'As Fast As Words Could Fly' read by Dulé Hill

Welcome to Storyline Online presented by the SAG-AFTRA Foundation. I'm Dulé Hill and today I'm

read

ing As Fast as Words Could Fly written by Pamela M. Tuck and illustrated by Eric Velasquez. Are you

read

y? Here we go. Trouble was brewing in Greenville, North Carolina. At five o'clock, fourteen-year-old Mason Steele was rushing to finish his schoolwork. Dad would soon return from his meeting, bringing with him a new problem. The new problems meant more work for Mason. He didn't care, though, because helping Dad's civil rights group made Mason feel very important. The screen door slammed shut. “Where is Mason?” Dad asked as he examined the kitchen. "Willis, the boy is giving his lessons." Mom sighed. “I need you to write me another letter.

Ma-s-o-n-n-n! "Yes, sir," Mason called. He ran into the room with paper and pencil. "Whittaker's restaurant refused to serve Matt Duncan's kids," Dad explained. "We have to form another sit-in." Mason took notes while Pa talked about what happened. Only Mason

could

make sense of what Dad was saying. Mason later turned his notes into a business letter. “This sounds good enough to send to President Lyndon B. Johnson himself,” Dad boasted after reading Mason's letter. One night, after the screen door slammed, Mason waited for Dad to call him. Instead, he heard Mom and Dad talking quietly. When Mason finally entered the kitchen, he

could

barely believe his eyes. "A writing machine!" he gasped. "Yes," Dad said. “The group wanted to give it to you.

He said that he has been a little advocate for us. I thought a typewriter might help you one day. Mason ran his fingers over the keys. Each row looked like little steps going up. "It's beautiful," Mason whispered. “I will write a thank you letter to the civil rights group.” “That will be right,” Mom agreed. She soon finished school. During the summer, Mason and his two older brothers, Willis Jr. and Henry, picked tobacco with some of the white children who lived nearby. Patrick and Daniel Jones were the only two who acted friendly. They often raced against Mason and his brothers to be the first to fill the mule wagon.

At night, Mason was tired from the day's work, but that didn't stop him from practicing typing. Using his index fingers to select keys, he learned where each letter and symbol was located on the typewriter. The summer flew by. Before he knew it, Mason began his freshman year of high school. After the third week, Dad called him and his brothers into the kitchen one night. "Guys, I have some really important news for you," he began. “We just won a case we have been fighting for a long time. It's not okay for all of you to be bussed twelve miles to Bethel Union High School when Belvoir High is not less than three miles away.

The boys' eyes widened. "D-D-Da, you, you know those white people won't like us going to their school in the least," stammered Willis Jr. "Whether they like it or not, they're all going," Dad replied. "Someone has to make a change." The boys looked at each other in disbelief. "The bus will be early on Monday morning, so be prepared," Dad said as he got up from the table and left the room. On Monday morning, Mason and his siblings were nervous. They watched as the school bus roared down the road. The driver slowed down enough for the children to see the white students on the bus laughing at them.

Then he accelerated, throwing dust into the children's faces. "They just don't want us on their bus," said Willis Jr. "I don't want to ride on their bus at all," Mason added. The boys returned to the house. When they told Dad that the driver hadn't stopped, he was furious. The next day the same thing happened. On the third day the bus stopped. Slowly the boys went up the stairs. "Move it! I don't have all day," the driver shouted. "And go back!" The boys stumbled over each other as they hurried down the hallway. Henry saw a familiar face. "Hey, Patrick," he said.

He just looked ahead. "You Steele boys are looking for trouble." Daniel. The driver left. The sudden movement threw the kids into their seats. When the boys arrived at Belvoir High, the principal, Mr. Bullock, blocked the entrance. “He looked like he smelled a skunk. before the bell rings," he snapped, and showed them their schedules. “How will we know where to go?” Willis Jr. asked. “You found a way in here, so find your way.” Mr. Bullock turned and stormed into the building. When Mason located the right room, class had already begun. They greeted him when he came in.

Mason knew his seat: the one in the back corner. Against all odds, Mason did well in school. He especially liked typing class, but the teacher, Mrs. Roberts, ignored him. He paid close attention when she helped others. At home, Mason practiced what she had learned. It wasn't long before she needed to earn some money to buy writing paper and other supplies. Mason discovered that the Neighborhood Youth Corps sponsored her. an after-school program that offered jobs. He applied for and received a position in the school library. "What can you do, boy?" asked Mrs. Turner, the librarian. "I can write, ma'am," Mason replied. "Well, come here so I can show you what to do." Mrs.

Turner took a stack of index cards and sat down at a typewriter. “Pay attention, because I'm not going to go over this with you a second time.” Mason had to transfer the information from the book spines to the cards. Mrs. Turner wrote a card and left him without further instructions. Two hours later, Mrs. Turner approached Mason. "How are you doing, boy?" she demanded. Mason handed him her wad of chips. Mrs. Turner's eyes widened. "My goodness! How many cards did you write?" "I think about a hundred, ma'am," Mason replied. Mrs. Turner checked the cards. She couldn't find a single mistake. "My goodness, boy," she said. "Write

fast

er." than Mrs.

Roberts." Mrs. Roberts was glad to be relieved of library work. She became friendlier to Mason in typing class. She even let him use the new electric typewriter. The first time Mason used the electric typewriter, letters jumped onto the paper at the slightest touch. He had to get used to pressing a button to return to the left margin of his article. He could type

fast

er and quieter on the electric typewriter, but he missed the tinkling sound. the bell on the manual typewriter signaling a new line. Mason continued to improve his typing skills. Before long he was able to type forty

words

a minute.

His work was also going well and he was earning the money he needed for typing supplies. Mason was then fired without explanation. “They messed with the wrong guy,” Dad fumed when he discovered what had happened. “I'm going to call Golden Frinks on this case. He is field secretary of the SCLC. Mason had heard many stories from Pa about the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, the organization that coordinated nonviolent action to end segregation. Pa had said that field secretaries interviewed people who complained of unequal treatment. Then they organized a march, a sit-in, or a protest. "Golden Frinks was hand-picked by Dr.

Martin Luther King Jr.," Pa added. "And believe me, son, Mr. Frinks shakes the earth." The next morning, Golden Frinks, Pa, and other civil rights workers went to the Board of Education. An investigation was launched. The Board of Education discovered that Mrs. Turner's husband did not want her to stay after school with a black child. The federal government was funding the Youth Corps and now threatened to stop giving the school money for the program because Mason was treated unfairly. Mason was rehired. One day in typing class, Mrs. Roberts announced that there was going to be a typing tournament between some of the high schools in the county.

The fastest typist in the class would represent Belvoir High. The students competed fiercely with each other. Mr. Bullock reviewed the scores. He then announced the winner. "Mason Steele will represent our school in the typing tournament." "How can a black man represent our school?" a student blurted out. "We can't afford any more trouble with the Board of Education," Mr. Bullock replied, stealing a glance at Mason. Do I really want to do this? Mason thought. But then he remembered Dad's

words

. Someone has to make a change. On the day of the tournament, Mr. Bullock and Mrs. Roberts took Mason to Farmville High School.

Upon entering the auditorium, Mason scanned the room. He tried to ignore the stares of the white students as he considered the selection of electric and manual typewriters. Mason knew that if he chose a manual typewriter he would waste time. He would have to take his left hand off the keys in order to press the lever to start each new line. All the other students sat at electric typewriters. Mason had to make a decision. He closed his eyes to think. The typewriter in his house appeared before him. Mason sat at a manual typewriter. The judge reviewed the rules and then shouted, "Start!" Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-DING.

Mason finished his first line. He couldn't hear how fast the other students were writing. He concentrated only on his article. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-DING. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-DING. Mason's fingers flew over the keys. His typing echoed throughout the auditorium. BZZZZZZZZ! "Time is over!" the judge shouted. All eyes were on Mason as the judge collected the papers. After a long wait, the results were announced. "I can not believe this. “I really can’t believe this,” the judge said into the microphone. "Belvoir High's Mason Steele has broken all previous records with a typing speed of sixty-five words per minute." Nobody applauded. Mason just stared ahead.

Mr. Bullock accepted the Belvoir High typing championship plaque. Not a single person in the audience applauded. Mason received nothing. "That's a great skill you have, boy," Mrs. Roberts complimented Mason on the way back to school. “Thank you, ma’am,” Mason responded. “I just have one question,” Bullock said. “Why did you choose a manual typewriter?” Mason cleared his throat. "Because it reminds me of where I come from, sir." None of the adults said anything else to Mason the rest of the way. But Mason knew that his typewritten words had already spoken for him, loud and clear. The end.

This is a great book. What I love about this book is that yes, words do matter. But actions matter much more. Mason's father and the civil rights group gave him a small gift: a typewriter, but Mason received that gift, he worked with that gift, and in the end, he used that gift to change the minds of others. He didn't need to talk about it. He just had to do it. So no matter what people think about you, what they say about you, you don't always need to respond. Just do it yourself. Live your life like Mason.

Thank you for watching Storyline online. Be sure to check out all of our stories. Keep watching and keep reading. See you soon!