Reading Comprehension Test 80

[passage-header]Environmentalist Otters[/passage-header]   It has long been known that the sea otters [1] living along the West Coast of North America help keep kelp forests in their habitat healthy and vital. They do this by feeding on sea urchins and other herbivorous invertebrates that graze voraciously on kelp. With sea otters to keep the population of sea urchins in check, kelp forests can flourish. In fact, [2] two years or less of sea otters can completely eliminate sea urchins in a coastal area (see chart).
   Without sea otters present, [3] nevertheless, kelp forests run the danger of becoming barren stretches of coastal wasteland known as urchin barrens.
   What was less well-known, until recently at least, was how this relationship among sea otters, sea urchins, and kelp forests might help fight global warming. The amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere has increased 40 percent [4]. A recent study by two professors at the University of California, Santa Cruz, Chris Wilmers and James Estes, [5] suggests, that kelp forests protected by sea otters can absorb as much as twelve times the amount of carbon dioxide from the atmosphere as those where sea urchins are allowed to [6] devour the kelp. Like [7] their terrestrial plant cousins, kelp removes carbon dioxide from the atmosphere, turning it into sugar fuel through photosynthesis, and releases oxygen back into the air. Scientists knew this but did not recognize [8] how large a role they played in helping kelp forests to significantly decrease the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Far from making no difference to the ecosystem, the presence of otters was found to increase the carbon storage of kelp forests by 4.4 to 8.7 megatons annually, offsetting the amount of carbon dioxide emitted by three million to six million passenger cars each year. [9] 

[passage-header][/passage-header] The Growing Roles of Dietitians and Nutritionists
   Dietitians are experts in nutrition who help people plan healthy diets. Using their wide range of knowledge and skills, these professionals ensure that their clients and patients eat nutritious foods and [1] living lifestyles that will help them be fit and healthy.
   [2] Clinical dietitians might, for example, work with patients with medical conditions that involve dietary restrictions, such as [3] the disorder known as celiac disease. These patients [4] need instruction in how best to eat a nutritious and complete diet while avoiding foods that could make them sick. Other clinical dietitians might specialize in working with elderly patients, teaching them to eat foods that build strong bones and promote all-around good health. Other dietitians work mainly outside of health care settings. Community dietitians work to encourage public health outside of health care settings. They may educate school children on good nutrition, or teach classes for adults living in [5] communities, with poor access to healthy groceries and fresh food. Sports dietitians collaborate with clients to help them eat right to achieve their fitness and athletic goals. Research dietitians are employed by universities to study the effects of nutrients and diets on the body. Teaching classes on dietetics to university students, [6] new dietitians are also trained by them.
   Students must gain substantial skills and education in order to become dietitians. The profession requires a bachelor's degree in a related field, such as biology, anatomy, or nutrition. [7] Regardless, many dietitians go on to earn master's degrees in a specific subfield. This education helps them [8] learn a lot of stuff about biology and chemistry so that they can understand the human body and the effects that various nutrients can have on overall health. Dietitians must also [9] compliment this knowledge with good communication skills, since many interact one-on-one with patients or even speak publicly to large groups.
   (1) There will most likely be a great deal of demand for dietitians in the coming years. (2) As the "baby boomer" generation of the United States ages, dietitians will play an important role in ensuring the health of the growing number of elderly Americans. (3) In addition, as the US works to address its obesity epidemic, dietitians will be vital to treating and preventing obesity by helping Americans develop healthier diets. (4) By promoting good nutrition, dietitians can help their patients avoid some of the health problems associated with aging. (5) For these and other reasons, The US Bureau of Labor Statistics predicts [10] a 20% increase in the number of dietitians and nutritionists by 2022.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.

This passage comes from the autobiography of a Black woman who grew up in Florida at the end of the nineteenth century.
Grown people know that they do not always know the why of things, and even if they think they know, they do not know where and how they got the proof. Hence the irritation they show when children keep on demanding to know if a thing is so and how the grown folks got the proof of it. It is
so troublesome because it is disturbing to the pigeonhole way of life. It is upsetting because until the elders are pushed for an answer, they have never looked to see if it was so, nor how they came by what passes for proof to their acceptances of certain things as true. So, if telling their questioning young to run off and play does not suffice for an answer, a good swat on the child's bottom is held to be proof positive for anything from spelling "Constantinople" to why the sea is salt. It was told to the old folks and that had been enough for them, or to put it in Black idiom, nobody didn't tell 'em, but they heard. So there must be something wrong with a child that questions the gods of the pigeonhole. I was always asking and making myself a crow in a pigeon's nest. It was hard on my family and surroundings,
and they in turn were hard on me. I did not know then, as I know now, that people are prone to build a statue of the kind of person that it pleases them to be. And few people want to be forced to ask themselves, "What if there is no me like my statue?" The thing to do is to grab the broom of anger and drive off the beast of fear. I was full of curiosity like many other children, and like them I was as unconscious of the sanctity of statuary as a flock of pigeons around a palace. I got few answers from other people, but I kept on asking, because I couldn't do anything else with my feelings. Naturally, I felt like other children in that death, destruction, and other agonies were never meant to touch me. Things like that happened to other people, and no wonder. They were not like me and mine. Naturally, the world and the firmaments careened to one side a little so as not to inconvenience me. In fact, the universe went further than that - it was happy to break a few rules just to show me preferences.
For instance, for a long time I gloated over the happy secret that when I played outdoors in the moonlight the moon followed me, whichever way I ran. The moon was so happy when I came out to play that it ran shining and shouting after me like a pretty puppy dog. The other children didn't count.
But, I was rudely shaken out of this when I confided my happy secret to Carrie Roberts, my chum. It was cruel. She not only scorned my claim, she said that the moon was paying me no mind at all. The moon, my own happy private playing moon, was out in its play yard to race and play with her. We disputed the matter with hot jealousy, and nothing would do but we must run a race to prove which one the moon was loving. First, we both ran a race side by side, but that proved nothing because we both contended that the moon was going that way on account of us. I just knew that the moon was there to be with me, but Carrie kept on saying that it was herself that the moon preferred. So then it came to me that we ought to run in opposite directions so that Carrie could come to her senses and realize the moon was mine. So we both stood with our backs to our gate, counted three, and tore out in opposite directions. "Look! Look, Carrie!" I cried exultantly. "You see the moon is following me!" "Ah, youse a tale-teller! You know it's chasing me." So Carrie and I parted company, mad as we could be with each other. When the other children found out what the quarrel was about, they laughed it off. They told me the moon always followed them. The unfaithfulness of the moon hurt me deeply. My moon followed Carrie Roberts. My moon followed Matilda Clark and Julia Mosley, and Oscar and Teedy Miller. But after a while, I ceased to ache over the moon's many loves. I found comfort in the fact that though I was not the moon's exclusive friend, I was still among those who showed the moon which way to go. That was my earliest conscious hint that the world didn't tilt under my footfalls, nor careen over one-sided just to make me glad. But no matter whether my probings made me happier or sadder, I kept on probing to know.