King LA7
“No Gumption”
by Russell Baker/adapted by P. King (2013)
I began working in journalism when I was eight years old. It was my mother’s idea. She
wanted me to “make something” of myself, and I decided I should start young if I wanted to
compete.
The flaw in my character which she had already seen was lack of “gumption.” My idea of
a perfect afternoon was lying down listening to the radio and reading comics. My mother hated
laziness. Seeing me having a good time relaxing, she would get angry, “You’ve got no more
gumption than a bump on a log,” she said. “Get in the kitchen and help Doris clean the dirty
dishes.”
My sister Doris was two years younger than me, but she had enough gumption for ten
men. She enjoyed washing dishes, making beds, and cleaning the house. Doris could have made
something of herself if she hadn’t been a girl. She could only hope to be a nurse or a teacher
because that was the only work women were considered able to do at that time.
This must have saddened my mother. Her daughter had all of the gumption and her son
just wanted to play. She would make me make something of myself, though she knew it would
be difficult. My mother did not overestimate my ability; she didn’t expect me to become
President of the United States.
At that time, parents still asked boys if they wanted to grow up and be President, and it
wasn’t a joke. They were serious! Even poor families thought that their sons could become
President. Abraham Lincoln had done it. Many little boys would answer yes, they wanted to be
President.
I was asked many times too. I would say “No.” When an uncle would ask what I wanted
to be when I grew up if I didn’t want to be President, I would say I liked collecting empty bottles,
and that I wanted to be a garbage man. My mother did not approve, “Have a little gumption,
Russell,” she said. When she called me Russell I knew she was unhappy; when she approved of
my actions she always called me Buddy.
When I turned eight, she decided to help me start making something of myself. I came
home one day there was a man from the Curtis Publishing Company there with my mother. He
asked me if it was true that I wanted to get started conquering the world of business. I whispered,
“Yes. That’s right.”
“But do you have the gumption, the character, the never-say-quit spirit you need to
succeed?” he asked.
My mother said that I did.
“Yes. That’s right,” I replied.
The man told me that I could work for the Curtis Publishing Company, which made some
of the most popular magazines in the country. This was an important job, and he asked if I was
honest.
My mother said I was the most honest boy in the world.
“Yes. That’s right,” I said.
He was happy. He said that many young men just wanted to play. They would not make
something of themselves. Only young men who would work hard, save their money, and keep
their hair combed would make something of themselves. Did I believe that I was that kind of
young man?
My mother said I was.
“That’s right,” I said.
The man said that I could work for the Curtis Publishing Company and that every week I
would receive 30 copies of their magazine. He also gave me a bag to carry the magazines. He
told me I would walk along the streets and sell the magazines to the people I saw.
The next week I got home from school, grabbed the bag, put the magazines inside it, and
started my career in journalism. I took my bag of magazines to Belleville Avenue because that is
where the people were. Belleville Avenue had shops, a gas station, and restaurants. I waited on
the corner of the street for hours. I walked back and forth in front of the shops, and made sure
everyone could see me. When the sun was going down, I went home.
“How many did you sell, Buddy?” my mother asked.
“None.”
“Where did you go?”
“The corner of Belleville and Union Avenues.”
“What did you do?”
“Stood on the corner waiting for somebody to buy a magazine.”
“You just stood there?”
“I didn’t even sell one.”
“RUSSELL!”
After that my other taught me how to be a salesman. I had to knock on doors and speak
nicely and confidently with adults. I told my mother I had changed my mind about succeeding in
business.
“If you think I’m going to raise a good-for-nothing boy, you can forget it,” she replied.
She told me to start knocking on doors the next day. When I said I didn’t think I would be a good
salesman, she asked me to lend her my belt, so she could beat some sense into me. I decided to
become a journalist.
My mother had fought for me to improve myself since before my memory began. My
mother was dissatisfied with my father’s poor workman’s life. She did not want me to grow up
like him and his people, with calluses on their hands and fourth grade educations in their heads.
She wanted me to have more possibilities. By having me sell magazines, she was trying to take
me away from the workman’s life. My mother’s vision was for me to be working in an office
wearing a suit. And perhaps if I was very lucky and truly made something of myself I could have
a big house and even go on vacations.
So I went to sell my magazines. I was afraid of the dogs that barked from inside the
houses, and I was nervous talking to strangers. No one wanted to buy the magazines; I would
try for six days, and I still could not sell all 30. One rainy day after not selling any magazines, I
went home. My mother told my little sister to go back out with me and show me how to sell
magazines. Full of energy, my sister walked out to the street and started knocking on car
windows, “You need this magazine, and it’s only five cents.” She sold all of the magazines in
less than an hour.
I had that job for three years, but I would have quit after the first day if my mother had
not forced me to continue. I was never successful, and my mother decided that a life in business
was not right for me.
One day I came home from school with an essay that my teacher had marked with an “A.”
My mother looked at it carefully and complimented me. A new idea entered her mind, “Buddy,”
she said, “maybe you could be a writer.”
I had never met a writer, had never thought about writing, and I did not know how to
become a writer, but I liked making up stories. Writers did not have to walk through the streets.
Writers did not have to knock on doors. Writers did not have to beg strangers to buy something. I
was excited. Writers did not need gumption. I decided that what I’d like to be when I grew up
was a writer.