Angry Management (13 page)

Mr. S

Boy, some kids come and go, and some get into your gut. Not much you can do about it but hang with them and try to walk them through. Take Marcus James. The boy’s got an IQ through the roof. But he’s black in a school where that makes him a minority of one, and he’s openly gay—in the sense that he doesn’t deny it—which puts him in even rarer air, and he’s in your face. He’s extremely well-read for a high schooler, and vocal about what he reads, which doesn’t make him a favorite with some of his teachers, particularly those who are
not
extremely well-read. If those aren’t enough identifying characteristics, he swims open water in the lake to “keep his head on right.” A gay, black, open-water-swimming Einstein. Tell me the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor.

Now somebody’s hung a noose on his locker, and I’m face-to-face with Principal Andrew Bean, considering whether or not I should make a case for letting him wear it.

“I need your backing on this, John,” Andy says. “Don’t let this be an issue you fight me on. You won’t win.”

“Can’t let this one be about you and me,” I say,
raising my hands in mock surrender. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“I’m going to confiscate and destroy it,” Andy says. “Then we’re going to keep our ears open to see if we can discover who perpetrated this…
act
, and see that they’re duly punished.”

If you play your cards right, you
can
get through to Andy. He and I have had some famous rifts, and I’m as opinionated as he is, but middle ground exists. He wants to do right by the kids, but he’ll protect the reputation of the school above all else. One parent challenges a book over in the English department, and Andy is there immediately, leafing through every book by that author in an attempt to discover ahead of time which one will pop out of the stacks and bite him in the ass. He seems scared or defensive most of the time, but there’s a teaching moment with this noose.

It won’t be an easy sell; he wants it to disappear. “And after the noose is destroyed, who do you think is going to whisper the names of the culprits into our eager ears?” I ask him. “Sorry, Andy, this has ‘gridiron heroes’ written all over it.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions. We can’t come out pointing fingers.”

“Maybe not, but I don’t have to bring you up to
date on nooses in this country’s history, right? This will bring bad publicity if we don’t handle it right.”

“I’m not an idiot, Simet.”

That remains to be seen. “You remember the Jena Six.”

“You’re not going to compare this with
that.
This is completely different.”

“Let’s see,” I say, “some racist kid or kids hang a noose on a black kid’s locker here. In Jena, they hung three nooses from a tree. Here they made the noose pink to make sure they covered
all
their bases. If I were an English teacher, which I once was, I might see a
theme
of bigotry and hatred.”

“The larger point,” Andy says right back through slightly gritted teeth, “is that Jena is in the heart of Louisiana, where racism has a long and colorful history, if you’ll pardon the pun. The tension there goes back pre-Civil War. We live, if you haven’t noticed, in the Northwest. Our school has one African-American student, who also happens to be gay and a little on the loud side, and who doesn’t have the good sense to keep below the radar; he flaunts his intellect at every turn. I know this place is more conservative than you’d like, Simet, but it is not the Deep South and we are not going to have a racial ‘incident.’ It’s a jock culture, and while
I agree jocks can be pretty single-minded, that’s not all bad. Now I don’t agree with someone hanging a noose on an African-American kid’s locker, but this is going to be
over.”

“What about the fact that the noose is pink?”

“Are you sure you want to go there?”

“Excuse me?”

“It is not lost on me, John, that you are not married, have no children, and I have never seen you out with a woman.”

Jesus. “Have you ever seen me out with a man?”

“No, of course not.”

“Has it occurred to you that maybe you haven’t seen me out with
anybody
because I’d never take anyone someplace you might be, so I wouldn’t have to claim I know you?” I
have
to stop letting him piss me off. I’m not offended by his observation; there’s certainly nothing wrong with being gay, and if I were, I assume I’d be matter-of-fact about it. I’m offended that he’s looking for a diversion.

He reddens.

“Whether I’m gay or straight, Andy, I’m not embarrassed about who I am, so you’re damned right I want to go there.” Andy will tell you over and over that he holds nothing against any man or woman due
to race, creed, color, or sexual preference, but with guys like Andy Bean you turn down the sound and watch the picture.

“I’ll say it again: we’re not going to make this bigger than it is. It’s a prank, and we’ll get to the bottom of it if we can, but this does not escalate. Do you understand?”

“I understand, but don’t confuse my understanding with agreement. Look, Andy, I’m all for turning the best face of education out for the public, but it has to be a real face. You know, my dad came up in the sixties, and while he was quick to talk of the progress made in civil rights, he was every bit as quick to talk of the distance yet to go. We’re well into the twenty-first century, and
nooses
are still dropping down. Conservative or not, single-minded or not, you don’t call a noose of any color a prank.”

The Bean moves to the chair behind his desk, as if the shiny oak between us gives him status. “I was told you were hired against the better judgment of some board members, and I’ll bet this is a reason. Your work history shows troublesome conflicts; you’ve always been so quick to side with students against school authority. I’m guessing if it hadn’t been midterm and the school hadn’t been in such a pinch, you and I might not be having this conversation.”

“But it was and you were and we are. Does the word
tenure mean anything to you? Andy, do you know what I’d do in Marcus’s shoes?”

“You had
better not
give that boy ideas.”

“That
boy’s
IQ is upward of 160. He’s forgotten more ideas than I’ve had. And the term ‘boy’ has a similar history to the noose.” God, it’s so easy to get into it with Andy. He makes it fun.

“John, you know as well as I do this school can’t afford negative publicity right now. We’re trying to pass a levy at a time when the community isn’t exactly happy with our overall performance.”

“Maybe we should perform better. Look, I won’t push Marcus one way or the other, but when I was his age, I would either have witnessed total outrage by administration and staff in the face of this, or I’d have brought down the house.”

“Excuse me?”

“TV. Newspaper. Hell, carrier pigeons, if that’s what it took.”

“Don’t you do this, Simet.”

“I’m telling you what I’d have done. The administration and the law tried to bully the black kids in Jena, and suddenly they were face-to-face with Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton and CNN, as they should have been. Jesse Jackson has Verizon, and so does Marcus. It
wouldn’t cost him a cent to make that call.”

“How in the world would you know if Jesse Jackson has Verizon?”

“He advertises it on TV.” Hey, so I’m prone to exaggeration. I have no idea whether or not Jesse Jackson has Verizon, though I know he doesn’t advertise it on TV. But there’s a point to be made, and I’ll bet Jesse is willing to let me stretch the truth.

“Simet, if any teacher has the inside track on Marcus James, you do. I’m asking you to help take the heat out of this.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear I’ll have your job if you turn this into a circus. You may have tenure, but if your behavior actively damages the school or its reputation, you
can
be fired.”

I can’t tell if I scared him with visions of what
my
adolescent take on this would have been, or with Jesse Jackson on Verizon, but the stakes have been upped. Left to my own devices, we’d have Marshall and Stone and Strickland in the office under bright lights until they cracked, and none of them would play another down of football until they were on a team with Adam Sandler and Chris Rock. But I’ll follow Marcus’s lead. He’s in a minority of one, and he needs to get to wherever that fabulous mind takes him—via Stanford University—in one piece. Roger Marshall’s uncle is in jail for murder,
and at least a part of the motive for his crime was race related. That family is no fun. “Look,” I say. “I don’t know what Marcus has in mind, and I’m leaving it up to him. Maybe if we bring him back, you can compromise with him.”

Andy is exasperated; feels his control slipping away. I’ve seen him in this state before. In fact, some of my prouder moments have occurred when I’ve put him in this state.

He opens the door to find Marcus tightening the noose as he goes cross-eyed and sticks out his tongue. Methinks he has his work cut out for him.

Marcus

So The Bean pretends he doesn’t see me stringing myself up in the outer office and invites me back into the inner sanctum, and for a second he seems all better. But when The Bean pretends he doesn’t see something, pay attention. The Bean sees all.

“Marcus,” he says. “How can we get this resolved?”

“Find the guys who did it and throw ’em out of school.”

The Bean blanches. Wow. I was just startin’ high. You know, tell ’em you want ten thousand shiny ones for your Hank Aaron rookie card, and see what it comes to. No matter anyway. O.J.’s got a better chance of finding his dead ex-wife’s killer on a golf course than these guys have of finding their hangmen, and for the same reason.

“It’s difficult to get fingerprints from a rope,” The Bean says. “Practically impossible. You need a smooth surface to get the print.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Plus, I been checking this thing out pretty good; you know, for authenticity. So if you get prints, you’ll probably have to expel
me
. You were an
English teacher in your former life, right, Mr. S? Isn’t that an example of
irony?”

Mr. S says, “It is indeed, Marcus.”

“Well, I can’t promise to find the culprits and throw them out of school,” The Bean says, “but I can promise we’ll try to get to the bottom of this one way or the other. I’d need you to give me some time.”

“Take all the time you need, sir,” I tell him, feeling all charitable an’ shit because I thought he was going to ream me good. Mr. S must’ve worked some voodoo here. “I’ll just wear this till we come up with a plan, jus’ so the whole thing doesn’t get all old and stale. And forgotten.”

The Bean is perplexed. I think I see a certain subtle look in his eye, one I’ve seen a lot in my life. Kind of a…what can I call it…an “I hate your queer black ass” look.

“There’s simply no way I can let you do that, Marcus. If you walk into Ms. Ruth’s class wearing that thing, I’ll have to call a medic. And Mr. Grant wouldn’t let you in the door.”

“I’ve got an A going in Grant’s class,” I tell him. “I could take a few zeros and still pull a C. I’m sure you’ll find the bad guys before I tank it.”

The Bean sucks air.

“Jus’ kiddin’, man. Don’t be thinking I’m all unreasonable. Tell you what. I’ll just wear it in Mr. S’s class. We’re doin’ First Amendment in there. It’ll take some of the focus off those books you-all want to ban. It’s win-win, I’m telling you.” Before The Bean can answer, I say, “And I think I can speed up your search for the bad guys.”

“How is that?”

“Start with the guy whose family’s got a rebel flag painted on one whole side of their barn.”

“Now tell me those weren’t some pretty good negotiating skills,” I say to Mr. S as he leads me toward his room by the noose.

“Really
good negotiation skills,” he says, “have to be effective in the
long
run.”

“Well, I established my basic premise, like you taught me.”

“Yeah, he knows you won’t let this slide.”

We walk into Mr. S’s empty room. Prep period. I’m supposed to be in Grant’s AP Calc class, but Mr. S can write me a pass. Grant is out of his depth in anything tougher than long division with remainders, and he hates it when I know shit he doesn’t. Swear to God he’d give me an A+ to stay out of there.

“Your basic premise was perfect, but you were debating The Bean. I’ll deny I said it if it leaves this room, but he’s not exactly Daniel Webster.”

“Man, I was feelin’ so good. Who’s Daniel Webster?”

“He was a good debater. This is a train wreck, Marcus. Even if Bean were committed to getting to the bottom of this, without a witness there’s no proof of anything. You’re going to wear the noose and Marshall and his henchmen are going to mess with you and it will escalate. You’re aware, I hope, that Marshall’s uncle is in jail for a hate killing, and there’s not a member of his extended family who doesn’t believe he was railroaded. I’ll do what I can, but you be smart. Those guys are ballplayers, and that’s worth a lot more second chances in the principal’s office than you’ll ever get. Let’s stay awake.”

I like Mr. S ’cause he’ll tell you what’s so even if it would get him in hot water with the boss man. I slip the noose off and hand it to him for safekeeping. I know he’s saying truth. Marshall’s uncle shot T.J. Jones’s adoptive dad down at Hoopfest in Spokane a few years back because of a bunch of racial shit that went on for about a year. T.J. was the last black kid to negotiate these halls. If you believe the local historians, things changed for a while
after that; folks preachin’ brotherly love and shit, but then it fades, and guys like Marshall and Stone start rewriting that history, and pretty soon, if you listen to them, it was T.J.’s fault his dad got shot. You know, bein’ “of color” and all. Those short-term memories are like waves lapping up over footprints on the beach. Real quick the sand is smooth again, and however things were is how they are.

“There’s a principle to stand on,” Mr. S says, “and I’ll stand with you, but there won’t be great numbers standing with us. There are plenty of kids and plenty of teachers, too, who are gonna hate it when they hear that noose was hung on your locker, but not many of them will be willing to do more than say it sucks and condemn whatever anonymous turdhead did it. They’ll call it a prank and, if it doesn’t happen again, let it fade. There’s not much room to make something happen here. Bigotry turns ugly quick. I don’t have to tell you that.”

He looks at me long and hard. “A noose, pink or any other color, hanging on your locker is to be taken seriously. I don’t know your family’s personal history, but any black man in this country pays attention to that.”

“In my personal history,” I tell him, “I can run right down the line on my momma’s
or
my daddy’s side and find a hanging before I get three generations.”

“Okay then.”

I can’t help but feel scared, listening to Mr. S. This guy doesn’t back down. If Mr. S is nervous, well, he’s like your canary in the coal mine—if he stops breathing, haul ass. “Maybe we ought to call it good on the noose,” I tell him. “Point made. Plus I got my new love life to focus on, and my college entrance essay. Maybe I got some great material here.”

“New love life?”

“I’ll tell you,” I say, “but you got to keep it on the down low.”

He puts his hand flat toward the floor. “The down low.”

I take a big breath. “Not even the down low, Mr. S. We got to hit
mute
on this.”

“Mute it is.”

“Johnny Strickland.”

“Aaron’s brother?” Man, the blood drains out of Mr. S’s face like gravity just got supersized.

“You want me to call a doctor, man?”

“For me or you?” he says.