Little A: The Dreamer

By John Chipley

This is a book about a thirteen-year-old African American boy; his best friend, Enoch; and a man known as Mr. Snake. It is about becoming president of the United States.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546215097

John Chipley

Shirley Nelson Kersey, Ph.D. Readers of the books of fiction featuring Little A, a boy living in the projects of Memphis, are instantly aware that the writer is eminently qualified to focus on this young hero. Only a person who has taught in the inner city schools is able to create a fictional, yet realistic account of the life of a youngster struggling to find himself in this environment. John Chipley, whom the boys fondly have dubbed Mr. Chip, taught in Memphis inner-city schools for over fifteen years. In retirement he offers weekly volunteer sessions that focus on encouraging boys to read. This is a lofty goal, for the boys live in homes and neighborhood environments not structured to develop reading skills or dreams of career advancement. Mr. Chip’s goal surpasses development of reading ability to encourage the boys to enjoy this privilege. Chipley is formally prepared to teach, for he holds both Bachelor and Master of Education degrees. However, the most memorable aspect of his classroom presence is his heart. He cares deeply about each one of his students and is there for them both now and in the future. Through the persona of Little A, Chipley gives the boys a fictional character with whom they can identify. Little A’s life style echoes theirs. While reading this series of books, the boys witness someone they can relate to. Little A is a wonderful fictional character full of wisdom, character, adventure, and confidence.

Book preview

© 2017 John Chipley. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/08/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1510-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1508-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1509-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017916756

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The Treehouse Writers

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Mrs. Marquita Carter, Teacher (6th grade)

° Grace

° Abu

° Silvia

° Jasmine

° Michael

° Iman

° Alex

° Joyce

° Maureco

° Whitney

° Dut

° Gege

Binghampton Christian Academy, Memphis, TN. 38111

The Treehouse Club dedicates this Little A book to our fantastic editors, Shirley Nelson Kersey Ph.D. and Zoe Jackson M.Ed.

About the Author, Mr. Chip

Written by Shirley Nelson Kelsey, Ph.D.

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Readers of the books of fiction featuring Little A, a boy living in the projects of Memphis, are instantly aware that the writer is eminently qualified to focus on this young hero.

Only a person who has taught in the inner city schools is able to create a fictional, yet realistic account of the life of a youngster struggling to find himself in this environment.

John Chipley, whom the boys fondly have dubbed Mr. Chip, taught in Memphis inner-city schools for over fifteen years. In retirement he offers weekly volunteer sessions that focus on encouraging boys to read. This is a lofty goal, for the boys live in homes and neighborhood environments not structured to develop reading skills or dreams of career advancement. Mr. Chip’s goal surpasses development of reading ability to encourage the boys to enjoy this privilege.

Chipley is formally prepared to teach, for he holds both Bachelor and Master of Education degrees. However, the most memorable aspect of his classroom presence is his heart. He cares deeply about each one of his students and is there for them both now and in the future. Through the persona of Little A, Chipley gives the boys a fictional character with whom they can identify. Little A’s life style echoes theirs. While reading this series of books, the boys witness someone they can relate to. Little A is a wonderful fictional character full of wisdom, character, adventure, and confidence.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Little A, the Dreamer

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Introduction

I am now ninety-three years old. My name is President Abraham Alexander, (former United States President). My story started when I was just a boy of only thirteen. To this day, no one knows the real story of how I became president. Even I have forgotten some of it, but not all. It’s not what most people think. I am not the person most people think I am. However, I think I was a good president, I hope I was a good president. No, I hope I was a great president.

But becoming president and being president are two different things. Up until now, history has documented what I did as president, but not what I did to become president. I’m not proud of what I did. It started at an early age when I was just a boy. I didn’t understand what I was about to do, then suddenly it was too late to stop. No one can go back and change the past, not even the president of the United States. So, now I live with my thoughts, my memories, and my conscience. May God have mercy on my soul.

Chapter 1

I grew up in the inner-city of Memphis, a neighborhood called Binghampton. I was thirteen when I met my dad for the first time. Mom said I had to visit him. He lived in prison. He was dying. He wanted to see me. He had never seen me, and I had never seen him.

Mom and I took the express bus out to the edge of town where the prison stood like a giant fortress. All I could see were long rows of buildings with red metal roofs. It was Prison Row, but everyone I knew called it the Red Top Inn. The only people who rode the express bus were people visiting friends or family members who lived at the Red Top Inn. The bus was an old yellow school bus, referred to as the Yellow Express. Mom and I got on the Yellow Express at the Memphis downtown bus station. We got off the Yellow Express at the prison gate.

Everyone who rode the bus was searched: men, women, boys, girls, even babies. After being searched, we were taken to a large cold room with windows up too high to see out of, windows with iron bars not curtains. Everything inside the room was made of metal, old metal. The metal was chipped and worn from years of age, anger, lies, and regrets. The room echoed the whispered sounds of other visitors and was filled with the institutional smell of Clorox. The smell was a constant reminder of where you were, and where you were, wasn’t home. Where you were, was Hell!

Mom and I sat at a large round table. A prison guard stood next to us, as if we needed protection. I sat quietly and waited for my dad. After a while, a man walked through the door at the far end of the room. He was tall, extremely thin and had short cut gray hair. And he was white, not just his hair, but his skin. He was a white man. His orange uniform hung over his stick-like frame as if it were the wrong size. He just stood there staring at me, as if he weren’t sure about something. Then he slowly started moving in my direction. It took him forever to shuffle from where he stood to where we sat. With one hand he held a cane, and his other hand was used to hold up his pants. He slowly moved toward our table. He dragged his feet, wearing prison-issued orange flip-flops. When he got to our table, he just stood there. His eyes never left mine. They were red with both pain and sadness. He looked down at me, and then laughed, Boy, your mom didn’t tell you I was white, did she?

I looked up from my seat and responded, No sir.

Then he yelled at me, DON’T EVER CALL ME SIR, BOY! I DON’T DESERVE IT!

Instantly, a guard moved toward our table. Dad quickly got quiet, lowered his head, and stepped back a step or two. The guard stopped and pulled out his metal head basher. Dad, once again, began to laugh in a crazy kind of voice.

Well, go figure, he said, and then just stared at me. You’re beautiful. I know boys are not supposed to be beautiful, but you are. Thank you for coming to see me, I don’t deserve it. Tell me the truth, did your mom make you come?

Yep.

Are you O.K.?

Kinda.

You know I can’t touch you; it’s against the prison rules. Thirteen years and I can’t touch my own son. Crazy, total craziness. Do you understand?

No.

Did your mom tell you what I did?

No.

I killed a man. I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was only twenty-one. I killed my best damn friend, my only friend!

Then there was silence. I didn’t know what to say. Then Dad said it, I’m dying of AIDs. Do you know what that is?

Yes.

Boy, I had to see you. I was promised anything I wanted to eat before I died. I told the warden I wasn’t hungry anymore. I told the warden all I wanted was to see you. He agreed. Now I can die.

I began to cry, I don’t know why, but