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    Freedom Train
    Freedom Train
    Freedom Train
    Ebook121 pages1 hour

    Freedom Train

    By Evelyn Coleman and David Riley

    3.5/5

    ()

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    About this ebook

    An enthralling account of a young boy’s struggle to help freedom triumph over fear in the 1940s American South.

    It’s 1947, and twelve-year-old Clyde Thomason is proud to have an older brother who guards the Freedom Train—a train that is traveling to all forty-eight states carrying the country’s most important documents, including the Declaration of Independence and the Bill of Rights.

    Clyde hasn’t told his parents he won’t perform the Freedom Pledge because of stage fright, nor has he mentioned his confusing friendship with a boy of color. So when the townspeople threaten William’s family, Clyde has a choice to make: Will he keep quiet, or stand up for real freedom?

    Ideal for classrooms, Freedom Train contains historical photos of the Freedom Train and its guards, as well as an author’s note that provides additional information about the history of the Freedom Train.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMargaret K. McElderry Books
    Release dateJan 3, 2012
    ISBN9781442436534
    Freedom Train
    Author

    Evelyn Coleman

    Evelyn Coleman’s books include To Be a Drum; White Socks Only; The Riches of Oseola McCarty, a Smithsonian Notable Book and a Carter G. Woodson Honor Book; and Born in Sin. Evelyn lives in Atlanta, Georgia, where she received the Atlanta Mayor’s fellowship for achievement in children’s literature. Visit Evelyn online at EvelynColeman.com.

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    3.5/5

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    • 4/5
      In this book, author Evelyn Coleman tells the story of Clyde Thomason, a boy growing up in a poor white community near Atlanta in the 1940s. Although Clyde is excited that the Freedom Train (a train carrying important documents, such as the Bill of Rights) is coming to Atlanta, he is nervous about having to recite the Freedom Pledge in front of hundreds of people upon the train’s arrival. Finding himself both a target of the class bully as well as a friend of a discriminated-against African American boy in his town, Clyde also learns important lessons throughout the book about injustice and the true meaning of freedom.

      This book is fast-paced and full of action. It has short chapters and one simple representative illustration at the beginning of each chapter. At the end of the book, the author has included a historical note about the real Freedom Train of the 1940s, the historical licenses she embraced in writing the story, her inspirations in writing it, and three historical photographs of the Freedom Train. This book is recommended for school and public libraries because of the historical picture of the 1940s South that it presents, as well as the important lessons within it.

    Book preview

    Freedom Train - Evelyn Coleman

    CAPTAIN CHESTER SAVES THE DAY

    Phillip Granger was the most ornery, hateful body that ever stepped foot in our school, and he never stopped proving it. He was in my class ’cause they kicked him out of his fancy private school. Seemed like we was getting the punishment, though, seeing as how he tortured us all. A couple days before Christmas vacation weren’t no different. I was minding my own business when I heard, Pst, from two rows back.

    Miss Fowler clapped her hands and said, Get out your history books and read silently, class.

    Pst. Pst. Pst.

    I didn’t look back. I opened my book. Pst. Pst. Pst. The pst’s was gettin’ louder. I twisted in my seat and saw Phillip Granger smirking at me.

    Hey, Clyyyyde, Phillip whispered.

    Phillip always said my name like it was as bad as eating a pile of dookie. His pa was a boss at the cotton mill. Phillip didn’t waste any time throwing it up in our faces, that his pa told our mas and pas what to do. Ain’t nothing we could say about it neither, since it was true. We just had to grin and bear it.

    Phillip smiled and held up a torn Marvel comic cover. Look’ee, look’ee.

    You better give it back to him, Phillip, Ronnie said. He sat in the middle row, between us. He was my best friend since we was little.

    Phillip, half standing, reached across two people and gave him a pluck in the head. You better stay out of this, that’s what you better do, Ronnie Shumate.

    It’s okay, Ronnie, I said. My brother is gonna send me another just like that one. I didn’t know that for sure, ’cause I hadn’t had a chance to tell Joseph that Phillip Granger had snatched my comic and tore it. It was his latest attack in a long list of meanness, and I didn’t want Joseph to think I couldn’t stand up for myself.

    Now I was about to explode. But I didn’t want no more trouble. Just yesterday me and Phillip went at it in the field after he snatched the comic book out of my hand. It was the cover with Captain Marvel and the Freedom Train. I only had it ’cause my brother, Joseph, was one of the marines guarding the train. But like always, Miss Fowler only saw me doing the scuffling, and she give me the whupping instead of Phillip.

    Pst. Pssst.

    I guess I needed to make my life more miserable. It wasn’t enough that I was the shortest twelve-year-old in seventh grade. Or maybe it wasn’t enough that my blond hair had a permanent cowlick that people teased me about. ’Cause I did what I shouldn’t have done—looked back again, just asking for it.

    Phillip held up the Captain Marvel cover. He balled it up slowly in his left hand. Then he hawked a glob on it.

    I hunkered down as Phillip’s bony fingers squeezed the paper tighter, the muscles in his arm flexing. I knew what was comin’ next. I squinted my eyes at him like Ma does when she’s warning me ’bout something.

    Miss Fowler was rummaging around at her desk. I cleared my throat so she’d look up.

    Phillip threw the spitball.

    Miss Fowler didn’t see nothing. Seemed like she weren’t never looking when Phillip did something bad.

    I ducked.

    But not soon enough.

    Splat. It hit me and popped off onto the floor beside my chair. I could feel the slime of Phillip Granger’s spit on the side of my ear. I grabbed for the handkerchief in my shirt pocket. And that’s when I knew I was doomed, ’cause Chester—that was my frog—started squirming.

    I’d packed him in my pocket that morning with some moss, wet dirt, and grass underneath my handkerchief. He’d been so still and quiet I’d forgotten ’bout him. Now I poked his head back down. I said as quiet as I could, Stay still.

    Chester hated being poked. I felt him pushing to get out. I grabbed him. That got him riled, and he told me so, in his itty-bitty-dog barking tree frog voice.

    Miss Fowler’s head jerked up. Who is making that noise?

    One of my favorite things about frogs and crickets is there ain’t hardly no way to tell where the sound they’re making is coming from. I tried to sit still, squeezing Chester’s sides to keep him from hopping out. But he just yelped louder.

    Miss Fowler stood up calmly, like nothing was going. Just watching her, you wouldn’t guess she was ’bout to snatch up her ruler. It was twelve inches long, and mostly every kid knew how to measure on account of it. Six inches of it done hit me just yesterday, and my hand was still smarting from it.

    Miss Fowler gave the evil eye to each one of us, like she could see right through to our brains and read our minds.

    Slapping the ruler on her palm, Miss Fowler walked between the desks. Then she held up her hand so we could see how red it was, just to show us she meant business.

    Each of us looked down hard at our book, aiming to look innocent.

    Then Chester started squirming, trying to escape. I squeezed him harder, just for a second. He barked—Quit it!—real loud.

    I had to think fast or I was a goner. I did a fake hiccup and hoped Miss Fowler would think that was the noise she heard.

    Miss Fowler said, All right, I’ve had quite enough. Who is making that noise? I know a real hiccup from a fake one, and that was most certainly a fake one.

    I wondered, How could anyone know the difference between a fake hiccup and a real one?

    Someone said, Where can I learn how to do fake hiccups, Miss Fowler?

    Then the entire class started hiccuping and laughing.

    Miss Fowler was boiling mad now. She smacked her hand again as she walked past me to the back of the opposite row and slammed her ruler down on a desk.

    I don’t know what come over me, ’cause most times I ain’t no tattletale. Maybe it was ’cause I hadn’t seen her so mad before. Or maybe, I s’pose, ’cause she was already walking back my way, but all of a sudden I blurted out, Phillip Granger threw a spitball at me.

    Miss Fowler appeared to get taller. Phillip Granger, what has possessed you? she said, and cracked him across his knuckles.

    Ow! Phillip yelled.

    I had to give it to Miss Fowler, when she got mad, she’d whack anybody.

    It wasn’t me! Phillip shouted.

    Are you yelling at me, Phillip Granger? Miss Fowler said, her eyes stretched open, her finger pointing at Phillip, her face as red as her hair. No one shouts at me in my own classroom, young man.

    Chester pushed to get out. I squeezed again, he barked again. I couldn’t keep squeezing him, or I’d kill him. I just dropped my head. Unless Miss Fowler believed Phillip was the best ventriloquist in all of Fulton County, it was all over for me.

    Now Miss Fowler was really fired up. She spun around and peered over the rims of her black cat-eye glasses as she came toward me.

    See, right there, Phillip said, pointing at me, by his desk. He just dropped the spitball he was gonna throw at me.

    Miss Fowler leaned over and examined the balled-up paper with the end of her ruler. Isn’t this that Marvel comic book with the Freedom Train on it, Clyde Thomason?

    "I-I-I . . . I-I-I didn’t do it. Phillip Gra-a-anger threw it at me."

    Clyde, you’re the only student with one of these Freedom Train comic books. Are you letting someone else take the blame for your shenanigans? That’s perfectly all right, Miss Fowler said, walking to her desk. She laid down the twelve-inch ruler and picked up Mr. Justice.

    But I-I-I . . .

    Not another word, Miss Fowler said. I don’t want to hear it. Your brother is the pride of Cabbagetown, and you’ve destroyed the gift he sent you just to make a spitball. An ingrate, that’s what you are, Clyde Thomason.

    Weren’t no call to say

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