Now I am thirteen, but when I was a chile, it was hard to be a chile because my block is a tough block and my school is a tough school. I'm not trying to cop out on what I do or don't do cause man is man and chile is chile, but I ain't a chile no more.
The book’s opening lines does serves up much useful information. The reader is informed of the name of the protagonist, his age, an indication of living conditions and the fact that this is going to be a novel that reads like Jane Austen. Benjie’s narration is in what is generally termed African-American Vernacular English, though after the publication of the novel it would sometimes be referred to as Ebonics. The terminology is of less import to most readers than the experience. While this is hardly the densely difficult dialect characterizing much narration by first-person black characters around the turn of the 20th century, it can present a challenge to those used to or more comfortable with standard English. But that is also partially the point. The reader is not supposed to feel comfortable while reading this novel.
When a mainliner is high, he feeling biggety with nothing to feel biggety bout. His underarm might have a sore in there, or he got a abscess on his gum or his groin, or he got maybe a case-a the double syphilis, could be his bowel ain’t moved in two-three weeks because horse constipates…but he’s grinning and rapping bout his groove.
Walter is a pusher and if any hardcore evidence was necessary to prove the contention that the reader is not intended to feel comfortable while reading the novel, this quote serves that purpose quite well. Walter obviously shares the same cultural background as Benjie as noted by the similarity of their narrative styles. Also obvious, however, is that his vocabulary is more advanced and his understanding of his world more mature than the young teen. Walter’s description of heroin addiction (“horse”) is significant to the text because one on the junkies he supplies is none other than thirteen-year-old Benjie. Again: expect to be disturbed by this story, not comforted.
“Benjie once told me a hero ain't nothin but a sandwich—and you say a hero is a celebrity! Listen to my credentials; then maybe yall can pin me on a hero button. I'm supportin three adults, one child, and the United States government on my salary . . . and can't claim any of em for tax exemption. So, explain me no heroes.”
Butler is the boyfriend of Benjie’s mother and this is an outburst directed toward a social worker who has just delivered to him the advice to expose the boy to some black male heroes with which he can identify: movies stars and athletes. Butler’s angsty reply is easy enough to understand from the way he places his outrage into context. What the heck is actually heroic about getting paid lots of money to play a game or play-act in front of a camera with make smeared on your face? Those people might be worthy of envy, sure, or even be inspirational as aspirational figures, but where’s the actual heroism in what they do as compared to what he himself and others like him do literally every day without not just recognition, but any respect whatever?
