty is where one finds it, my father used to say. […]

I was sick, bad, for a long while. When I woke up, Kinjari was gone. Dead. “He had the mark. The pocks,” the girl chained to me said, sucking her front teeth like they was soup bones. “The slavers tossed him over the side,” she said.

But this one, she steals my food. Can I trust her with the truth? I don’t know.

I didn’t plan it that way. I just froze, I guess. The school is so big. So clean. So fancy. And them girls…they looked like they come out of a magazine. Long, straight hair. Skin the color of potato chips and cashews and Mary Jane candies. No Almond Joy-colored girls like me. No gum-smacking, wisecracking girls from my side of town.

That didn’t bother Sweets none. She says she deserves to be in that school as much as anyone.

“You got the right color skin,” I said, poking her fat tan face.

“It’s not about color,” she said. “It’s how you feel about who you are that counts.”

He says something stupid-crazy. Says it was back in second grade when I first moved to the Heights. I walked into class that first day with my new pink polka-dotted dress on and black patent leather shoes. The teacher told me to sit in the desk next to his. I said I didn’t want to. I wanted to sit in the one up front, next to Caleb.

“That half-white punk,” John-John says, knowing full well Caleb ain’t mixed.

Now my mouth’s hanging open. “I didn’t even know Caleb back then,” I say. “I wanted to sit up front, ‘cause I couldn’t see the board,” I explain. […]

“No matter,” he says. “You given me plenty of reasons not to like you since then. Thinking you super-smart. Acting like you too good for me.”

Mostly I’m thinking and writing in my diary—our diary, Akeelma’s and mine. Lately it’s hard to know where Akeelma’s thoughts begin and mine end. I mean, I might be starting off with her talking about how scared she is with the smallpox spreading around the ship and killing people. Then I end up the same paragraph with Akeelma saying she’s scared that maybe people will always think she’s ugly. But I’m really talking about myself. I’m scared people will always think I’m ugly.

I showed this last part to Miss Saunders. She said this is powerful stuff. “Writing is clearly one of your gifts, Maleeka,” she said. I know it sounds stupid, but when I was leaving Miss Saunders’s classroom, I hugged them papers to my chest like they was some boy I’ve been wanting to press up against for weeks. It feels good doing something not everybody can do.

“Listen up, Maleeka,” Caleb says, grabbing hold of my arm, and whispering in my ear. “Your girl Char is whacked. You better stay clear of her before she ends up taking you down with her.”

“Char and me are friends,” I say quietly.

“Yeah, right,” Caleb says, shaking his head. “Char’s the kind of friend that will get you locked up or shot up,” he says, walking away.

“All I done for you,” Char says. “You gonna leave me out to dry like this. Wait till later, you ugly, stupid black thing.”

Call me by my name! I hear Akeelma say, and I scream it out, too. “Call me by my name! I am not ugly. I am not stupid. I am Maleeka Madison, and, yeah, I’m black, real black, and if you don’t like me, too bad ‘cause black is the skin I’m in!”

Would you be my Almond Joy
My chocolate chip, my Hershey Kiss
My sweet dark chocolate butter crisp?

Caleb’s poem makes me cry. It is so sweet. I look at my face in the mirror and smile. I promise myself to hang Caleb’s poem on the wall with Daddy’s and the one from the library.