I’ve always known the building was Anderson School. Dad had told me that much. But in the way of things that are always there, I hadn’t really thought to ask many questions. I knew what I knew, and I thought that was all there was to know — until I got older and really learned about Jim Crow and segregation, until I realized that some of my friends wouldn’t have been allowed to go to the same school as me. It took me far too long to learn that.
But when I did, Anderson suddenly became more than just an old, graying building off the road near Dad’s house. Then, it became a place full of history and stories, a place where people I loved had gotten their education, same as I had over at Woodbright in town. If I could still remember the smell of the mimeograph machine in the hallway and if th
