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Dear God," She Prayed, "let Me Be Something Every Minute Of Every Hour Of My Life. Let Me Be Gay; Let Me Be Sad. Let Me Be Cold; Let Me Be Warm. Let Me Be Hungry...have Too Much To Eat. Let Me Be Ragged Or Well Dressed. Let Me Be Sincere - Be Deceitful. Let Me Be Truthful; Let Me Be A Liar. Let Me Be Honorable And Let Me Sin. Only Let Me Be Something Every Blessed Minute. And When I Sleep, Let Me Dream All The Time So That Not One Little Piece Of Living Is Ever Lost.

-Betty Smith

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Dear God," She Prayed,

Betty Smith

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Dear God," She Prayed, "let Me Be Something Every Minute Of Every Hour Of My Life. Let Me Be Gay; Let Me Be Sad. Let Me Be Cold; Let Me Be Warm. Let Me Be Hungry...have Too Much To Eat. Let Me Be Ragged Or Well Dressed. Let Me Be Sincere - Be Deceitful. Let Me Be Truthful; Let Me Be A Liar. Let Me Be Honorable And Let Me Sin. Only Let Me Be Something Every Blessed Minute. And When I Sleep, Let Me Dream All The Time So That Not One Little Piece Of Living Is Ever Lost.

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The World Was Hers For The Reading.

People Looking Up At Her--at Her Smooth Pretty Vivacious Face--had No Way Of Knowing About The Painfully Articulated Resolves Formulating In Her Mind.

The Library Was A Little Old Shaby Place. Francie Thought It Was Beautiful. The Feeling She Had About It Was As Good As The Feeling She Had About Church. She Pushed Open The Door And Went In. She Liked The Cmbined Smell Of Worn Leather Bindings, Library Past And Freshly Inked Stamping Pads Better Than She Liked The Smell Of Burning Incense At High Mass.

It Meant That She Belonged Some Place. She Was A Brooklyn Girl With A Brooklyn Name And A Brooklyn Accent. She Didn't Want To Change Into A Bit Of This And A Bit Of That.

I Know That's What People Say-- You'll Get Over It. I'd Say It, Too. But I Know It's Not True. Oh, Youll Be Happy Again, Never Fear. But You Won't Forget. Every Time You Fall In Love It Will Be Because Something In The Man Reminds You Of Him.

Books Became Her Friends, And There Was One For Every Mood.

Intimate Friends

She Had Become Accustomed To Being Lonely. She Was Used To Walking Alone And To Being Considered 'different.' She Did Not Suffer Too Much.

Those Were The Rommely Women: Mary, The Mother, Evy, Sissy, And Katie, Her Daughters, And Francie, Who Would Grow Up To Be A Rommely Woman Even Though Her Name Was Nolan. They Were All Slender, Frail Creatures With Wondering Eyes And Soft Fluttery Voices. But They Were Made Out Of Thin Invisible Steel.

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Everything, Decided Francie After That First Lecture, Was Vibrant With Life And There Was No Death In Chemistry. She Was Puzzled As To Why Learned People Didn't Adopt Chemistry As A Religion.

It Was The Last Time She’d See The River From That Window. The Last Time Of Anything Has The Poignancy Of Death Itself. This That I See Now, She Thought, To See No More This Way. Oh, The Last Time How Clearly You See Everything; As Though A Magnifying Light Had Been Turned On It. And You Grieve Because You Hadn’t Held It Tighter When You Had It Every Day.

It Takes A Lot Of Doing To Die.

Serene Was A Word You Could Put To Brooklyn New York. Especially In The Summer Of 1912. Somber As A Word Was Better. But It Did Not Apply To Williamsburg Brooklyn. Prairie Was Lovely And Shenandoah Had A Beautiful Sound But You Couldn't Fit Those Words Into Brooklyn. Serene Was The Only Word For It Especially On A Saturday Afternoon In Summer.

From That Time On, The World Was Hers For The Reading. She Would Never Be Lonely Again, Never Miss The Lack Of Intimate Friends. Books Became Her Friends And There Was One For Every Mood.

It Was A Good Thing That She Got Herself Into This Other School. It Showed Her That There Were Other Worlds Beside The World She Had Been Born Into And That These Other Worlds Were Not Unattainable.

She Was Surprised At How Tiny It Seemed Now. She Supposed The School Was Just As Big As It Had Ever Been Only Her Eyes Had Grown Used To Looking At Bigger Things.

I Want To Live For Something. I Don't Want To Live To Get Charity Food To Give Me Enough Strength To Go Back To Get More Charity Food.

And You Must Tell The Child The Legends I Told You - As My Mother Told Them To Me And Her Mother To Her. You Must Tell The Fairy Tales Of The Old Country. You Must Tell Of Those Not Of The Earth Who Live Forever In The Hearts Of The People.

...the Reading, The Observing, The Living From Day To Day. It Was Something That Had Been Born Into Her And Her Only - The Something Different From Anyone Else In The Two Families. It Was What God Or Whatever Is His Equivalent Puts Into Each Soul That Is Given Life - The One Different Thing Such As That Which Makes No Two Fingerprints On The Face Of The Earth Alike.

There Are Very Few Bad People. There Are Just A Lot Of People That Are Unlucky.

I Wrote About People Who Liked Fake Fireplaces In Their Parlor, Who Thought A Brass Horse With A Clock Embedded In Its Flank Was Wonderful.

No. I Don't Want To Need Anybody. I Want Someone To Need Me ... I Want Someone To Need Me.

People Always Think That Happiness Is A Faraway Thing," Thought Francie, "something Complicated And Hard To Get. Yet, What Little Things Can Make It Up; A Place Of Shelter When It Rains - A Cup Of Strong Hot Coffee When You're Blue; For A Man, A Cigarette For Contentment; A Book To Read When You're Alone - Just To Be With Someone You Love. Those Things Make Happiness.

A Person Who Pulls Himself Up From A Low Environment Via The Bootstrap Route Has Two Choices. Having Risen Above His Environment, He Can Forget It; Or, He Can Rise Above It And Never Forget It And Keep Compassion And Understanding In His Heart For Those He Has Left Behind Him In The Cruel Upclimb.

No Matter Where Its Seed Fell, It Made A Tree Which Struggled To Reach The Sky. It Grew In Boarded-up Lots And Out Of Neglected Rubbish Heaps, And It Was The Only Tree That Grew Out Of Cement. It Grew Lushly, But Only In The Tenements Districts.... That Was The Kind Of Tree It Was. It Liked Poor People.

Well' Francie Decided, 'i Guess The Thing That Is Giving Me This Headache Is Life - And Nothing Else But'.

Oh Time...time, Pass So That I Forget! Oh Time, Great Healer, Pass Over Me And Let Me Forget.

As Long As One Can Suffer, One Is Living....live And Suffer Until Life Is Gone.

But This Tree In The Yard-this Tree That Men Chopped Down...this Tree That They Built A Bonfire Around, Trying To Burn Up It's Stump-this Tree Lived! It Lived! And Nothing Could Destroy It.

There's A Tree That Grows In Brooklyn. Some People Call It The Tree Of Heaven. No Matter Where Its Seed Falls, It Makes A Tree Which Struggles To Reach The Sky. It Grows In Boarded-up Lots And Out Of Neglected Rubbish Heaps. It Grows Up Out Of Cellar Gratings. It Is The Only Tree That Grows Out Of Cement. It Grows Lushly . . . Survives Without Sun, Water, And Seemingly Without Earth. It Would Be Considered Beautiful Except That There Are Too Many Of It.

Let Me Be Something Every Minute Of Every Hour Of My Life...and When I Sleep, Let Me Dream All The Time So That Not One Little Piece Of Living Is Ever Lost.

Did You Ever See So Many Pee-wee Hats, Carl?" "they're Beanies." "they Call Them Pee-wees In Brooklyn." "but I'm Not In Brooklyn." "but You're Still A Brooklynite." "i Wouldn't Want That To Get Around, Annie." "you Don't Mean That, Carl." "ah, We Might As Well Call Them Beanies, Annie." "why?" "when In Rome Do As The Romans Do." "do They Call Them Beanies In Rome?" She Asked Artlessly. "this Is The Silliest Conversation.

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The Difference Between Rich And Poor", Said Francie, "is That The Poor Do Everything With Thier Own Hands And The Rich Hire Hands To Do Things.

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Fullness Of Life

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Look At Everything As Though You Are Seeing It For The First Time.

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If There Was Only One Tree Like That In The World, You Would Think It Was Beautiful. But Because There Are So Many, You Just Can't See How Beautiful It Really Is.

From That Moment On, The World Was Hers For The Reading. She Would Never Be Lonely Again.

'dear God,' She Prayed, 'let Me Be Something Every Minute Of Every Hour Of My Life.'

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But She Needs Me More Than She Needs Him And I Guess Being Needed Is Almost As Good As Being Loved. Maybe Better.

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And Always, There Was The Magic Of Learning Things.

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It Is A Good Thing To Learn The Truth One's Self. To First Believe With All Your Heart, And Then Not To Believe, Is Good Too. It Fattens The Emotions And Makes Them To Stretch.

She Was Made Up Of More, Too. She Was The Books She Read In The Library. She Was The Flower In The Brown Bowl. Part Of Her Life Was Made From The Tree Growing Rankly In The Yard. She Was The Bitter Quarrels She Had With Her Brother Whom She Loved Dearly. She Was Katie's Secret, Despairing Weeping. She Was The Shame Of Her Father Stumbling Home Drunk. She Was All Of These Things And Of Something More...it Was What God Or Whatever Is His Equivalent Puts Into Each Soul That Is Given Life - The One Different Thing Such As That Which Makes No Two Fingerprints On The Face Of The Earth Alike.

Suffering Is Also Good, It Makes A Person Rich In Charachter.

I'll Not Punish You For Having An Imagination.

How Much Do They Be Paying You?" He Asked Mellowly. "the Usual Salary. A Little More Than They Think I'm Worth And A Little Less Than I Think I'm Worth.

Well, There's A Little Bit Of Man In Every Woman And A Little Bit Of Woman In Every Man.

She Had Heard Papa Sing So Many Songs About The Heart; The Heart That Was Breaking - Was Aching - Was Dancing -was Heavy Laden - That Leaped For Joy - That Was Heavy In Sorrow - That Turned Over - That Stood Still. She Really Believed The Heart Actually Did Those Things.

Oh, Magic Hour, When A Child First Knows She Can Read Printed Words.

Brooklyn Was A Dream. All The Things That Happened There Just Couldn't Happen. It Was All Dream Stuff. Or Was It All Real And True And Was It That She, Francie, Was The Dreamer?

You Took A Walk On A Sunday Afternoon And Came To A Nice Neighborhood, Very Refined. You Saw A Small One Of These Trees Through The Iron Gate Leading To Someone's Yard And You Knew That Soon That Section Of Brooklyn Would Get To Be A Tenement District. The Tree Knew. It Came There First. Afterwards, Poor Foreigners Seeped In And The Quiet Old Brownstone Houses Were Hacked Up Into Flats, Feather Beds Were Pushed Out On The Window Sills To Air And The Tree Of Heaven Flourished. That Was The Kind Of Tree It Was. It Liked Poor People.

A Lie Was Something You Told Because You Were Mean Or A Coward. A Story Was Something You Made Up Out Of Something That Might Have Happened. Only You Didn't Tell It Like It Was, You Told It Like You Thought It Should Have Been.

I Hate All Those Flirty-birty Games That Women Make Up. Life's Too Short. If You Ever Find A Man You Love, Don't Waste Time Hanging Your Head And Simpering. Go Right Up To Him And Say, 'i Love You. How About Getting Married?

She Had Had The Pain; It Had Been Like Being Boiled Alive In Scalding Oil And Not Being Able To Die To Get Free Of It

There Is Here, What Is Not In The Old Country. In Spite Of Hard, Unfamiliar Things, There Is Here - Hope. In The Old Country, A Man Can Be No More Than His Father, Providing He Works Hard. If His Father Was A Carpenter, He May Be A Carpenter. He Many Not Be A Teacher Or A Priest. He May Rise - But Only To His Father's State. In The Old Country, A Man Is Given To The Past. Here He Belongs To The Future. In This Land, He May Be What He Will, If He Has The Good Heart And The Way Of Working Honestly At The Right Things.

Dear God," She Prayed, "let Me Be Something Every Minute Of Every Hour Of My Life. Let Me Be Gay; Let Me Be Sad. Let Me Be Cold; Let Me Be Warm. Let Me Be Hungry...have Too Much To Eat. Let Me Be Ragged Or Well Dressed. Let Me Be Sincere - Be Deceitful. Let Me Be Truthful; Let Me Be A Liar. Let Me Be Honorable And Let Me Sin. Only Let Me Be Something Every Blessed Minute. And When I Sleep, Let Me Dream All The Time So That Not One Little Piece Of Living Is Ever Lost.

Mother, I Am Young. Mother, I Am Just Eighteen. I Am Strong. I Will Work Hard, Mother. But I Do Not Want This Child To Grow Up Just To Work Hard. What Must I Do, Mother, What Must I Do To Make A Different World For Her? How Do I Start?" "the Secret Lies In The Reading And The Writing. You Are Able To Read. Every Day You Must Read One Page From Some Good Book To Your Child. Every Day This Must Be Until The Child Learns To Read. Then She Must Read Every Day, I Know This Is The Secret

Yes, When I Get Big And Have My Own Home, No Plush Chairs And Lace Curtains For Me. And No Rubber Plants. I'll Have A Desk Like This In My Parlor And White Walls And A Clean Green Blotter Every Saturday Night And A Row Of Shining Yellow Pencils Always Sharpened For Writing And A Golden-brown Bowl With A Flower Or Some Leaves Or Berries Always In It And Books . . . Books . . . Books. . . .

People Always Think That Happiness Is A Faraway Thing … Something Complicated And Hard To Get. Yet, What Little Things Can Make It Up.

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