I was teaching an elementary school class-as a guest lecturer, I guess, because Coretta Scott King was present as the regular teacher.  Will Halliston was also there.  The kids were seated at tables in a U-shaped arrangement, with me at the open end.  The nearest little girl facing in on my right was telling about her confusion in what to call Negroes, and she began to cry.  I looked around the class and saw there were three or four black students, so I asked one of them to volunteer to explain why (or whether) it makes a difference to them if they are called blacks or Negroes.  A cute little boy with an Afro, and slightly gap-toothed, volunteered.  He was sitting at the left end of the cross table.  He was very articulate, intelligent, and precise in his pronunciation, though he used the word "apprehensiveness" in a context which struck me as slightly inappropriate.  I don't remember the substance of his explanation, but it was good.  I then lectured about a related point dealing with language, which was a slight digression, and then the period ended.  I felt very good -- confident, organized, and articulate -- and both Will Halliston and Mrs. King complimented me after the class on doing a good job.    Then I was teaching a sophomore English class-probably at a traditionally black college, since all the students were black.  Again, the class had been going well, but I had been dealing mainly with grammar for several weeks and suddenly realized I hadn't given them a single composition assignment.  So just as the class ended, I assigned them to write one, due in about a week.  It was close to the Easter holidays, and I tried to arrange it so that it wouldn't be due the first meeting after the holidays.  It was to be four pages if handwritten, two if typed.  Try as I might, I couldn't think of a topic, so I left it up to them.  The reaction to this assignment, though, shocked me.  They were outraged.  They gave all sorts of reasons why they shouldn't have such an assignment, including the fact that some just "didn't like to write compositions."  The outcry was so unanimous that I agreed to discuss it with the head of the department.  (I didn't know his name, so I must have been a substitute, or new in the department.)  I was angry with myself for this floundering, and was afraid I wouldn't be able to regain their respect.  Either before or after that class, I held a class around a picnic table outdoors, just inside a brick wall, sort of like a place I pass just after getting on the Parkway on the way to work.