One day near the end of my second term at school the principal came into our room and, after talking to the teacher, for some reason said:  “I wish all of the white scholars to stand for a moment.”  I rose with the others.  The teacher looked at me and, calling my name, said:  “You sit down for the present, and rise with the others.”  I did not quite understand her, and questioned:  “Ma’m?” She repeated, with a softer tone in her voice:  “You sit down now, and rise with the others.”  I sat down dazed.  I saw and heard nothing.  When the others were asked to rise, I did not know it.  When school was dismissed, I went out in a kind of stupor.  A few of the white boys jeered me, saying:  “Oh, you’re a nigger too.”  I heard some black children say:  “We knew he was colored.”  “Shiny” said to them:  “Come along, don’t tease him,” and thereby won my undying gratitude.  I hurried on as fast as I could, and had gone some distance before I perceived that “Red Head” was walking by my side.  After a while he said to me:  “Le’ me carry your books.”  I gave him my strap without being able to answer.  When we got to my gate, he said as he handed me my books:  “Say, you know my big red agate?  I can’t shoot with it any more.  I’m going to bring it to school for you tomorrow.”  I took my books and ran into the house.  As I passed through the hallway, I saw that my mother was busy with one of her customers; I rushed up into my own little room, shut the door, and went quickly to where my looking-glass hung on the wall.  For an instant I was afraid to look, but when I did, I looked long and earnestly.  I had often heard people say to my mother:  “What a pretty boy you have!” I was accustomed to hear remarks about my beauty; but now, for the first time, I became conscious of it and recognized it.  I noticed the ivory whiteness of my skin, the beauty of my mouth, the size and liquid darkness of my eyes, and how the long, black lashes that fringed and shaded them produced an effect that was strangely fascinating even to me.  I noticed the softness and glossiness of my dark hair that fell in waves over my temples, making my forehead appear whiter than it really was.  How long I stood there gazing at my image I do not know.  When I came out and reached the head of the stairs, I heard the lady who had been with my mother going out.  I ran downstairs and rushed to where my mother was sitting, with a piece of work in her hands.  I buried my head in her lap and blurted out:  “Mother, mother, tell me, am I a nigger?” I could not see her face, but I knew the piece of work dropped to the floor and I felt her hands on my head.  I looked up into her face and repeated:  “Tell me, mother, am I a nigger?” There were tears in her eyes and I could see that she was suffering for me.  And then it was that I looked at her critically for the first time.  I had thought of her in a childish way only as the most beautiful woman in the world; now I looked at her searching for defects.  I