Haecceity

"Pentecost"

2008-09-21T19:36:00.000-07:00

Mammy didn’t want me. My father tell me if bush could a talk, it would tell me how much bush she take to get rid of me. If bush could a talk, if bush could a talk, he say, it would tell me the things my mother do to throw me away. Mammy didn’t want me and she tried to throw me away, but I was born here anyway, I was born here to live.

My mother was well able but my father was poor, and because he was poor my mother’s family did not want him for my mother, so when my mother pick up with him they shunned him. But, instead of my father horning my mother, it was my mother who turn around and was horning my father, and things in the family spin about just so when they realize what was what. It spin around just so when they realize that even though my mother was able and my father was poor and didn’t have a penny to his name, it was Mammy, Mammy who was the bad one.

After my mother give birth to me it was then that the marriage talk come up between she and my father, but Daddy didn’t want to get married to Mammy, he was afraid to get married to Mammy, because everyone in Grenada know that Clara Seunarayan was a hot woman. She was a hot one, Clara Seunarayan, hot so, but she told Daddy that if he didn’t marry to her she was going to kill sheself; kill sheself dead. Daddy was always a man to give up his rights for peace, so he went ahead and married to her hoping she would stay with him, hoping she would stay with us, but Daddy wasn’t strong enough for Mammy, man. Mammy did not stay.

Mammy didn’t stay with my father, she didn’t stay with her children neither; she pick up right there and left us alone. But Mammy was terrible, eh? She was a terrible arrogant woman. I was only a little child, but as a child you does remember things, you does remember them good. When you does remember it doesn’t be easy for you to forget it again, and I remember good that Daddy wasn’t strong enough for Mammy. Mammy didn’t want Daddy because Daddy loved her, he loved her too much, but she didn’t love him, and she didn’t love us, so she left him when he was in Aruba trying to make a way, she left him, and she left us too.

After Mammy left us I went to live with my great-grandmother, Mama Seunarayan. She loved me. Mama Seunarayan was a old lady but she loved me – I was the blue in her eye – she love me and bathe me and feed me and put me to bed. I always went to bed full, I remember that. I love being by my great-grandmother because she care for me and love me. I was the blue, the blue in her eye.

When I was fourteen I got my period, but because my mother wasn’t there I didn’t know about no pad and thing, because my mother wasn’t there to show me how to be a lady. Every thing I learn about sex and period I learn from my childhood friends who show me how to use the cloths and change myself and thing. But I didn’t know because I didn’t have nobody to show me and tell me and help me become a lady and so one day I went to school when I had my period and the blood had stopped flowing and it hadn’t come in the night, so the next day I went to school wearing nothing. I didn’t wear nothing at all, no cloth in my panty or nothing, because I thought the blood had finished after two days because nobody told me nothing and didn’t show me what to do, so that next day when the teacher began to ask questions the way they sometimes ask questions in the class, being respectful we had to stand to answer the questions, and I was fourteen and when I stand to answer the question

(whoooooooosh)

blood come out of me like a flood. But I didn’t have no cloth in my panty because I didn’t see it come the night so I thought it had finish, so when I went to school now it start coming through my panty and my skirt

(oh precious is the flow)

but the blood look like when you burn fabric. It look like a burn mark because my skirt was like this, a dark blue, so it didn’t look like blood, but it look blackish like when you burn cloth.

…

The gentleman and his wife used to give me a ride down to school and his name was Milton Dean but his hair wasn’t Negro, and so it must a been that he have a sort of a mix, and he had a child with his wife, a beautiful child. I used to go up there and visit them when I was about fifteen because his wife taught at the school I attended as a child, so they would give me a ride down to school. Whenever I would go up there and visit them I would play with their child, because the child was beautiful and had curly-like hair, but it wasn’t Negro. I was about fifteen, and at that age you young, and you vulnerable, and you go up there, and that’s how

(oh God oh God)

it have a time I went there and I was up there alone with him, and the baby was there too, but I didn’t have it in me to fight nobody and nobody ever say nothing about that kind of a thing then; you keep it hush-hush. He push me down and I was scared but I didn’t have it in me to fight nobody, and when he finished he didn’t put me out or nothing, but he didn’t say anything to me neither so I just went home. He didn’t say anything to me and I didn’t say anything neither. His name was Milton Dean and he was a black man but he had good hair, and is a lot of these black ones that does that to their own people. But at fifteen

(shhh)

I wasn’t expecting that kind of a thing, but now I know that you can’t just trust people the way they are because I didn’t know, so I just went home but I didn’t say anything though I was bleeding, bleeding, but they didn’t say anything to me when I went home because they thought it was my period so they didn’t show any interest. But I didn’t say anything neither

(shhh child)

because you know those days, people don’t talk about it, in days gone back, they don’t talk about it, because his wife used to teach at my school, and they used to give me a ride to go to school, but because she used to give me a ride, I used to visit there, but you don’t trust people just the way they are. I didn’t know, I young and stupid, I wasn’t expecting those things. But he was black and his name was Milton Dean, but I didn’t say anything. I went home, and I was bleeding, bleeding through my panty, but they thought it was my periods so they don’t show any interest or concern, but then after a while they saw what was happening and so they contacted my mother. When they hear, they didn’t ask anything but they decide to send me away to Trinidad to stay by my mother. My Auntie Lizzy must have discussed it with Mammy, Auntie Lizzy who is my cousin but old enough to be my Auntie. I remember it was Auntie Lizzy, on the day I was leaving, who gave me a blue dress with red polka dots; Auntie Lizzy who make the dress for me to go to my mother while I was making a child.

When I going to have the baby in Trinidad I was sixteen but I didn’t have no passage for the child because I was a child still, only a little girl, and my hips and womb was small so, so when I going to have the baby I didn’t have no passage. I didn’t have nowhere for this child to come out, but the nurses were so nice to me, eh? And they had me in the bed and they was beside me, and when the pain come, they sit there with me and talking to me to make me forget about the pain, and they were there beside me talking to me, they were so nice to me, eh, and when is time I go into labor, they call to the other nurses and say, ‘come, come, come! come see the child!’ because they know that I have no passage.

But there was a nurse called nurse Taylor who come with five nurses to circle around me and help me through, to help the child through; and they do what they can to help me have the baby, and they were there sitting by me and when the pain hit me they help me think about other things, and they help the child come out, it squeeze between, because when the baby coming, they push it back a little bit, push it back a little bit, push it back a little bit and ease the child through, even though I was sixteen and didn’t have no passage when I have the child. But is nurse Taylor and those five nurses that help the child born, and they was so nice because I was so young, and they do what they can for me and the child, and I was grateful to them, grateful because they was so nice to me and the child, so nice to me that they were all there when she died

(we are but little children weak
but have a little cross to take
there’s not a child so small and weak
but have his little cross to take)

Helen grew a nice child, a beautiful child. She had nice, fair skin and big curls, and the hair wasn’t Negro; she have big curls, and she grew to be a nice, beautiful child; a sweet, beautiful child...

…

My mother had a good friend called Mrs. Lake, and she and Mammy were best friends, and she loved Helen. And her husband used to work at Imperial Store in San Fernando and he had loved Helen too. He loved the child and he used to take her and play with her and give her banana and different thing, but Mrs. Lake and Mammy were best friends, best friends for a long time, and Mrs. Lake was a strong woman. She was a fair woman, but a strong woman. Yet one day, one Monday morning, a message came to my mother that Mrs. Lake had died, but Mammy said no, that it couldn’t be Mrs. Lake, the young Mrs. Lake married to Mr. Lake? because she was well days before...but the message said no, it is not the mother, it is Mrs. Lake and we all was shocked; Mammy was shocked. She ran over there, and they had Mrs. Lake on the bed with the sheet, but they have her covered, but Mammy had time before they took her to the morgue to open the sheet to see Mrs. Lake. Now she was a very fair-skinned woman, but as soon as Mammy saw her lying there, as soon as she saw the body, Mammy said something was wrong, she knew something was wrong because when she saw Mrs. Lake, the woman was black, even though she was a fair skinned woman, she was black, and the blood inside her had seeped onto the sheet; she saw it on the sheet, but the blood was blackish, like when something burn. But what we hear is that Mrs. Lake die because she try and throw away a child, and is bush she take to do away with another baby

(she take bush to throw the child away)

because Mr. Lake was giving her problems, and so she drink bush to throw away the child, and then she went to see the doctor because she was feeling ill, and the doctor give her an injection, and it was after she take the injection that she became restless, and the niece told us that all night, all night, after she take the injection, Mrs. Lake was up and down in the house, up and down, walking to the bathroom, lying down, getting up, restless, restless. Drinking water. She was restless all through the night, all through the night until in the morning she break out in bad blood, she breaking out in bumps all over her skin, the bad blood take her and when it take her Mrs. Lake take hold of her clothes, and they say she ripped down the nightgown she was wearing, she took hold of it and ripped it down from the pain that was tearing in her body. She and my mother were best friends, but when she died we couldn’t see her face because her face was black and twisted like an animal in pain, and when she died they had her coffin in a little room, and only one woman sat with her, the woman who gave her the bush medicine prepared her for burial. The casket was in a little sunroom, and the woman who gave her the medicine was sitting with her, but they say that Mrs. Lake’s face was like an animal with the pain, distorted and black, and as it was killing her she ripped down the nightgown she was wearing from the pain that was tearing her apart inside, and we never saw her face...

(pain that was tearing tearing tearing her apart)

...

I would see Mrs. Lake in my sleep often after she died. After she died, Mrs. Lake would come to me in my sleep. She would come to me night after night, chasing me, chasing me, running me down, running me down because I had Helen in my arms. Mrs. Lake used to come to me in my sleep and try to chase me down for Helen in my arms, but she never catch me, never catch up with me, never catch up to me with the child. But that lady in my sleep would come night after night, night after night, running, running, running me down for Helen, running me down, running me down for Helen. She wanted Helen. On all the occasions she came to me, running me down, chasing me for Helen, and she never caught up with me, never caught up with me, and then finally, one time, she catch up with me, she catch up with me and grab a hold of me, and she take the child. I never forget that dream.

A few months later, I don’t know how, a few months later Helen was playing outside, she was playing on her bike behind my back, and she fell on her arm and I didn’t know, and her arm begin to swell, and when she had to lift the hand, she used to have to take one hand and used it to lift the other one, and so we took her to the doctor, but the doctor didn’t know nothing about that in those days. In those days they think is something else and give it a little treatment, but it wasn’t until too much later that they find out that the inflammation had gone right inside the bone itself, and when it went to the bone it was too late

(I bawl I bawl I bawl)

but Mammy made me go one night to a woman who cut card, and she made me go and told the woman to cut card for Helen, and the woman cut card for Helen while she wasn’t well, and the woman told me that she saw death in the card, and that Helen was going to die, and when I hear that I start to bawl, I start to cry, and I remember the dream. Helen died shortly thereafter, and at her funeral you would think a big person had died. Her grave was covered with so much flowers, and her funeral was beautiful; her grave was beautiful and covered with so much flowers, you would think it was a big person who had died......hmmm, yes. you would think so. I never forget.

...

My god my Mammy used to cuss me. All the time she used to cuss me. Before I have the child she cuss me, and even after I have the child she cussed me, telling me that I bring her a child without a father, and she used to beat me bad when I was pregnant. When I was pregnant, she beat me a lot, but I couldn’t say anything, I couldn’t say anything at all, and is one of Mammy’s friends who met me on the road one day in San Fernando after Helen died who say that child lying down in the cemetery there now is lying there because of the blows I get from Mammy when I was having her. Once I went to the back to bathe, and I forgot the soap, and by the time I went back to get it, some people had already taken it, and I got beat for that. Mammy used to beat me bad when I was pregnant, and once when I was having a bath behind the house when we were living in Prince Alfred Street, and after I bathe I forget the soap there, and Mammy find it and hit me up all in my head and thing because I forget the soap in the back, slapping me up so

(the child in the cemetery is lying there because of blows I get)

but Mammy wasn’t right. She head wasn’t right.
...

I wonder if God going to punish me for saying that about my mother? But from her, I didn’t get as much as a dollar to buy okro, not a dollar or dime to buy nothing. Daddy beg Mammy to come home to be with us and promise to pay her a salary, but she refuse. Mammy left us with nothing.

…

After Helen died, I begin thinking more about the Bible, more about where Heaven and Hell is. I know she wasn’t in hell. You know? But I use to cry a lot when she died. My neighbor once tell me that she have a dream: she used to say she saw Helen walking in a garden among flowers, beautiful roses and everything, and Helen told the neighbor she was worried because ‘Mummy is crying too much, too much.’ In the dream my neighbor say Helen pick two kinds of flowers; she pick two kinds of flowers to give to me, but she didn’t remember what it was. Sometimes it is the sleep that does make you forget things...

...

Before I got saved, I was feeling really miserable. I was just – I was – I don’t know how I was completely. It’s not until God showed me the right way, and I accepted Jesus in my life, and things begin to look different. And when I got saved, I don’t remember if anyone had invited me to go to church at Revival Time. I can remember no one. I started going there. First I bought a white dress, and then I said in my spirit that I wanted a Bible. I wanted to go back to the Presbyterian Church. I started contemplating.

Before I got saved, when I went into the church, you know they have loudspeakers? And they have a record player playing, and they were playing that song, Amazing Grace, and they have the speakers up on the poles so that people can hear. And I heard the words of it and I heard that song and I didn’t know the words of it but God began to work in my heart. God began to work in my heart. Girl, when I walked into that church, I was so miserable. You wouldn’t believe. But after I found Jesus Christ as my Savior, when Paul Olson preached, I was hungry to go up to the altar to accept the Lord. And it is there I found God my savior Jesus Christ in Paul Olson’s crusade in Revival Time Assembly. Yes. It had a time I was kneeling in a pool of tears because the hurt I get so many times hurt so bad inside the tears wash out of me, wash me out like a flood.

I accepted the Lord, and before it was over I told them I wanted to baptize. I accepted Jesus Christ, and I had a peace and a joy in the Holy Ghost. I got baptized in the sea with two hundred other people and for the first time my soul felt clean, clean without spot or wrinkle, clean and white as snow.

Before I got saved, when I heard the songs sing in Revival Time and I asked one of the ushers what was the song singing there, she told me, because I didn’t even know Amazing Grace. It touched my heart, and there was a peace and joy inside of me and I was at peace and so happy, and it is that that hold me through to this hour and this date, or else I would be a miserable soul.

I dream once that I was at a crossroad. I feel a very hot heat, but didn’t see the fire. I didn’t know where the heat was coming from. A woman come up to me and tell me to change the road, change the road I was on. Then a little while later, I dream that I was by a seaside, alone. The weather was gray and rainy, and the water look muddy, and somehow I knew I was standing by the Jordan River. But they say that the Jordan River is so clean? Someone come up to me and ask me, ‘child, you know where you are?’ I say no, and they say, ‘This is the River Jordan. This is where Christ was baptized.’ I saw the place where He was baptized, I saw a glow hovering over the place. I went in there and saw the King of Kings and Lord of Lords, born to die that I may live. There I beheld the Lamb without spot or blemish, there by the riverside. There, there by the riverside the Holy Spirit fell upon me like a flood; there I passed from death unto life. There I saw He who died, died that I might live, there by the riverside....

...

Who am I, who am I that you, a King, would bleed and die for? Who am I that you would pray not my will, thine Lord? The answer I may never know, why you ever loved me so, but to an old rugged cross you'd go, for who am I? But then I'm reminded of your words, ‘I'll leave thee, never’ so just be true, I'll give to you my life forever. I wonder what I could have done to deserve God's only Son, you, who fights my battles ‘til they're won, for who am I...

...Thou, O Lord, are the answer to my every need, from everlasting, to everlasting, amen.

"The Line"

2008-09-16T11:05:00.000-07:00

Reggie looked forward to 10:05am with great anticipation. Morning snack time was fifteen minutes before recess, an hour and fifty-five minutes before lunch, and five hours and twenty-five minutes before the end of the school day. Each of these moments gave Reggie reason for excitement. Lunch was his second favorite time of day. There was always the element of surprise with the opening of his lunch box at noon. What would be in there today? he wondered. Peanut butter and jelly? Fried bologna and cheese with mayonnaise? A honey bun or a cupcake? Apple juice or a dime to buy chocolate milk? During Mrs. Byrd’s morning lessons, Reggie would stare out the window and ponder these things. Although his mother’s low-paying job at the dry cleaners limited the possible combinations, Reggie liked to pretend to be surprised. When 10:05am rolled around, however, he dismissed such matters for the much awaited morning highlight: the distribution of milk and cookies.

Reggie patiently stood in line in front of the classroom with the other kids in his first grade class. He saw the black milk crate on Mrs. Byrd’s desk filled with blue, half pint cartons with pictures of cows on them. He could tell by the beads of sweat on the outside that the milk was cold. Reggie loved ice cold milk. He also liked to watch Mrs. Byrd hand out the oatmeal cookies in the slow, deliberate way she had, wrapping each one in a napkin the way they do for customers in the bakery. Mrs. Byrd made it an event.

Reggie watched as Joyce Woods stepped to the front of the line and accepted the delicious offering Mrs. Byrd extended to her. Joyce Woods was the only other colored kid in his class. She was coffee complected with eyes like ink and hair twisted into two braids. Reggie studied Joyce Woods every day with acute fascination, in part because he felt unspoken kinship with her as the only other beneficiary of Brown v. Board in the first grade, and in part because whenever she sat down, he could see under her dress.

Reggie knew he was colored, but wasn’t quite sure what that meant exactly. All he knew was that colored wasn’t white, and what wasn’t white, wasn’t wanted. Unlike Joyce Woods, whose African ancestry was obvious to the world in the concentration of her color, Reggie was light-eyed and light skinned, a testimony to the postbellum admixture of poor whites and the Saponi thread of the eastern Sioux with freedmen. He was of no single pure line, but rather the product of mixed folk taking up with mixed folk until all racial specifics were diluted to various shades of yellow.

The colored folks in the community kept secrets concerning the past to themselves. Folks just didn’t talk. “Boy, that’s none a yo’ business,” they said. There was a lot of shame surrounding the silence; it was commonly known that high-colored folk, particularly the “blue veins,” would pass for white whenever they could. Although people in the community knew, they never brought it up. A few folk were ashamed to be called Indian after all the white man had done to kill the Indian spirit of the Old World. Most others wanted no association with the likes of Negroes and actively sought, in marriage, to bleach the very histories that would condemned them. On the one hand, Reggie was told, “Boy, you’s got Injun and Massa in yo veins, you ain’t no Negro. You’s high society.” On the other hand, folks said, “Well, boy, you’s got Negro blood in you, so you’s jus’ that, a Negro. Don’t no amount a nothin’ else gone make no diff’rence..”

The people to whom it seemed to matter most were those whose features overtly betrayed them, offering no opportunity for choice; in the mind of a seven year old, however, it was a conundrum.

Reggie glanced again at the front of the line. He watched in disgust as Elizabeth Watkins assaulted Mrs. Byrd for her snack.

Elizabeth Watkins was a fat white girl who breathed loudly and had tight skin that shared the same flushed hue as the pink dress she wore daily. She was the nastiest person he had ever laid eyes on in his entire life. She sat in front of Reggie in class and sweat profusely. Initially, Reggie didn’t have anything against her other than the fact that she smelled so bad, he had to breath through his mouth. Last Thursday, however, when Reggie wasn’t looking, Elizabeth Watkins stole his cookie. One moment it was there on his desk, right next to his milk. The next moment, it was gone. Reggie was angrier then than he had ever been before, because it was the first time he had ever been robbed by a white person. Colored country boys never had much to begin with, and to have that little bit taken away, and by a mountain hick on top of it, was a personal offense. Reggie had to spend that snack time empty-handed while the other white kids in class ate their cookies, and all he got from Elizabeth Watkins was a heinously gapped, crumb-smeared grin. After that moment, Elizabeth Watkins was nothing more to him than a thieving, treacherous, redneck pig.

With the exception of Mrs. Byrd’s class, Reggie didn’t like Richard Anthony Elementary School. He didn’t care for school in general because it was a waste of good days. He would have much preferred to be running through the woods playing cowboys and Indians with Carl and Andre, starting fires with leaves and matches and shooting birds out of their nests with his bb gun. Richard Anthony was a worse school than usual, though, because it was mostly white - not northern white, as he had been accustomed to in New York, but Southern White, a whole different breed of man. Alamance County had undergone visible changes since his father’s recent return to North Carolina from military assignment at Fort Totten, then in Vietnam. 1966 had brought increased efforts to formally rid the South of the remnants of Jim Crow since the upset of the spring of 1954; it was an opportunity for the United States to expunge its record of all evidence of complicity in the division of “the Land of the Free” through the eighty-nine year sanctioning of de jure segregation.

Reggie was still a new kid, new to the strange thing called “integration” that made black kids get on buses with poor whites kids who took every opportunity to “remind them of their place,” and new to this place where his mother and father had their roots, a temperamental land west of the Blue Ridge Mountains comprised of country vastness and community smallness. It was different from the home he had known at Fort Totten, and it was also the same. Reggie had been born into a country at war on two fronts; in the East with the Vietcong against anti-communist forces in North Vietnam, and within itself, across a color line.

When Reggie reached the front of the line, he accepted his milk and cookie and returned to his seat, keeping a wary eye on the roaming sausages that were Elizabeth’s fingers. Moments later, Mrs. Byrd dismissed the class to recess. Reggie made his way to the playground and sat on a bench, content to mind his business and count the minutes to lunch. The sun suddenly disappeared as something cast a shadow over Reggie’s seat. He looked up at the white cloud that had settled over him.

“Hey nigger.”

Reggie found himself staring at the hard faces of Dick Reed and Dennis Sykes.

Dick and Dennis - “Double D,” as they were called - were rednecks who took pleasure in proving their quality by beating up on the weak. Dick was the ringleader, a first grader who had been held back twice; Dennis was his crony. The boys were homegrown, hateful and hardheaded, without an ounce of knowledge or sense about things in the world except what they heard at home. And what they hear at home was mostly about niggers.

“You’s that new nigger ain’t you,” Dick said. “You’s a funny lookin’ nigger as I ain’t never seed one as yeller as you, but my daddy said its happened because big black niggers gone and done the unspeak’ble with white ladies that didn’t know no better.”

Dennis, taking his cue from Dick, nodded.

“I don’t want no trouble,” Reggie said.

“He don’t want no trouble!” Dick exclaimed, revealing an eroded grin. Dennis laughed. “Aw, but you is trouble, lil’ nigger,” Dick said, instantly growing serious. “You’s at a white school where’s no niggers allowed. So you’s gotta do what I says or Dennis and I is gonna beat yo’ yeller hide into the ground.”

Reggie didn’t say anything. Dick jabbed him in the shoulder with his index finger. “You listenin’ to me, nigger? If you don’t do what I says we gonna beat you up.”

“Yeah,” Dennis chimed.

“You can’t beat me up,” Reggie answered, “because if you do I can’t bring you a present on Monday.”

Dick paused. “What kinda present?” he asked.

“A Tonka Toy,” Reggie lied. “A Mighty Yellow Dump Truck, as a matter of fact.”

“This nigger’s lying, Dennis,” said Dick suspiciously, wanting to hear more about the dump truck.

“He ain’t got no such thing.”

“Yeah I do,” Reggie said with exaggerated confidence. “It’s a brand new one I got for my birthday. Remote control for easy steering and everything.”

Dick thought for a moment. “Well then, you just mighta saved yo’ hide,” he replied. “You got till Monday to bring me that toy or else you’s dead.” Dick didn’t mind waiting a few more days before pounding his newest victim. As he saw things, it was the opportunity to get something for nothing and still beat somebody up. Either way, circumstances were on his side. He gave Reggie one last hard jab in the shoulder before walking away. “Monday!” he yelled.

* * *

Reggie was at an impasse. He had told Dick and Dennis that he would bring them something he knew he didn’t have. His family didn’t have money for things like Tonka Toys. When Monday came and Dick and Dennis saw that he didn’t have it, they would surely beat him senseless.

Reggie had only ever been in one fight in his entire life. It had happened in New York, with one of the other military kids on the army base. An older kid had walked up to Reggie and punched him. Reggie had tried to run home, but his father, who had been standing at the window observing what had happened, stopped him. “Boy,” he bellowed, “How dare you disgrace yourself like that. You musta forgot what your last name is. You don’t let yourself get slapped around and just take it. You fight or your fall, and if you fall, you sho’ as hell better be fightin’ on your way down. Now get back out there and defend yourself.”

More fearful of his father than anyone else, Reggie went back outside, found the kid and punched him back. He and the boy had it out, fighting until they were tired. To this day Reggie wasn’t sure who won. He fought hard and had been lucky. But he couldn’t count on beginner’s luck this time...

* * *

Monday morning came all too quickly. Reggie found the cloudlessness of the sky and the cheerfulness of the sunshine offensive. He went to the bathroom and found a thermometer. He ran it under the hot faucet for five minutes, then took some water and sprinkled it on his face. He went to his mother and told her he wasn’t feeling well and should stay home from school. He handed her the thermometer as proof.

“Boy,” she said, feeling his forehead, “if your temperature really was a hundred and forty three degrees you would not only be dead, you’d be well done and ready to serve for Christmas Dinner. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with you. You goin’ to school.”

* * *

Sure enough, just as Reggie had predicted, Dick and Dennis found him as soon as he got off the bus.

“Where’s my toy, nigger,” Dick said.

“I don’t have it,” Reggie said, squinting.

“What do you mean you don’t have it?” Dick barked.

“I don’t have a Mighty Yellow Dump Truck.”

Dick looked violated. “You’s gonna regret that,” he hissed. “At play period, you’s dead, nigger.”

“Dead.” Dennis echoed.

* * *

Reggie spent all morning making his soul right with God. For the first time, he didn’t care about milk or cookies or Elizabeth Watkins’s sausage fingers. Those things no longer mattered, as he was about to die. Reggie wondered if this was how Jesus felt before he was crucified...naked.

At recess, Dick spotted him from across the yard, and with Dennis trailing, he made a beeline for where Reggie was standing. Reggie prayed the only prayer he remembered from Sunday school. Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven. He wished he had paid more attention, but it didn’t matter now. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Reggie asked the Lord to forgive him for stealing his mother’s cigarettes and for blowing up that garden snake with gasoline. Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. As Dick approached, Reggie closed his eyes and prepared for the impact. Amen.

As soon as Dick was within arm’s reach, Reggie reared back and let it fly. BAM! He landed a perfect right hook, socking Dick square in the nose.

Dick didn’t know what hit him. The impact caused him to reel backwards into Dennis, his nose gushing blood like a faucet. He fell to the ground, stunned. He looked down. Seeing his hands slippery and red, he screamed. Dennis ran for cover.

Dick began to cry hysterically. Reggie stared at him quietly, flexing his fingers.

Mrs. Byrd ran to the site of the commotion. She tried to make out what Dick was saying amidst his blubbering. He told her that Reggie had punched him for no reason.

“Did you punch Dick?” Mrs. Byrd asked Reggie.

“Yep,” Reggie answered, "With all my might."

“Say you’re sorry, Reggie,” Mrs. Byrd ordered. “What you did was wrong.”

“But I’m not sorry,” Reggie replied, “And I ain’t sayin’ it. Let him come near me again. I’m am'dextrous.”

Mrs. Byrd frowned at Reggie. She took a piece of white chalk, walked over to the blacktop, and drew a big circle. She told Reggie to stand in the middle of it for the rest of playtime. She told him that she would be contacting his mother and father immediately.

Reggie went and stood in the circle. He didn’t mind. After all, Mrs. Byrd wasn’t the only person who could draw the line.

Pro-Life!

2008-09-09T07:46:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine recently wrote me and asked me what I would say to Christians who declared that they couldn't vote for Barack Obama because they simply "can't get past the abortion issue." He told me that he tried to point them to the larger picture, but unfortunately they seem unmoved regarding the killing of innocent life.

I got to thinking on this point, and decided that I am pro-life. that's why I am voting for Barack Obama.

To the people who have difficulty seeing past abortion, I would ask you, is Barack Obama is "pro-abortion"? Let me answer the question for you: he isn't.

Obama is pro-choice, which he should be as a political figure in this country. For those who saw the sit down conversation he had with the pastor of the Saddleback Mega-church, Rick Warren, we are believers in Jesus but within a democratic society. Within a democratic society, one belief cannot, should not be held above another. We all too often make the mistake of assuming that the "world" mentioned in the Bible refers to all those who function outside of the "Christian Bubble," and is dark and evil, and their secularism somehow makes them pro-Satan.

But, as the saying goes, the worst kind of evil is evil disguised as virtue, and as John 3:16 goes, "For God so loved the world..."

In a country that is home to people of all races, ethnic traditions, languages and belief systems, In a country where there are people who truly don't believe that, scientifically, a baby's life begins at conception, we cannot impose on them a moral belief that stems directly from God's word, even though it is a truth we hold dear to us.

The reality is that our country has to be free for everyone, and within that free society, we as believers, as the champions of Jesus' message are then responsible for loving the world and preaching the Gospel through our actions. By living the life the Jesus did, with the sacrifice and humility he exemplified, those who are not believers can come to know him, and then come to redefine life for themselves within this knowledge of Jesus. And if we really did our jobs, they would.

I, as a Christian, am anti-abortion, and if faced with the decision of whether to abort a pregnancy, would choose not to, because I am killing a child. But, I remain pro-choice, because America is about choice, just as believing in Jesus is a choice.

So, I ask the people who are concerned with the abortion issue: What does it means to actually be pro-life? Are you pro-life only in the womb of a woman, or are you also pro-life when the black or brown child comes into the world without options and opportunity? Are you pro-life enough to pour funding into the fight against poverty, the way Jesus was "pro-life" for the poor? Do you believe in being "pro-life" enough to come out against the injustice of the death penalty and its abusive applications? Are you "pro-life" enough to raise taxes on yourselves to help inner city kids get better educations so they can lead better lives? Are you "pro-life" enough to give money to Darfur, and Ethiopia, and India so that people can have food and water? More simply, how about to Katrina victims? Are you "pro-life" enough to teach sex education in schools so that people who don't know (and who are not going to stop having sex, in the "world" and "in the world of religion" as we plainly see) can be smarter, and decrease the chances of HIV and unwanted pregnancies? Are you "pro-life" enough to increase the minimum wage so that people can consider keeping a child that they could actually care for financially? Are you "pro-life" enough to provide universal health care so that the infant mortality rate among urban African-Americans decreases and so that parents can actually offer their children a healthy entry into the world?

I ask you all of these things because the Bible talks a great deal about faith with works, and like Jesus, we are to be advocates of the orphans, the widows, and the oppressed. So, I tell people that if they want to talk about being pro-life with me, then we are going to talk about being pro-life across the board, for everyone. All people. And right now, the "dark world" we are so quick to label demonstrates greater compassion and empathy than those of us who claim to bring a message of true healing and reconciliation.

So wait...they are more like Jesus that those who are called by his name and declare themselves to be his followers?

Shame on us.

Christianity vs. Christ

2008-09-09T07:19:00.000-07:00

Christianity and Barack Obama. The challenge to this statement is something with which I greatly struggle.

For the past several years, I, as a strong believer in and follower of Jesus Christ, have become increasingly more put off by the institutionalized church. Evangelical Christianity and Christ's Gospel have become divergent messages, a glaring paradox very much mirroring the divide between the religious leaders and their temple on earth and the Kingdom that Jesus brought with his message...the same message that got him crucified.

Again, we are living at a time at which we are witnessing the slanderous killing of the message of the Gospel by the religious order in power. I never would have thought that I would see the day when the Evangelical Church would become the perpetrator of the evil of this present day.

I am reminded of Romans 2:17-24:

"You who call yourselves Jews are relying on God's law, and you boast about your special relationship with him. You know what is right because you have been taught his law. You are convinced that you are a guide for the blind and a light for people who are lost in darkness. You think you can instruct the ignorant and teach children the ways of God. For you are certain that God's law give you complete knowledge and truth. Well then, if you teach others, why don't you teach yourself? You tell others 'do not steal' but do you steal? You say it is wrong to commit adultery, but do you commit adultery? You condemn idolatry, but do you use items stolen from pagan temples? You are so proud of knowing the law, but you dishonor God by breaking it. No wonder the world blasphemes the name of God because of you." (NLT)

The secular population curses God because of what "Christians" have done. I think about how cynical Rachel Maddow and Keith Olbermann were yesterday as they played clippings of Palin declaring the war in Iraq as God's will...a pipeline as God's will...Alaska's role as a post-Rapture refuge as God's will...Her election as God's will...

God help us.

Because of the abuse of Christianity once again, we have a world that is hostile to the message we, as believers in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, bring. And it's our own fault. I can't blame them for hating us. How those "Christians" justify their faith and their refusal to vote for a black man is astounding to me. I am honestly in shock at how "Christians" cannot see Jesus in his message...but then again, I'm not, because in the days of old the religious were so sealed in their self-righteousness and self-proclaimed holiness, they either missed the prophets or killed them, and they missed and killed Jesus. All because of their prejudices and their hunger for power. God sent messages through people who didn't fit stereotypes. And because they didn't come in the form or face expected by the majority, they were disparaged and ultimately dismissed.

Obama truly exemplifies the message Jesus brought to the world, exudes a humility that makes me ashamed of my own pride, is a man of integrity, he speaks truth, and he believes in a change that can bring healing to a nation, and beyond that, restore peace and reconciliation in the world. And he has done it all while refusing to compromise his values, by running a clean campaign, by holding to values and not budging, even in the face of pressure...and he happens to be black, a fact that is as difficult for this country to swallow as it was for people to believe that a carpenter from the ghetto town of Nazareth was the Messiah and King for which they had been waiting.

In drawing this analogy, I am not likening Obama to Jesus. But I am saying that what we learn from the past, in the words of the prophets, is that the voice of truth is usually the minority voice (in this case, pun intended). The truth is sharp and divisive and it forces darkness to expose itself. What this election race has awakened in this country are the powerful demons of hatred and racism that hold America in a headlock. The emergence of a figure like Obama is forcing people to confront what has been so easy to hide. Racism and prejudice are resurfacing, and we are seeing them for the nasty forces that they are. I believe that this election is also a supernatural battle - we are on the cusp of a defining moment in history - for us as Americans, and for Christians. If McCain and Palin win, they will surely declare that Jehovah was on their side in helping them "defeat evil." This statement will serve to then diminish us further in the eyes of an observant world that is weighing the American message of democracy and her actions of hypocrisy against each other. After that, I believe the secular world will be numb to anything remotely sounding like Christianity, and we will have seen one of the most flagrant acts of injustice committed in our age, and by Christians, of all people.

Conversely, Obama's election would be a moment that could redefine what it means to be a believer in a God who so loves the world - not just America, and not exalting one man above another. He would be a tool of uplift for all people and for black people, because they would no longer be able to walk throughout their lives with their heads bowed at their own insignificance. Children of color would have a reason to fight harder, and we as black people will be able to pause in history with a pride unmatched in time. As Americans, we could once again dream of being respected instead of hated and feared, And we as believers would be able to push back against the traditional definitions of "the church" as laid out by the demonic, hateful forces at work on the Evangelical Right. We could return to the example of the church in the book of Acts, that wasn't a building but a community of people, and whose message was simply about who Jesus was, what He said, and what He did.

We can believe God for peace, for a world of restoration, and for a way into people's hearts who would have otherwise been closed to the Gospel. It's an amazing an anxious time to witness; while I do not know what's in the future, I remind God of His word. I tell him that His name is very much at stake in this election, on both sides. God is going to have to show that He is God above all classification, abuse and definition, and that no principalities in heaven or on earth or amount of evil in the hearts of men can stop what He has set in motion. And I don't know God's will for Obama. But as my sister heard a pastor say last Sunday, "faith is the currency of the supernatural and with it miracles happen." The God of Gideon who defeated the Midianite army, as numerous as the sea, with 300 men, some trumpets, lamps and clay jars, is the same God believers serve today. Those of us who have made the choice not to subscribe to the religious label that is butchering faith in this country, but to take up our crosses and actually follow the rocky road in Jesus' footsteps, have to continue to fight for what we believe in, and trust that God will take our little bit and make it more than enough.

Sucker

2008-05-29T09:43:00.000-07:00

"...a look at the ancient west African kingdom of Ghana. Read chapter 13 aloud with a partner and then complete the reading notes I have handed out to you. Make sure you-"

The classroom door swung open and in strolled Anthony and Chasen, right in the middle of my sentence.

"No." I said sharply, holding up my finger in their direction. "You stand right there at the door and do not move. My class started fifteen minutes ago and you are late."

The boys backed themselves up against the door.

I finished my instructions to the class and then walked over to Anthony and Chasen. "Somebody had better explain to me why you were not here on time."

"W-w-we were he-helping Miss V-Veronica," Chasen stammered.

"Yeah," Anthony said.

"Then go get a note," I said, pointing to the door. Chasen and Anthony almost fell on each other in an attempt to hurry out.

Fifteen minutes later, they came back. Approaching my desk slowly, Chasen put a piece of paper in my hand.

I examined the note. It was a tiny piece of torn paper taken from the edge of paper from a writing ledger. Scribbled in squiggly childlike pencil letters was the following message:

"Deer Miss Bass pleese exscuse Chasen and Anthony from class they was helping me clean up. Sined, Miss V."

I squinted at the paper. I glared at Chasen and Anthony. "Who wrote this!" I said.

They stared at me, wide-eyed.

"This is not an adult's handwriting!" I said angrily. "Are you telling me Miss Veronica failed spelling? Who forged this note!"

Chasen and Anthony continued to gape at me, no words coming out of their mouths.

"Both of you, out!" I said. "Follow me right now!"

I marched them down the hallway. "We are going to go call both your mothers right now!"

Anthony spun around and grabbed my arm.

"No-no-no w-wait, Miss B-bass, P-p-please," he said. "We are gonna c-c-confess r-right now."

Chasen turned to him with a look of shock on his face. "Aw!" he squeaked indignantly, shaking his head at Anthony.

"No," Anthony said, "We gonna confess." The fear of his mother, stronger than the fear of God, was flooding his eyes with water.

"Wh-wh-what had happened was," Anthony gulped, "I went to get my backpack outside, see, and then I decided to help Chasen find his - "

"Yeah," Chasen said, nodding. "And after we found my backpack we then forgot about class and began eating our chili suckers, you know the ones I sell for twenty-five cent during nutrition-" Chasen looked up at the ceiling and smiled to himself, "that sucker was good too-"

"Chasen!" I snapped. "First of all, you are not supposed to be eating candy-"

"Oh I know," Chasen said nodding at me, sending a dazed stare through my body. "I know but I forgot because that sucker was out cold-"

"Chasen! I don't want to hear about any more suckers!" I hissed. "I want to know who forged Miss Veronica's handwriting!" I looked at Anthony, who had shrunk against the wall and was looking sideways at Chasen, waiting for him to say something.

"Oh yeeeah," Chasen said with a grin, "About that. It was actually both our ideas, but mostly Anthony's."

Anthony gaped at Chasen.

"But I wrote it," he said proudly, "Because I figu-" he paused. "Because we both figured that you would think a child would write in cursive, so we wrote the note in print to throw you off, and make you think we was Miss Veronica because she ain't about to write us no note for eating chili suckers. Wasn't that a good idea, Miss Bass?" he tapped his temple. "Smartness."

I stared at Chasen, speechless. He grinned at me. I looked at his partner. Anthony slumped on the wall, looking betrayed.

My mind raced with possible courses of disciplinary action. Parent-teacher conference? Over lollipops, hard to justify. Detention? Wouldn't exactly help. Call parents? The boys had confessed, even bragged about what they saw as a successful diversion. They confessed nonetheless, and the infraction was not all that serious in the grand scheme of things.

"You both have janitorial duty in my classroom for a week!" I fumed at them. "I better see you in my classroom after school every day this week to clean it up. And if you are late, I promise you I will immediately call your mamas."

Chasen and Anthony nodded gratefully.

"Now get back to class!" I ordered.

* * *

After school, I was outside on the yard watching the kids in the parking lot when I realized that I had forgotten my phone on my desk. I ran upstairs to my classroom, just as Anthony and Chasen were leaving. I nodded my approval, acknowledging the responsibility they took to come to my classroom on their own without my having to find them. "Bye-bye Miss Bass," they said in unison.

"Goodbye," I returned, eying them suspiciously. I walked into my clean room and around to the back of my desk. I picked up my phone and noticed "new photos" stored in the camera.

"Huh," I said, puzzled, as I opened the files. I found myself staring at Chasen's grinning face as he was cranking dat souljaboy. I gasped and ran out the room. "Chasen!!!!!!!!!!!" I yelled down the empty hallway. "Chasen!!!!"

All I saw was a shirttail scoot around the corner.

Prudence

2008-05-29T08:34:00.000-07:00

At the end of the day on Tuesday, I gave my first period class free time to work on their homework.

"Productive work!" I declared. "This is not kick back time. If you are going to talk quietly, it better be while you are taking care of your business."

Upon instruction, chatter filled the room as my kids began sliding their desks together into groups, pulling work out of their backpacks, groaning about how mean I am because I give more homework than any other teacher.

"Yeah, yeah," I said, amused. "Sit down and get to work."

I pulled out my book and started to read. DeShay, who sat in front of my desk, got up and grabbed my Word Teaser box. "Can I look through this, Miss Bass?" he asked.

I looked up at him. "DeShay, I know you have work to do," I said.

"But this is vocabulary building," he said. "I am trying to become more articulate."

I stared at him. "Fine," I said.

I went back to reading. Ten minutes later, I feel someone staring at me. I glanced up and DeShay is standing right next to me. I jumped.

"DeShay what are you doing!" I said, exasperated. "What do you need?"

DeShay shrugged.

"Then why are you standing next to me?!" I exclaimed.

DeShay handed me the Word Teaser card in his hand. It read:

PRUDENT

"Pronunciation: prOOd'-nt
Function: Adjective
Definition: Thoughtful or wise; careful in making decisions or taking action."

I flipped the card over.

"Go stand next to the most prudent person in the room," the directions read.

DeShay stared at me and pointed to the card. "I am just following the directions," he said.

"DeShay-" I began. I sighed. "Thank you very much but I need you to go sit down now and do your work."

He dragged his feet back to his seat.

Living With Cancer

2008-05-17T21:31:00.000-07:00

There is nothing easy about following Jesus. Any person Jesus calls He calls to death, as He died - death to self. No believer ever completely dies though, because there is that thing residing in every human that fights submission in all forms. It is the right to life as we please and choose, the right, as the Addams' Family Remix goes, to:

Do what we wanna do
Say what we wanna say
Live how we wanna live
Play how we wanna play
Dance how we wanna dance
Kick and we slap a friend...

Admittedly, it is easier to talk about the arrogant lowlife you just can't stand behind her back and wallow in feelings of schadenfreude when she breaks out in a rash that makes her face blow-up, or loses her job or gets dumped by her lower-life boyfriend instead of compliment her for what's good about her; It's easier to push the "instantly to voicemail" button on your phone when that annoying, needy, talkative friend that insists on telling you every detail of his mundane existence calls to tell you about the variety of vegetables he purchased at the supermarket last week; It's easier to pretend you don't notice the dishes in the sink and let your roommate wash them...again; It's easier to tell your family that unfortunately there is absolutely no cake left and then gorge on the gigantic piece you hid for yourself in the back of the fridge when they all go to bed; It's easier to yell and scream and throw a tantrum when someone offends you than to patiently hear the opposing perspective; It's easier to give an incompetent driver the bird instead of a friendly wave; It's easier to give the homeless person on the corner the number to a Job Hotline than lunch; It's easier to read books about imaginary people rather than deal with real ones; It's easier to cut ties with an insensitive loser you mistook for a friend than fight for a worthwhile relationship; It's easier to say "shut the fuck up" to a culturally illiterate ignoramus who tells you that you are unusually smart for a black person rather than just smile and walk away; It's easier to pretend you didn't notice that the cashier didn't charge you for the Snickers you added to the conveyor belt last minute; It's easier to drive just fast enough so that that car that's had its blinker on for a quarter mile can't merge into your lane; It's easier to resent than to love; It's easier to step on weak someones in pursuit of your own happiness than help them in the direction of theirs; It's easier to be selfish than selfless; It's easier to give in to what we naturally are, however dysfunctional, than to conform to a higher standard.

I cannot help but wonder what makes me so inclined to be wicked...

Living as a follower of Jesus is to have help living. It's me understanding that I have many problems that have origins in a part of me that I can neither reach, nor fix. As I am, I am ruled by what I feel; what I feel, however, often distorts reality.

Thanks to sin, humanity as it involves desire, appetite and feeling is now like a cancer. There is nothing wrong with desire, appetite and feeling by themselves, because they make us human beings. Cancer cells, in like manner, are by themselves good, life-sustaining elements of our existence.

The problem is when good things malfunction.

Cells begin to proliferate out of character and out of control, against imperatives issued by the brain. They operate at a high level of dysfunction and then take over the human body, eventually killing the host. Likewise, Love becomes lust, self-love becomes hatred, pride becomes arrogance, anger becomes abuse, hunger becomes ravishing greed, pain becomes malice, etc. These things, left unchecked and unregulated, damage people, causing them to distort, corrupt and self-annihilate. And so, now, we live in a world with third world countries and urban ghettos, drought and famine, gun possession, slavery and starvation, war and bloodshed, extravagance and poverty and 10,000% profit, prostitution and exploitation, gluttony and incarceration, racism and genocide, drug overdoses and husbands beating their wives, failed marriages, broken homes and boys and girls living without fathers. This is the world cancer has created.

Jesus (represented in the presence of the Holy Spirit), therefore, is the treatment for the human cancer, sort of like an antidote that overrides abnormal cell proliferation. The Jesus vaccine does not completely eliminate the cancer cells, though, at least not in this lifetime. Instead, he gradually carries a person through a healing process that begins with regulation and moves towards wholeness.

So, believers in Jesus are nothing more than sinners just like everybody else, who have chosen to accept the free "vaccine" offered by God, a treatment powerful enough to control abnormal expressions of what He created to be good in the first place. The Holy Spirit living in each patient, guiding and convicting each patient, is disease regulation.

Thank Heavens! :)

The problem, though, is that most people don't know that they're sick...

Bloodline

2008-05-16T23:06:00.000-07:00

"Jesus and Mary Magdalene were definitely in a sexual relationship. Then, you have the relationship between Jesus and John, the 'disciple whom he loved,' which would make Jesus also bisexual."

"Whoaaaaaaaa," Mimi exclaimed. "That's crazy! I never thought of that!"

Maritza, Mimi, and I had just left the Hollywood screening of the new documentary, "Bloodline." The director, Bruce Burgess, made a film detailing his search for the supposed secret being maintained by the Priory of Sion, the secret that Dan Brown brought forth in "The DaVinci Code," a secret originally put forth by the book, "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" in the '80s: Jesus and Mary Magdalene were lovers, she stole his body and staged his death, ran to France and had children whose descendants are now alive, well, and...French. The theory suggests that the past kings of France were of Jesus' bloodline, and now the Secret Society is hiding the locations of the bodies of Jesus and Mary Magdalene.

I sat in the back seat, listening to the conversation between Maritza and Mimi as they recapped the movie, humored, but feeling no compulsion to say anything.

* * *

A few days before we went to the movie, Vegas, Mimi, Derrick and I had a conversation about Jesus' humanity.

"I think Jesus had a wife and kids," Derrick said. "I just do. Jesus, after all, was a man, and he experienced everything everyone else experienced, including love I'm guessing. What's wrong if he did have a wife? It's not like it would change his message."

"Of course it would," I said.

"Why?" he said.

"Sex is a spiritual union," I said. "Jesus could not have had sex with a woman who was a sinner because in that unity, his sinless state would have been compromised through her sin."

"What if Jesus had a relationship with Mary Magdalene though," Mimi said. "That wouldn't shake your faith, would it Sarah? There would be no reason for you to stop believing."

"Of course there would be," I said. "Jesus having a wife and children would make him out to be the greatest liar and fraud every to walk the earth."

"But his message was still good, and one of hope."

"Not really," I said. "The message Jesus brought was hardly feel-good. It was radical, divisive, controversial, and perceived by the religious authorities of the time as antagonistic. Jesus made the greatest, most arrogant claim of any human being - he not only claimed to be the Son of God, but he claimed to be the only way for people to be saved. And, he claimed that he would conquer death. His message, either way, was insane. He was either insanely deceptive, which would make him a very bad person, or he was insanely correct."

"But what if Mary Magdalene did hide the body," Mimi said. "What if Jesus never died, but she tricked everyone into thinking he did."

"That's a hard one to sell," I said. "If you look at Jesus' disciples, they were skeptical of his message for the three years that they walked with him. And they spent all of their time with him. Nobody knew him better than they did. Peter was the classic idiot of the group, the best representation, in my opinion, of the average person. He never understood Jesus. He said stupid things, had a problem believing what Jesus said, claimed to be loyal and then ended up denying any association with Jesus when he was about to die...Peter was a weak, skeptical, flaky, cowardly individual. No one would bet on Peter to come through in a tight squeeze. He was the classic traitor.

"But the crazy thing about Peter," I said, "was that he suddenly went from being a coward to the champion of Jesus' message - literally, the rock on which Christ built his church. Peter transforms into this bold evangelist spreading the Gospel even at the threat of death. He completely changes after Jesus' resurrection, and continued Jesus' message until he himself was executed by crucifixion. And even when he was dying, he begged his executors to crucify him upside down because he said he was not worthy to die in the manner of his Lord.

"Now," I said. "What on earth would make Peter, the cowardly traitor, transform like that? 11 out of the 12 disciples ended up being martyred, and they all died proudly proclaiming the name of Jesus as Lord. There is no way Peter and the other disciples would have given their lives for a hoax. No possible way. Would I give my life for a hoax? Absolutely not. But, if Jesus did raise from the dead, that's worth anybody's life."

"Maybe Peter was an opportunist," Derrick said. "He wanted the fame that Jesus had. And he had the chance to assume leadership of Jesus' movement, even if Jesus did die."

"That doesn't make sense," I said. "Why would Peter want to be the leader of a movement that killed Jesus? He denied any association with Jesus when he was being killed. Unless Jesus did actually rise from the dead, Peter would have had no reason to put himself out there, because he would have then been the next target. Jesus didn't have celebrity popularity among the religious leaders. He was a threat. Peter would not have wanted that."

"I am still confused about why Jesus' having a wife and kids would make people stop believing," Mimi said.

"Because," I said. "The foundation of life is that Jesus came to save fallen man. He was 100 percent God and 100 percent man. He lived the perfect life, which made him the perfect sacrifice for all of humanity. His coming had been prophesied for thousands of years, and God himself declared Jesus to be his Son. If Jesus was a liar, then God is also a liar and deceiver which would mean he is not God, and so it is all one big lie."

"How would you feel about that, Buddy," Vegas asked me with a grin. "Are you hesitant to go see Bloodline? Are you afraid of what you might find out?"

"No," I said. "I want to go see it, actually. I want to see what's out there, and what's being talked about. Am I afraid that my faith would be challenged? No, I am not afraid of that. Like Peter, I spent the first 14 years of my life following rules of the Bible out of fear of Hell. God was some distant power I was afraid of. I was a good person, but not sold out for Jesus by any means. He hadn't yet shown himself to be a savior for me.

"But then, all of a sudden, he did. He performed such a mind-blowing miracle in my life, the resurrection became real for me, and my faith with it. So, with that said, I don't just know God in my head, following rules and trying to be a good religious person. I am not religious. I am a believer, and Jesus Christ is real to me, in my life, as surely as I am talking to you now. I have walked with a personal God for almost 10 years, and as I know him better and better, my faith grows in strength. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus is who he said he is. So no, I am not worried about them finding Jesus' body. Or Jesus' French children, for that matter, which is a humorous speculation in itself. It's never going to happen because Jesus is not dead."

* * *

The movie turned out to be a journey about Bruce Burgess trying to connect circumstantial evidence using fallacious logic to make Jesus have a wife and kids in France. Burgess ended up in France, at the Rennes le Chateau, where he and a man living in a van discovered a body in a cave next to a chest that contained a cup, some sort of middle eastern vial, and a bottle traditionally used for perfumes. All in all, some scientists tried to carbon date the hair on the unidentifiable corpse, and although they were unable to tell from the sample the gender of the mummy, Burgess somehow concluded that the corpse was middle eastern and by some sort of rickety syllogism crafted by Burgess, Mary Magdalene. Burgess concluded his film by saying, "I think Jesus was married to Magdalene and had children..."

Burgess surprised the theater by entering at the end of the film to take questions, to the applause of the audience. He happened to be in Hollywood.

During the question and answer session, I was baffled by the extent to which people praised the man for finding the "truth." I knew that most of the people in the audience were secular, because most evangelical Christians would be offended by the making of the movie, let alone open-minded about seeing it. Audience members were asking questions such as, "how will the world take this - the fact that you have discovered Magdalene's body?" People were thanking him for exposing the greatest "lie" of all time, for finally challenging a ludicrous notion that Jesus was somehow divine, etc..

I didn't feel the need to leap up and defend the name of Jesus to the theater; I was with my friends, who are seekers, and I understood the context of the movie. But, nevertheless, as a reasonable human being, I was still startled by the readiness with which they accepted these random and loosely connected finds as "truth."

Burgess declared, "I am in search for the truth. The most important thing this movie does is challenges Jesus' divinity. In doing that, it makes him more like us, instead of someone we cannot relate too. And, as such, it highlights the divinity in each and every one of us." The response of the crowd was thunderous applause, even a standing ovation. He then went on to talk about how much flack he has received from the evangelical right for his movie (no surprise, I thought), how many people got up and walked out of the theater, how many death threats he has received, and so on.

It didn't help either that a woman in the audience became very combative with the director during the Q and A and was making all of these rude, aggressive statements that weren't even factually correct. She was probably a church-goer, which made it even more embarrassing.

If there is one word in the human lexicon that has had a timeless history of controversy, it's "truth." I am always amazed when discussions concerning truth surface, because as much as people declare that they desire to discover the "truth," expose the "truth," tell the "truth," acknowledge the "truth," when it is presented to them or if another possibility poses a challenge to their own, they do their best to avoid, tailor, deny and/or dismiss it as wrong or irrelevant. So it remains an elusive concept, and one that people, for all of their claims, find offensive. Truth is only desirable when it is convenient and affirming to personal, individual beliefs. When it challenges, convicts, and questions preexisting systems, though (as truth should), it can't possibly be true...

Truth, however, stands by itself as its own witness that eventually has its say, whatever it might be. Though facades masquerade as copycats, truth eventually comes to light because it is constant; a sword in stone.

* * *
"I think Mary and Jesus had a relationship," Maritza said to me after the movie.

"What convinced you of that?" I asked.

"It just makes more sense to me than the resurrection," she said. "How can I believe some guy claiming to be God's son was raised from the dead? It's just not believable."

"And what if he actually was the Son of God, as crazy as it sounds?" I said.

Maritza hesitated. "I don't know," she said, shrugging. "I guess that would change things."

Great Expectations Part Uno

2008-05-12T18:00:00.000-07:00

Our circumstances answer to our expectations and the demand of our natures. --Henry David Thoreau

Hmm.

I sat on the picnic table listening carefully to the conversation being volleyed back and forth between my friends. The topic: expectations.

It all began with a facetious comment I made in response to a joke Kenneth cracked. "Yeah, well I have very little faith in the male species," I said to him after he said something stupid about the fickleness of women.

"I know!" he said, throwing a wadded gum wrapper at my head. "We all know, Sarah. You make that all too clear."

"Shut up." I pulled a mangled granola bar out of my backpack and stuffed half of it into my mouth. "Besides," I said with my mouth full, "you really can't blame me. I haven't exactly stumbled across men who have compelled me to trust them."

"But you have to give people a chance," he said with a smirk.

"Who said I haven't?" I said. "I have, actually, and it has turned out quite badly." I swallowed and stuffed the other granola half into my mouth.

"When was that?" Christina, who was sitting next to me, asked curiously.

"Well," I said slowly, "the only man I ever came remotely close to loving ended up leaving me emotionally effed up. I finally came to realize through a series of very unpleasant circumstances that the individual I loved was not the person he chose to be. The part of him that had somehow managed to evade the destruction of his youth and retain its humanity was truly amazing, don't get me wrong. I mean that small part of his character really was profound, and powerful enough in its little bit to have me falling for him. It is to his credit, though. Not many people in their entirety have the quality he demonstrated in a fraction of his being. His potential as a whole person, therefore, is all the more magnified.

"Unfortunately," I continued, "part of a human being isn't enough for anyone. There were also many other parts of him including those that were cold, nasty, defensive and insecure. He could be very mean when he wanted to be, which always came out of nowhere and hit me like a unexpected blow. I began to feel bad around him, more than I was happy. And I knew when he was trying to make me feel bad, and could never understand it. When I saw what was happening to myself, I had to get away from him." I shrugged. "He treated me more like an enemy than a friend anyway, so I know living without me in his life is a minimal loss to him. I can't say that I ended it with the most integrity, but that kind of reflected my own emotional damage I think. I deserved much, much better than what he gave me. It took me more than two years to mend what he took out of me. Only after I recovered was I able to go back and apologize to him for some of the things I said at the end of our friendship, or whatever you want to call what it was that we had."

"And how are things now?" Christina asked.

"I think we're cool," I said. "It's funny though, because after I apologized to him he wrote me to let me know that I had really hurt him and that despite having 'thrown me out' with every other pain-inflicting article in his life, so to speak, he could find it in himself to slowly let me back in." I smiled, splitting a blade of grass between my fingers. "And so he remains the same as he always was, even after these years - afflicted and unapologetic, inclined to resignation and acceptance. All he knows is his own pain, no one else's. It's what makes him the victim, and justifies his actions and reactions, however harsh they are to others. It's the very driving mechanism behind his self-preservation. That's something nobody can compete with."

"Dag," Kenneth said, shaking his head.

"I have had experiences like that," Christina said. "I have tried to reach out and mend old relationships only to re-realize why I had to leave those people to themselves in the first place."

"Yep, but I wish him well anyway," I said. "Experiences like that teach you about people, and I think there is something good in him yet. But to be honest, I think I just expected too much from him."

"Yeah, but that's no reason to keep everybody else out," Kenneth said. "Every man is not him."

"I know that," I said. "But I have to be guarded nonetheless. I have too much to lose by placing my trust in the wrong person."

"I think people in general need to adjust their expectations for others, even me with my own husband," said Christina, who has been married for more than a decade. "I just learned that you can never say never."

"But for some things, Ima have to be able to say 'never'," I said. "The uncertainty surrounding some things, such as, say, fidelity in marriage would drive me insane."

"I hear what you are saying," Christina said. "But I just never say never. I guess it's because I come from a line of strong, independent black women who were married to trifling men. I just learned at a young age that you have to expect the best but prepare for the worst."

"But you can live never knowing whether your husband will one day cheat on you?" I asked.

"Never say never," Christina said, shaking her head.

"But would you ever cheat?" I asked.

"Oh no," she said. "I take marriage too seriously."

"Is it really too much, then, to hold your husband to the same expectation you have set for yourself?"

"I don't know, I just don't think people are as simple as all that," she said. "Things change, circumstances change, people change."

"But you have a happy marriage?" I asked.

"Oh yes," Christina said.

"Huh," I said, puzzled.

"People do change though, that's true," Kenneth said. "For instance, I have cheated twice in my life."

I turned to him in surprise. "You've cheated?" I said, trying to keep my tone light.

"Yeah," he said. "It was like eight years ago though, and it was on the woman I was going to marry."

"Why did you cheat," I asked flatly.

"Because she was the first woman I had ever been intimate with, and after that I really wanted to know what others would be like. So there was this one girl who was sweating me, sweating me, sweating me, so eventually I just gave in."

"Hmm," I said. "And the second time?"

"It was later on, with the same girl."

"Did you ever tell your fiance?" I asked.

"Nope," he said.

"Don't you think that were therefore a bit hard on your fiance when you ended the relationship after she was unfaithful to you?" Kenneth had told us before that a few months prior to his marriage, his fiance left him for another man.

"No," he said. "I mean, I at first tried to work things out a few weeks after the fact, but then after that I was like, 'nope'."

"But you never told her about your affair."

"Nope."

"Would you have?"

"Don't know," he said with a shrug. "All I know is that that was a long time ago and that I'm different now. I know I wouldn't cheat on a woman I loved."

I studied him skeptically, keeping my lingering questions to myself. I wondered what made him go back and cheat the second time, why he would have done it in the first place if he cared about her, why he was so sure that he would never again be tempted to step out on a woman if he did it once before - excuse me, twice before...

"Could you ever stay with a man who cheated on you?" he asked me.

"No,"I said matter-of-factly. "I would hope to God that I could eventually forgive him, but unfortunately, if a man cheated on me, I would not be able to stay with him. That's one the one thing I would be unable to get over, from which I don't think I would be able to recover."

"But what if you cheated?" he asked me. "Would you expect your husband to forgive you?"

"To be honest, I don't imagine myself ever being able to cheat," I said. "I know myself that much. I am twenty-four and have never let a man kiss me, let alone have sex. This is kind of crazy for someone my age, and it seems to solicit pity, for some reason, from people who find this out and wonder if I have a problem or something. I don't care, though. My faithfulness to the man I will eventually marry begins now, even though I don't yet know who he is. My waiting is my loving him already. Therefore, I think that practice in fidelity now is going to help me remain faithful in marriage."

"Well I can't wait to see who this man is," Kenneth answered. "Apart from Jesus, I'm not sure that such a man on whom you have set your expectations even exists."

I shrugged. "It's not about perfection. It's about that thing. I'll know it it when I encounter it, but I can't explain it. I trust God, that's what I know. It's faith."

"We shall see," Kenneth said, patting me on the back.

"We both shall see," I said.

22.5

2008-05-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

I stared at Melvin as he fiddled with different buttons and knobs on my AE-1. His hair was locked in a mass of long, thin dreds that hung past his waist like little snakes. The roots were gray, but the color gradually got darker and deeper as it wound down the length of each lock, ending a dark brown at the tips. His hair kept the record of his years and marked the passing of time, retaining in its strands the visual progression from youth to age.

"The digital age," he muttered, absently shaking his head as he examined the interior of the body. He took a bottle of anti-dust and sprayed it into the camera. "It's all this generation knows. That's why they call me up here when someone brings one of these old ones in. I am the only one in here that knows about the old-school manuals anymore."

He set the camera down and popped the battery out of its terminal. Replacing the battery, he reattached the lens the previous attendant had been unable to put back on the camera. "This lens had a bayonet ring base," he said. "the lens, therefore, is mounted by lining up the red dot of the body to the red dot of the bayonet ring, turning the ring clockwise and pressing it gently until it locks into position-"

he twisted the bayonet ring slowly until the the lens hooks clicked into the grooves on the body.

"-like so." Melvin held the camera up and took several test shots. The camera, which had previously been stalling and failing to take pictures when I pressed the button, now snapped strongly with each of Melvin's air snapshots.

"What was wrong with it?" I asked.

"Nothing," Melvin said. "The battery just needed to be replaced."

I sighed in relief. "Other than that, what condition is it in?"

"Apart from the interior foam needing to be replaced, it's in excellent condition," he said, flipping the camera around in his hands. "The camera looks as though it has been in storage for years. It has been used, but thankfully, not misused."

He handed the camera back to me. "This camera is the best model Canon ever made," he said. "Despite being older than you are, the AE-1 was the digital camera of its time."

"Yeah, well I was thinking about getting a digital too," I said. "Just because it allows me to immediately see the types of photos I'm taking. At least until I know what I am doing."

"Learn both," Melvin said. "You have to."

"Even though I am only twenty-four," I said, "the extent and complexity of modern technology makes me feel old. My kids have so many advanced forms of video games, media players and communication gadgets, I am lost half the time when they try to explain what they did with some thingy-thing to somebody else's thingy-thing. Personally, I think it would be great to start a photography class at my school, just to expose kids to the most traditional visual medium."

"Ah yes, 'ghetto' kids," Melvin said with a smile. "They are by far, the most creative visual artists I have come across in my life. I would love to get back into teaching photography to urban youth. The amazing quality of kids in the inner city is that they have a unique way of seeing the world and understanding who they are in that world. Those very kids who have a creative, innovative outlook, however, are the same kids that can become problems for everybody else."

"Well yes," I said. "My most behaviorally challenged students are among the smartest and most perceptive that I teach."

"Exactly," Melvin said. "The key is to help them channel that. It's important that black kids begin to understand the power of visual media, as its own power of influence and as it exists alongside the written word. The combined force of the two shapes nations, histories and societies. Kids today don't know how influential the visual media is on them. They just take images in and take them in and take them in without processing them or being aware of the subliminal effects."

"I know," I said. "I am a writer, and I agree that the combined forces of both mediums can be enlightening and restorative or deadly and destructive. I drive by billboards daily featuring advertisements for 'Grand Theft Auto IV' and witness the biggest challenge to my classroom."

"What many people don't know is that Hitler's power during World War II was not in the strength of the Nazis or the Luftwaffe," Melvin said. "The power was in the propaganda. The propaganda he circulated was more powerful than any manpower he could have mobilized. The media made the people believe what Nazi Germany wanted them to believe."

"As did the Black Codes, Jim Crow, minstrel shows, lynchings, old cartoons and buffoonery posters white American society circulated against blacks," I added. "Visual media shapes social consciousness. It's terrifying if that social consciousness is founded on a series of exaggerations and lies. It lends itself to a perception of reality that doesn't exist. In the case of America, that reality has white people, as a collective, believing themselves better than everyone else and black people, as a collective, believing that they are less than everyone else. It's entitlement versus disinheritance. With this in mind, if I can somehow find a way to get my kids to read and listen and watch actively instead of passively, then I can begin to show them how to de-construct systems of influence and, where necessary, re-envision and recreate them."

"Well," Melvin said, "Give me a call if you want to start a photo club at your school."

"Oh yay," I said. "Absolutely."

"And keep working with that camera," he said. "That's a sturdy little thing you have there."

* * *

When people ask me how I feel as a teacher, I picture myself standing on a hot shore near the ocean, holding a styrofoam cup. The cup is chewed around the brim and has holes punctured in the sides and on the bottom. With this raggedy cup, I busily transport water from the deep, blue endlessness to a huge silo-like structure far away in the distance. No matter how fast I run (and I run pretty fast), the water leaks out onto the sand and evaporates without a trace. By the time I reach the silo, my cup is empty save the three or four water molecules that accidentally got stuck in the cup's interior ridge. And so I run back, trying again and again, trying to run faster and faster. When that doesn't work, I try holding the cup more tightly, plugging two of the fifty holes with my pinky and thumb, somehow trying to compensate for the frailty of the cup that magnifies the impracticality of the task.

A year goes by and then another year goes by, and I grow wearier, and wearier. And when I finally pause to look at my work, I find myself staring at three teaspoons of water in the hollow, resounding silo. I look back on my trail and see no evidence of the thousands of gallons I lost on the way that have now disappeared. At one point, I had them - I carried each drop of water. And at one point each of those drops slipped through a hole, fell and vanished.

The feeling of incompetence is overwhelming.

I believe in the power of my classroom. I believe in it for the hour and a half that I see my kids every day. What I cannot fight, however, is the influence of 22.5 hours beyond my reach. The likelihood that the 1.5 hours with me will somehow outweigh the time that they are subject to the worlds they inhabit, many of them bad, is slim. It could happen, in some cases. In many cases, however, those external worlds are at odds with the world of my classroom. For my kids, that very contention goes as far as to trivialize the world I occupy.

If I think about this long enough I will go mad, so I try not to. Instead, I write.

A Lesson Before Dying

2008-05-04T17:13:00.000-07:00

The past two years have been a challenge for me for a number of reasons. I have been tested in more ways than I could have possibly imagined, and more deeply than I thought myself capable of enduring. I am thankful for the ways in which God provided me with the small important things that bring me joy, such as a home a mile from the beach (which I desired more than anything) and a community of friends and common believers who have been my family here in L.A. God has his ways of showing himself present in difficult situations, mostly notably in the small prayers we pray sometimes without even knowing it. These small signs of God's presence have given me the strength to face darkness and uncertainty and change head-on rather than flee into hiding.

Nevertheless, this does not minimize the amount of sacrifice that following Jesus requires. I came out to California around the end of June, 2006, and I am leaving California around the end of June, 2008. For the past 731 days, I have had to live one day at a time, one sunrise to one sunset, one moment to the next. Anything else, even the thought of tomorrow, was more than I could bear. I have lived in an emotional and spiritual pressure cooker that has more than permanently affected me; it has completely reshaped who I am, in ways that I don't even think I can yet articulate. This does not mean that my experience has been negative; my experience has been difficult and painful, but as I see now, necessarily so.

I think the easiest prayer for me to pray would be a prayer for comfort and happiness. Nobody wants to hurt, hunger, need or wait. They seem to be weakening agents that amplify what's already wrong with us. For this reason, the decision to be a follower of Jesus is completely ludicrous if one does not believe that Jesus is who he said he was 2,000 years ago. It would be impossible if God wasn't real. No person in their right mind would choose to live in a framework of constant submission and sacrifice to a will greater than his or her own. It's completely counterintuitive. Choosing to walk with God is to choose to live a life full of life, but it is a fullness of life manifested in death (strange, strange concept). And not necessarily physical death (though it began as such with Jesus), but death to the natural human instincts that lend themselves to multi-level self-destruction.

Suffering is the agent of internal change. I don't know why this is. It certainly isn't fun. It's painful and it's sobering. I don't remember noting any verse in the Bible that talks about Jesus exuding bubbling happiness. If anything, nothing suggests that he was particularly happy to the end of his life (which was a horrifying end, I might add). He was focused, purposed, and ultimately pleased at completing the task set before him by God, his Father, but this feeling was not the temporal fuzzy (and often fleeting) feeling of happiness.

Does this mean that followers of Jesus live lives that completely suck? No, no. But our lives are guaranteed to be tried and tested. It's the only way we can become better people; someone bigger and better molding us and reshaping us and replacing the warped with what's real.

We sometimes wrongly assume that we are born perfect, when the reality is that every person is born with defects regardless of how perfect or imperfect his or her family structure seems to be. As Malcolm X said, "every experience is an ingredient in the make-up of a person." It does not matter who you are, though - there is bound to be an eggshell or something in that cake batter that's going to throw off the taste, make the cake collapse, cause it to burn, and so on. Those defects become insecurities, they are compounded by negative experiences, they are exacerbated by the defects of others. And so we all, in our own ways, live already broken. Money might hide it, status might hide it, fame might hide it, devotion might hide it, drinking, drugs and and sex might hide it. But they do not erase it. It's something we are reminded of constantly when we are by ourselves with no one around. That naked, damaged person is the hardest person to face by ourselves.

It's kind of funny that I say all of these things because many of the people who meet me assume that I have everything in my life together. They assume that I am always confident and self-assured, that I am so strong I don't need anyone else, that I have never struggled with the things other normal people struggle with - like hurting, hungering and needing.

Part of the reason I have been so misinterpreted is because I have spent my life creating an impenetrable membrane around myself and my weaknesses. At first, it was necessary for my survival in the suffocating community in which I grew up. Later, it just became comfortable. It also allowed me to control how people viewed me, which mattered more than anything else in the world. My race, gender, background, and economic status were all unstated points I had to prove, stereotypes I had to deconstruct, perceived weaknesses for which I had to overcompensate. It gave the illusion of being sharp and fierce and unconquerable. What it was, though, was the flawed me hiding within the thick callous of my own creation, hiding with the fear that people would think less of or altogether dislike the imperfect person who was, in essence, me.

The external me could not be hurt, the internal me could. External me needed no one, internal me feared loneliness. External me never failed at anything, internal me worried that failure was inevitable. External me was always certain and always right, internal me was often uncertain and often second-guessing herself. External me was much, much safer because she wasn't weak. Internal me wouldn't be able to recover from being hurt by somebody else.

The challenges to my reality began in college where I was confronted with circumstances that stormed my life and shook my foundation. Most of the experiences that hit me hardest were those that I had with people. Some of my closest and most meaningful relationships ended in abominable ways, and those people hurt or lost or distanced in the process are the sources of my greatest regret...which is ironic, because I actually thought for the longest while that taking two O'Connell classes would top my list...

Vagas and I were talking one day about the impact of experiences and whether or not regret is something that people should even take to heart. "Everything happens for a reason," he said, "and the people we become in the process of those circumstances we wouldn't have become without the experiences. Either way, a lesson had to be learned, because personal development would be impossible without it."

"True," I said, "but the loss is still regrettable. If you sever ties you had with someone, you might walk away having learned a lesson on how to be better next time, with the next person, but you still walk away from that person. If that person meant anything to you, you are going to feel the loss, because that person is irreplaceable. Lessons might be the same, but people are not."

This is a lesson I have learned a few times at the unfortunate cost of destruction. Only since I have had the parts of my veneer gently stripped away through failure, uncertainty, loneliness, and acknowledged weakness I have come to realize this. I know now that I was not the best Sarah in the past that I could be to other people because I didn't know who that person was, behind that little curtain.

But then...

I walked into the classroom a perfectionist, with an Amherst degree English and Black Studies, only to discover that I didn't know how to teach. So the little curtain was flung back and my glass house shattered. From there I had to fish a different identity out from the shards, then get up and come to my classroom the next day, and the next day and the next day, failing, and failing, and failing again until one day, I didn't care anymore about how it made me look. Then, I stopped failing.

I moved to a different state needing no one and found myself struck with such an aching loneliness, I had to reach out to others for the sake of my own survival. I had to make and maintain friendships with people and learn to articulate how much I needed them - not just desired them, but needed them in my life because having them in my life made me a better person.

I came to California thinking that certainly the next five years of my life would play out like the movie I created in my head. I leave California in a few weeks without a clue as to where I will be a few months from now and feeling quite uncertain, yet absolutely certain that the way of uncertainty is the way to go next.

Finally, I came here as a person without any visible flaws and I leave noticeably flawed. I leave now at a place where I am finally getting over myself and the embarrassing reality that I am, in fact, human. Frustrated by my own limitations still, I am yet willing to be different, to have my mind changed, to be wrong (and admit it) and to consider the position of others, not as a person on the other side of a divide, but as one person to another on the same side. I am a more visibly imperfect me, but a better me nonetheless.

I still struggle with the insecurities that lead to the erection of my glass house, especially when a situation gets uncomfortable and my impulse is to retreat into what I know is safe. They are insecurities that God has begun to heal, but whose scars yet remain. I imagine that I will always struggle with those natural inclinations, because they are the foundation of my humanity. But, as Jesus demonstrated by example, the suffering we experience by dying each day to our natural inclinations for the sake of who God intended us to be is resurrection. And life.

Samson's Weakness

2008-04-23T22:17:00.000-07:00

Honey-eyes. Despite being cartoon-skinny and having a squeaky voice, Chasen's sleepy honey-eyes and old-school playa comments has gotten him more girlfriends than any other boy at school. He has been with two-thirds of the seventh grade already, declaring that he does not discriminate against any pretty girl.

I have to admit that Chasen has more game than most grown men I have encountered. The first time he proposed to me in class, I was was writing something on the board. I turned around to see him bent on one knee, hands extended in my direction.

"Miss Bass," he said dramatically, "Your smile is like the kiss of Heaven rained down on Earth. You need a man who will treat you right. Will you marry me?"

The class began to giggle. Some kids just rolled their eyes.

I bit my lip. "No Chasen," I said. "But thank you for asking."

"Is there somebody else?" he asked, puzzled.

"No. I'm too old for you."

"Age ain't nothin' but a number, Miss Bass," he replied.

"Sit down, Chasen."

Chasen winked at me then walked back to his seat. A few minutes later he was blowing kisses to the girls on the other side of the classroom.

A few days later, I pulled Chasen aside after class and asked him what the matter was. His grades from sixth to seventh grade had gradually declined, his focus becoming weaker and weaker. He was not doing anything in my class but socializing and falling asleep, and his homework record was abysmal.

Chasen shrugged. "I can't focus, Miss Bass," he said. "I got too much on my mind."

"Like what?" I asked.

"Girls," he said, grinning. "I can't get them out of my head."

"But you are going to have to. The little girls at this age are fickle anyway," I replied. "You need to wait for a young lady who is smart and has a head on her shoulders instead of going after these fast, crazy ones."

Chasen scrunched his nose up. "But the smart girls ain't pretty," he said. "They busted."

"Oh, Chasen," I said with a sigh. "There is more to being pretty, you know. And the girls you easily overlook now won't always be like that. Besides, any girl that you want won't be putting herself out there the way most of them do these days. She will be brave enough to be her own person, and her focus will be on doing well in school."

Chasen eyed me skeptically. "I don't knoooooow, Miss Bass," he answered. "I love girls now though."

"Have you ever heard of Samson in the Bible?" I asked him.

Chasen shook his head.

"Classic example," I replied. "He was the strongest and handsomest man of his time. No other man could compete with him. All they could do was hate. God gave Samson a particular kind of strength that wasn't common among human beings, and a sign of his strength was his long hair. With this strength, he could kill small armies by himself, tear apart wild animals with his bare hands, knock over walls and buildings, and so on. He was a good man, until he fell for a woman named Delilah. And I'm not gonna lie - Delilah was one bad woman. She was gorgeous, which is why Samson lost his mind and fell googly eyed all over her."

"What happened?" Chasen asked.

"Oh, well," I said solemnly. "It's actually quite tragic. Samson starting acting stupid when it came to Delilah because all he saw was pretty. He ignored the fact that she was from the enemy tribe of his people, not to mention one trifling chick. She wanted to know what the secret to his strength was, and because he had to keep it a secret, she would throw a fit and become emotional and tell him that he didn't love her. She would cry and yell and pout and ask him over and over again, until..."

I paused.

"What?!" Chasen exclaimed.

"Samson, because of his crazy love for her, ignored the signs and gave in to Delilah's request, telling her that his strength stayed with him as long as his hair remained uncut. And you know what she did?" I asked.

Chasen closed his eyes and shook his head. "Don't tell me he got played, Miss Bass. Don't tell me he got played."

"Oh he so got played," I said. "The next day Delilah shaved Samson's head while he was sleeping and then sold him to his enemies for a bag of cash."

Chasen's jaw dropped. "Awwwwww, that's cold," he said.

"Yep," I answered. "And do you know what his enemies did to him?"

"What?"

"They poked out his eyes."

"Oh my god!" Chasen exclaimed. "She dirty, man! Dirty!"

"Yes she was," I said. "And, you know, Samson ended up getting revenge because when his hair grew back, he had just enough strength to knock down the building where a lot of the enemy leaders were, but he died with them when the building collapsed. And all of that could have been avoided if he had just listened to what people were telling him.

"But," I continued. "All he saw was pretty."

"Ohhhhhh," he said nodding. "I see what you sayin'."

"Exactly," I said. "So wait for a good woman who is smart first and then possibly pretty too."

Chasen stared at me quietly. Then he dropped to one knee.

"Marry me, Miss Bass!" he exclaimed.

"Chasen, get out," I said.

"Aww, but you sai-"

"Out!"

"Aww, man," he mumbled. "A brotha' cain't do anything right these days..."

* * *

No Eating

2008-04-20T21:37:00.000-07:00

I have a no-eating policy in my classroom. No candy, no gum, no food, no ends of pens, no straws, no wads of paper, no hoodie strings. No eating.

Every morning, D. arrives to school late, shuffling into English class with his wrinkled uniform shirt untucked and the hem near his knees. He is wearing a shiny, oversize black jacket and carrying a McDonald's bag in his hand, containing his Egg McMuffin.

"Give me your tardy slip," I tell him with a sigh. He digs it out of of his pocket, already a crumpled wad mixed in with pieces of old candy, crumbs and other pieces of paper. He drops it on my desk. I shake it off and tell him to have a seat and take out his silent reading book, reminding him that he cannot eat his breakfast in class.

"Oh yeah I know, Miss Bass, I know," he says assuredly, nodding a knitted forehead in my direction. He sits down, leans over his desk and begins rummaging around in a deflated backpack that always seems to be empty, intently looking for something. I eye him, then go back to grading papers.

Five minutes later, the greasy smell of fried food drifts in my direction. I look up and see a pile of crumbs under D.'s desk.

"D," I say.

"Hmm?" he says, his cheeks tighter than usual.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

D. taps the open book on his desk and puts his index finger to his lips, making a shushing motion.

I try not to laugh. "D," I say. "What is in your mouth?"

D. shakes his head.

"You are eating your breakfast aren't you."

D. shakes his head, attempting to swallow the mass in his mouth.

"Yes you are," I say.

"Uh-uh, Miss Bass," he says with a gulp, "I ain't tryin' to eat my breakfast." He stares at me wide-eyed with a ring of greasy crumbs around his mouth, clutching the McDonald's bag on his lap.

"Am not," I correct. "D., you have crumbs all around your mouth and your finger is greasy." I pointed to the greasy streak on his desk. D. balls up his fist and begins to vigorously rub the spot away.

"You know the rules of class," I tell him. He says nothing for a few moments.

"Pleeeeeeeeeease Miss Bass!" he suddenly exclaims. "I am hungry! I don't got a chance to eat breakfast at home and my momma she don't like me eating in her car so I have to eat it here!"

"'Have a chance, doesn't like'," I tell him. "D., you cannot eat in class. It will become a habit and it's distracting to everybody else. Not to mention, it can ruin books and materials."

D. closes the book he was pretending to read with his clean hand.

I continue, "You need to wake up earlier to eat breakfast or come to school earlier and eat it in the fellowship hall before morning assembly."

"I-" he begins. Having no excuse, he begins to whimper again. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease Miss Bass! Just this once? Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeee-he-heeease!"

"Agh, D.!" I say, exasperated. "Go stand in the hallway and hurry up and finish your food. This is the only time this is happening. I had BETTER not see any breakfast for the rest of the year in my classroom, do you understand me?"

He nods, grinning his chipmunk grin, and runs out the room. "And tuck in your shirt!" I call after him.

The next day, D., comes to English class late with his shirt wrinkled and untucked, wearing his jacket and carrying his McDonald's bag in his hand.

"Oh no," I say to him, shaking my head and taking the bag from him as he walks through the door. I put it behind my desk.

He winces. "Aww, man, that sucks," he says as he flops into his desk. "Just don't eat it, okay Miss Bass?"

"Trust me, I won't," I say. "And neither will you."

He sighs.

* * *

Endings

2008-04-19T19:21:00.000-07:00

I remember watching Dangerous Minds and Freedom Writers, believing that my teaching experience would somehow mirror those of Michelle Pfeiffer and Hilary Swank. The only difference was that I was not a white teacher going into the ghetto to save and enlighten high-risk children through the lyrics of TuPac; I was a black teacher going into the ghetto to save and enlighten high-risk children with the Oxford English Dictionary, DuBois and Malcolm X.

To this day, I don't know from where my naive, quixotic aspirations came. This is not to say that here, at the end of my second year of teaching, I have settled on pessimistic resignation. Rather, I have been forced to accept the slow, untidy, and unpredictable nature of progress, as well as the statistically high probability of losing more than I win.

Friday was one of the worst days I have yet experienced as a teacher. Besides the brief "lock down" of the school because someone at the liquor store 100 yards away was seen carrying a handgun, the decline of the day centered on a series of episodes with C.D., one of my favorite students.

C.D., is a tall, caramel-complexioned, amusingly clever and sharp-witted twelve-year old who confidently came out as a lesbian in the sixth grade. Because of the power of her charm, charisma and likability, the other children at school readily accepted her sexual orientation, a declaration that would have incited merciless ridicule and ostracism had it been made by any other child.

C.D. spent all of last year playfully letting me know that she thought I talked weird, mismatched when I dressed, and, with reading, writing, and yoga as my passions, possessed absolutely no life. She also let me know that she hated English, and therefore would not prioritize my class.

Nevertheless, I found that she spent all of her free time at nutrition and lunch (and after school when she could manage) lingering in my classroom, reiterating these points. After a while, she replaced her criticisms with details about her own life, her interests, and her opinions about random things, from the nutritional value of Doritos vs. Hot Cheetos, to a critical connection she made from a real life incident to a piece of literature we were reading. Being one of the most astute students I teach, I took every opportunity to provoke her thinking and challenge her to expect more of and for herself. My class being challenging, however, and knowing that an "A" was very difficult to attain, she lazily accepted a "C-" from me for the first trimester of her sixth grade year, informing me that it was her best.

As time passed, however, she slowly began to raise her grade. It moved up to a "B" by the end of the second trimester, and a "B+" by the end of the year. She continued to tell me all the while that she really didn't care, she just wanted the new sidekick her mother promised to buy her if she got at least a B in my class.

But English, by then, had moved up from the bottom of her class list to her second favorite, behind Math which came easily to her. "I don't really like your class though," she said to me with a smirk, "I just think you a-ight."

This year, I have her again for 7th grade English, and she received and "A" on her first two report cards, her work now setting the example of quality for the rest of the students I teach. When I lesson plan, I have to plan rigorously enough to challenge her. Over the past several months she has taken an eager interest in my family, especially after having met my 19-year old sister, Amanda, who volunteered at my school for a month on two separate occasions. She began a correspondence with Amanda, confiding in her as a mentor and seeking her for advice. Through that connection, I noticed her becoming more of a positive leader, and developing stronger virtues and convictions.

Wanting to see what it was like living in a big family after growing up as an only child, she even went so far as to draw up a travel plan to give to her parents, vowing to come visit Chicago for for a week over Christmas Break and become a true member of the "Bass Family." She continued to talk to Amanda on weekends and to me more than ever in school. I continued to invest as much as I could in her, giving her certain responsibilities that indicated my degree of trust and belief in her. She became the reason why I "Teach For (African) America," and I believed that she was a child I could truly reach.

A few weeks ago, however, I began to notice slight changes in her. She became cockier among her peers, circulating rumors about the number of girls (and boys) she was getting with. She also began to test boundaries with me, particularly in the tone of voice she used and the sorts of things she would ask me, which included what men I was seeing, my phone number, my AIM, and my age. She gradually became saucier in her address, attempting to play it off, however, as harmless "clowning." And, when I would issue a directive to her, she would do her best to ignore my instructions as long as possible or attempt to banter with me verbally, as though I was playing with her. On several different occasions I had serious talks with her about lines, and she would always seem to listen for a while before reverting back to what was becoming unacceptable behavior.

These incidents (which would come and go much to my increasing aggravation), came to a head on Friday. C.D. started off the morning trying to avoid coming to class by ducking into another teacher's classroom. When she finally shuffled her way down to my room, she bumped into the wall and exclaimed, "SHIT!" Realizing that I had heard her, she caught herself and mumbled with a grin, "I mean, BULLspit."

I shook my head. "I don't want you using any words bearing even the slightest phonetic resemblance to expletives," I ordered. "Watch your mouth."

She brushed it off. Not long afterwards, during work time, I told my class that they were free to either read or work on their Malcolm X essays. "One thing I do not want," I declared, "Is ANYONE trying on the clothing or shoes of other students." Free-dress Fridays were always challenging for a uniform school. Because kids became so conscious of what they were wearing, school was the last thing they were thinking about. It was not uncommon to see kids wearing one shoe owned by one friend and one shoe owned by another, as kids occupied themselves with their peers' "gear."

Five minutes later, I see C.D. trying on the huge white and gold gladiator chucks of another student. I confiscated the shoes and threw them behind my desk. M.A., The owner of the shoes, gasped at my action and began to throw an emotion fit in the middle of the classroom. "Oh uh-uh," I said, "This is seventh grade, not pre-K. Get out of my room." As M.A. walked out with the Dean, C.D. began to issue a series of sighs, "wows" and "oh my gods" from the corner of the room for the whole class to hear. I turned to her when M.A. left, at which point she exclaimed that she had been had the shoes on already before I made the announcement to the class. "That's retarded," she said, rolling her eyes.

If it had been any other student, I would have instantly (and angrily) silenced him or her, informing the child that my action was up for neither debate nor discussion. Because it was C.D., however, I took the time to explain the reason behind my action to her, firmly informing her that she knew better and that her actions were immature and completely disrespectful to the expectations of my classroom. And she was fully aware of this.

C.D., shrugged it off. However miffed I was at her attitude, I ignored it and chose to let it go.

Things seemed fine from that point on; C.D. worked productively and soon assumed her jovial "hey Miss Bass, Miss Bass," disposition for the remainder of class.

It wasn't until the end of the day, however, that she took a flaming torch and recklessly burned the bridges between her and me.

She asked me at the beginning of the "Study Hall for Students Who Forget Their P.E. Uniforms" if she could be excused to borrow a history book from my class. I allowed her to go, as she was always a student I never had to worry about getting into mischief. She would always get what she needed and come back, so I gave her the freedom to take care of her business.

Twenty minutes later, however, she has not returned. When I ask another teacher about her, she appears from around the corner, giggling, saying that she was downstairs because one of her friends had something to show her.

"You know what," I said evenly, "you're done. From now on, you are not leaving my class because the trust that I in you to be responsible has evaporated."

She sat down in a huff, muttering under her breath that the situation was retarded. A few moments later a loud, "SHIT!" came out of her mouth again, at which she began to laugh. "I mean...SPIT!"

I called her to my desk. "On Monday," I said, "You owe me twenty-five replacement words for the profane one you decided to use."

C.D. laughed. "That's retarded," she said obnoxiously. "There's nothing wrong with the word in my head. That's just messed up in your head. In everyone else's mind, it's fine. It's retarded, everyone knows it's retarded."

I felt the heat rise in my head, and I quickly slipped my hands under my thighs (as I was seated) fighting the natural reflex to leap up and back-slap the living daylights out of her for her impudence. I shortly told her her that it was due Monday, or her mother was getting involved.

"Pshhhhhh," She said, waving her hand casually in the air, "I ain't gonna do it because it ain't for a grade. So, don't bother askin' me Monday, cuz I ain't doing that retarded assignment."

"Oh, you will do it," I said steadily.

She laughed. "What are you gonna do? Make me?"

She walked back to her desk and began giggling in the corner with another student, the rest of the class absolutely quiet. I sat in my desk, contemplating how to appropriately handle the situation without laying a finger on her or saying something I would regret.

A few minutes passed, and then she raised her hand. "I need to go to the bathroom," she said.

"No," I said. "You have the tendency to wander."

Ten minutes later, she raised her hand again. "When is this class over? I need to go to the bathroom to wash my hands."

I ignored her statement. She kept her hand raised for the remainder of the class. At the end of the period, as I was about to dismiss my kids, she stood up and walked out, muttering, "I ain't waiting here."

I dismissed the whole class and then waited for her to come back for her backpack. I counted backward slowly from ten, absolutely livid but trying my best to avoid an emotional reaction.

She sauntered back into the classroom. I walked toward her and told her to sit down. "Oh my god," she said, rolling her eyes and sighing with a grin on her face.

I sat on a desk facing her. "Who in the hell do you think you are," I said tightly. "You have clearly lost your mind. I cannot even begin to articulate how pissed off I am, nor how disappointed I am in what this has become."

"Oh wow, you are 'pissed off'," she said, turning her body halfway away from me and making invisible quotation marks in the air to an invisible audience. "Whatever."

"From now on," I said, "I am your teacher and you are my student. Beyond that, there is nothing else. Do not come and talk to me, do not share your opinions with me, do not linger in my classroom during your free time. Unless you have questions regarding an assignment, I don't want to hear anything from you. I have come to realize that you are confused. You assume because you have sought to develop a relationship with me and because you talk to my sister that we are somehow 'kick it' buddies, and you can talk to me like I am a pre-adolescent. You have forgotten lines and boundaries, so I am going to remind you of what they are. As of right now, you and I - we are done. No more hanging out. Oh, and you will serve a detention next week for having the audacity to leave my room without permission-"

"I SAID I HAD TO GO TO THE BATHROOM, MAN-" she began angrily.

"AND I SAID NO!" I raised my voice sharply. "HOW DARE YOU DISREGARD MY INSTRUCTIONS!" I lowered my voice and inhaled. "Everyone has crap that they deal with in their lives," I said, "but you were straight up off your rocker today. You know better, especially with me. Especially with me. So, I am far from sympathetic." I shrugged. "My trust in you is gone."

"Fine. Whatever. Good," she said, storming out of the classroom. I left soon after, pretty shaken up.

* * *

Movies about teachers in the ghetto tend to have happy endings. The children are saved. They go to college. They become readers. They write books. They accept awards and say, "I would like to thank my teacher, Miss --- for changing my life." They become professional salsa dancers and win national spelling bees...

There are no movies about teachers who witness their own failure with their very eyes. Their students make steady headway, and then all of a sudden the trains stops chugging and begins to roll backward down the insurmountable mountain.

In the movies, there is a beginning, a middle and an end. In real life, most often you enter a child's life somewhere in the middle and leave their lives somewhere in the middle - or, they leave yours. You aren't sure of where the beginnings were for these kids, or whether they have even had one. You don't even know whether you have had a hand in helping them decide that this is a beginning after all, rather than the beginning of the end.

I don't yet know if I have helped C.D. more than I have hardened her. I don't know if I did the right thing or made a mess of things...

All I can do is wait and see.

To Suffer Or Not to Suffer Part I

2008-04-19T07:00:00.000-07:00

My uncle called me one afternoon and told me to read an article posted on NPR's website.

A well-known evangelical Christian theologian, Bart Ehrman, had turned apostate. He walked away from the Judeo-Christian God in whom he had believed all his life because he could not find a satisfactory explanation as to why the supposedly personal God of the Bible would allow people to suffer as much as they do. The extent of excruciating pain he witnessed in the world was too much for him to keep believing, and so he stopped.

Bart Ehrman's resignation bothered me for a while, not because I began to doubt my own belief in the existence of God or who He is; rather, I was disturbed by the question of how - how Ehrman came to the point of being able to walk away from God. C.S. Lewis, the brilliant apologist he was (and not without his own painful experiences), logically reasoned himself to belief in Jehovah; Ehrman reasoned himself away. How does this happen exactly...

Suffering is a human experience that is difficult to justify as one who believes in a God of mercy, especially because the Gospel is simply the declaration that God loves, loves, loves people...enough to send His blameless son, Jesus, to suffer and die a horrible death for something he didn't do. When someone who is not a believer asks why He would have His son die, the believer answers, "because God loves us that much." This begs the question.

Love and pain seem in themselves to be irreconcilable terms, and I can't say that I have an answer that explains how they can coexist. I know what I learned growing up in Sunday school, answers like "because people are sinful," that were simple enough to comfort me until I was old enough to understand what pain looked and felt like. But then when one witnesses good, faithful people meeting terrible hardship after terrible hardship all their lives while seemingly expendable specimens of mankind live in undeserving prosperity, the "well, it's just sin" answer doesn't stretch far enough across the problem to serve as a satisfying answer.

The only thing possible for me to do in trying to understand for myself the question with which Ehrman wrestled and lost is to think about what keeps me believing instead of throwing in the towel in like fashion.

Well, before all else, I think a person has to know that God is real. And not just "real" as in "alive somewhere out there," kind of real, but real in a personal, individual way. It's not enough for me to just to believe in "the God that C.S. Lewis told me about," or "the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob" or "the God my parent believe in." God becomes my God when he answers my life's need, a need that no one else could possibly know but me. When God speaks to me in ways so specific to my life, situations and weaknesses, I know that he isn't just a God. He is a God for me.

This is why I make the distinction between faith and religion. Religion does not necessarily require faith. It is an establishment, with laws, beliefs, systems, traditions and a culture. I see it as being a sort of accessory among the other things in a person's life, as something one "does" or of which one is a "member."

I see faith, on the other hand, as more of a way of being. As C.S. Lewis said, "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else." Faith, therefore, is the believer's beginning. It is the point from which his or her entire life proceeds, and the means by which the believer understands his or her existence. It's like trading in old eyeballs for new ones that have a special way of seeing the world.

So, did Ehrman subscribe to a religion or believe in a living God? Because then the question that arises is, did Ehrman walk away from rules and rituals? Or did he reject a God he believed to be real and tangible because he didn't like who that God turned out to be?

There is a difference between someone believing one exists and disliking who that person is. The former originates in ignorance, the latter from disappointment. I wonder which he was.

Glossaries

2008-04-17T22:35:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I sat in a semi-circle with fourteen twelve and thirteen year olds, eating Doritos topped with ice cream and drowned in chocolate syrup.

It was the second meeting of my inchoate writing group, the after-school "kick-it" club I started earlier in the week. My intention in starting the group was to have a chance to talk with my kids "off-the-record"; that is, when they are not thinking about classroom expectations and the social distractions that regularly interfere with my lesson plans, making me feel more like a therapist than a teacher.

The topic of discussion that day was language. We read the first couple of pages of the book we have started as a group, entitled, Our America: Life and Death on the South Side of Chicago. The book contains hours of interviews produced by two thirteen and fourteen year old boys, talking about their perspectives growing up in the Chicago ghettos in the mid-1990's. Despite the time difference, I thought my kids would still benefit from making the comparisons between the portrayal of the ghetto in a different geographic location of a decade and a half before and their own communities. On the first couple of pages of the photocopies I made for them was a "Ghetto Glossary," included to provide insight into the language of the young boys. We started reading there, looking at the words they had listed.

I started with the first word. "Booster," I read aloud. "Someone who steals out of stores and resells the merchandise at an 80 percent discount."

D.G. and H.S. began to snicker. "Booster?" they said. "nobody out here uses that retarded word."

"Okay, well, how about Crib," I said. "'Home. Where you live.' Tripping, which means 'going crazy or losing your mind.' Or what about 'Shorty, which means 'young one'?"

The classroom erupted into laughter, all of the kids shaking their head at me, some nearly falling out of their chairs. I bit my lip in amusement, fully aware of why they were cracking up.

"Wow, Miss Bass. You really talk like a white person," D.G. said.

"There is no such thing," I said. "I am black, therefore how I talk is as black as how you talk. Language has no race. It is what it is."

"Wow, Miss Bass. You really talk like a white person," D.G. repeated, intentionally ignoring my statement.

"Yeah, and it's 'crihhb' not 'cri-BUH' and 'trippin', not 'trip-PING,' K.M. said. "And we definitely do not say 'shor-TEE.' 'It's shaow-tay.' And it does not mean 'young one,' it's what you call a foin girl on the street or in da club."

I paused, holding my breath, waiting for inevitable moment when someone would break out in, "shawtay-had-dem-apple-bottom-jeans, boots-wit-da-furrr..." Thankfully, nobody did this time, probably because the song was now old.

"I'm going to pretend you did not just mention 'the club' at twelve years old," I said to D.G. "What on earth do you know about 'the club'?"

"Thirteen, Miss Bass, Thirteen," K.M. piped with a smile, "and I know all about da club."

I shook my head in disbelief.

As we went through the rest of the "Ghetto Glossary," the kids continued to comment on how weird and 'retarded' the words were that they didn't know. But then they also came across some words that retained some of the meaning with which they were familiar, like "kickin' it," "smokin'" someone, and "reppin." Many of them exclaimed at these recognitions, noting the points of similarity.

"What does this tell you about language?" I asked.

"Language changes according to the city you live in," D.G. said. "Because a lot of these retarded words relate specifically to the ghetto in Chicago, but some of them we still know too."

"Exactly," I said. "Now, you are going to write your own glossaries. You are going to list the words that you use, particular to you, your age group, the black community, and/or L.A."

The kids eagerly began making lists of the words I made them replace with standard English vocabulary when they were in class. Expressions like, "deet-deet-deet," "kickin' rocks and deuces" and "makin' it do what it do," came up, as well as words like, "janky," "bomb-diggity," "chillaxin'," and the favorite addendum added to any positive remark directed to a person of the same sex: "no-homo"(In the minds of children terrified of "becoming gay," or worse, being falsely mistaken for being gay (which comes from "acting in a fruitful manner," D.G. explained), it was important to say "no-homo" as much as possible, as loudly as possible, for as many ears to hear as possible).

As I listened to them rattle off their colloquialisms to each other, correct each other on pronunciations and challenge each other on the 'right' definitions for some words, I told them I would write my own list with them.

The class emitted a collective groan. "DON'T, Miss Bass," K.H. said. "Do NOT do it. Your list will be filled words nobody else knows but you and found only in the dictionary."

"Yeah, Miss Bass, don't do it," D.G. agreed. "Besides, we wouldn't want to slander your suburban vocabulary with our 'ghetto glossaries.'"

"Yeah, okay," I said.

As anticipated, my words which included "toodles," "okie-dokie," "cool beans" and "shadenfreude," and "vonnegutesque," for good measure, elicited several sighs and much forehead slapping.

"What?" I said, smiling and shrugging.

"Miss Bass, Miss Bass," J.M. said, shaking her head.

I winked at her.

* * *