“The Niagara Compromise, Article 4, Section 3, Kongo Classification.” She paced before me, wan-faced, as she lectured. “We, the Committee of Representatives, have observed two brothers of men, each as dark as the other. The first has a narrow nose and ample intellect.”

She stopped, turned and thumped my nose.

“His hair grows in the thick bush fashion, and his mouth is finely drawn.” She waved a hand at my cap of dark brown hair, declining to touch it. Then her eyes skimmed my mouth, leveling on the small black dot just above it. I ducked my head, hiding the mole from her sight.

She slid a glossy drawing of a Kongo man onto my desk, pointing out his features with a bony finger. “The Second Brother has a heavy nostril,” she said, tapping his nose. “He is brutish in mind and sparsely furred. His mouth is like his spirit, coarse and low. Both men are Kongo, each as dark as the other. But the First Brother, the Record Keeper, shall rule the Second.”

I studied the picture, then blinked up at her. We’d gone over this before, hundreds of times.

Her lip curled. “You, girl, are classified as a Record Keeper. Your role, under the Compromise, is to manage the Second Brothers of your race—the workers. See to it that they know their place is in the field. You are better than them and you must conduct yourself accordingly. Now, repeat after me: no yelling, no running, no jumping—for the greater good.”

“No yelling, no running, no jumping,” I said.

Her eyes, the color of overcooked broccoli, narrowed. “Do you enjoy solitude, girl?”

I glanced at my dormitory window. There were other students in the Schoolhouse. Each morning, they filed out for exercise. They were stiff-backed, even as they played for an hour, then filed back in. Only then was I let out for exercise, a walk with Teacher close beside me. “No, Teacher. I would play with the others,” I said.

“Then, for both our sakes, be assimilated! No yelling, no running, no jumping for the greater good.”

I didn’t know what be assimilated meant; I decided it meant be quiet. I stiffened my back, like the students at play, and whispered, “No yelling, no running, no jumping—for the greater good.”

She nodded. “Now again.”

For five years, I learned the hallmarks of my classification—reading and writing. And, in time, I assimilated—or, at least, I appeared to. In truth, my spirit lay dormant. When Teacher wasn’t looking, I imagined myself complete with wings arching from my back. And in my head, where she couldn’t follow, I flew on those wings to my family.