"ax" problem dialectical mispronunciation; I call it a bad habit. He caught the message, grinned, heaved himself from his seat and was through the door and halfway down the hall in five strides. The next day Clifton was not in class at the regular time. That was not unusual because many corpsmen cut classes to sleep in some remote corner of the dorm. But at noon, Clifton appeared in the doorway and stood there grinning. "Hello, Mr. Webster," I said. "Hi. I just came by to tell ya I have dorm patrol today. That's why I wasn't in class this morning. I'll be here tomorrow, though." "Good. Thanks for coming by to tell me," I said with a quick smile. After delivering the message he still lounged against the door frame staring at nothing in particular while he hid a smouldering cigarette butt in his cupped hand. I looked up from my work again and took a critical look at this young man. He filled the doorway and his hands hung at his sides as big as fifty-pound weights. His corpsman's clothing of traditional Army green issue was wrinkled but clean. His shirt looked two sizes too small and the inevitable name patch was sewn slightly askew over the left breast pocket in the position of a perpetual salute. The laces of his shoes were untied. "Is there anything else I may help you with, Mr. Webster?" I asked. "Well no ma'am," he stammered, still not moving. "How long have you been in Job Corps?" I asked, after several moments of strained silence. "Two weeks and I'm ready to quit. I don't like it here. Them dudes in the dorm man, they don't have no consideration for nobody. My counselor, he's an O.K. dude, but them other dudes and some of these here dudes that's suppose to be teaching me something, man, they're more interested in talking about where you come from and what you're goin' ta do when ya get out. Hell, alls I want to do is get a vocation so I can be somebody and not just a bum, but man, I'm getting fed up with all of this bull that some of them dudes are handing out." "What dudes are you talking about, Clifton?" "Oh, them white dudes that's suppose to be teaching me vocation. They don't know nuthin' sometimes. They never take time to explain stuff to ya, then they ax you a question and swear at you when you don't know the answer. I'm getting tired of it and I'm about ready to go home." "What will you do when you get home?" I asked quietly. "I can git me a job in a box factory in Miami," he told me proudly. "Wooden boxes?" "Ya. The kind oranges are delivered in," he said defensively. "Do you realize that some day in the not-too-distant future, those oranges won't be packed in wooden crates? Plastic is becoming more and more important in the fruit industry." "Man, I never thought of that." He looked fearfully out of the window for a moment. "Don't give up on Job Corps yet, Clifton. Give them another couple of weeks before you make your decision. I promise you that I will help you with your English while I'm here and we won't play around and waste your time. I promise that, if you will promise to give Job Corps two more weeks." After a moment of thoughtful silence he nodded, lurched away from the door frame and started down the hall cigarette smoke still curling from his cupped hand. As I listened to him walking I thought of the militancy and hatred that were hidden within that massive frame. I could still see his body outlined in the doorway; slumping shoulders, taut muscles, and with gigantic ebony hands fondling the lighted cigarette that meant more to him than next week's pay check. His footsteps paused halfway down the hall and I intuitively knew that he was looking in the strategically placed mirror that displayed a sign "Would someone hire YOU?" I heard a faint whoosh of breath and I knew he had exhaled the last cancerous drag of his cigarette. I could picture him knocking the remaining ashes from the butt before dropping the stub to the polished floor and extinguishing it with a grinding motion of the unlaced combat boot. 8 "It is also true that we have not asked as much of our students as they are willing and able to do. We have wasted time and energy in developing massive athletic programs, trivial extra-curricular activities, and a fun-and-games approach to a great many subjects. But is the cure for this to keep these main defects and add more blocks of science and mathematics while we allow the arts and the humanities to languish?" HAROLD TAYLOR