Another week, another week I didn't have time to read the stories, so in the chatroom I asked someone for a number between 1 and 42 (the number of submitted stories at that time) kealiki was the winner, and she chose #25. So here is story number 25 in the list. I actually read this one before though, and it's pretty good. But regardless, feel free to haze kealiki for choosing poorly if you don't like it. But I'm sure you will.

--Jeremy

---

Legends of Beulah Park
Chapter Seven

Justin Green
"What's a Racist?"

For a good part of my grade school years, I and the rest of my class were blissfully unaware of the world outside the neighborhood. If it had nothing to do with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, it was not newsworthy. Such was the extent of the situation that in 1991, we had no idea that a war was going on, but we knew the exact release date of the TMNT movie (March 22).

It was with a joyful determination that Mrs. Gray, my second grade teacher, undertook the arduous task of exposing us to the horrible world of current events. And I do mean horrible. There were few among us whom did not completely abhor reading; there were even fewer whom enjoyed it. So when we were required to read a newspaper every week and bring in an article to talk about, there was a great amount of audible groans, and even some whimpering from the less literate among us.

In September 1991, the assignment was made, and the words echoed in our ears: “class, from this week forward, you will be required to bring in an article clipped from the newspaper every Monday. I know you will have a little trouble with it, so ask your parents to help you. Each Monday I will choose an article and the child whose article I choose will be asked to speak about it, and then the class as a whole will discuss it!” A little trouble! Ha!

Mrs. Gray was a tiny, boisterous black woman, but she had a very powerful voice that commanded our attention, and more so, our respect. Beulah Park Elementary School had no walls (mobile chalkboard walls formed the shape of the classrooms) and she had trouble sometimes keeping her voice down so as to not disturb the other classes. She also had a mysterious power to make herself a giant among us, and she exercised this ability frequently.

Mrs. Gray was a wonderful woman, and she believed that we could all complete the task. However, she was a bit too optimistic: most newspapers are written on a 5th grade reading level, and we were in the 2nd grade, barely past “See Dick Run” books. Although I was reading at a 4th grade level by then, the newspaper still frightened me. There is something about reading material with no pictures that strikes terror into a second-grader’s heart.

I am aware that generally all newspapers run photos with their bigger stories. However, there were not nearly enough pictures to suffice, given the amount of reading material. In addition, the interior pages were rows upon rows of intimidating lines of tiny black type, sure to wreak havoc upon eyes accustomed to size 14 font.

The assignment was due every Monday, and on the eve of that first Monday, I asked my dad to help me find an easy-to-read article that I could use for school. After searching through the newspaper for anything that a 7 year-old could possibly comprehend, he threw his hands in the air and asked, “are you sure you’re supposed to bring in an article from the newspaper?” I nodded.

Just then, he glanced at the newspaper, and his eyes widened up. “There!” he said, happily, and clipped the box scores for the previous day’s Chicago Cubs game out of the sports section. I was happy: I may have been a mere 7 years old, but any 7 year-old knew how to read box scores. It is a very important aspect of a father-son relationship for a man to teach his son how to read his favorite team’s box scores.

Monday morning came and I took my assigned seat in the front row. Mrs. Gray came to the front of the class and announced, “Class, it’s time to hand in your current events.” I offered her my box scores, and she paused, staring at it. Her eyes narrowed, and peered over her glasses at me. I froze in fear. I forgot to mention that while Mrs. Gray was a terrific teacher and we all loved her, she had a you’re-in-trouble stare that could stun you silly from 10 yards away.

“Young man,” she began, slowly. The words dripped off of her tongue like venom. “Why have you brought me box scores ?”

I stammered, “I… I… bluh… Dad.”

“You mean to tell me that your father instructed you to bring box scores into class!?” She said, elevating her voice.

“Yes, Ma’am,” I said, very quietly.

Mrs. Gray drew a large breath, and suddenly she appeared larger than she had been just moments earlier. Now towering over the class, she announced in a powerful voice, “Class, let this be a lesson: box scores are unacceptable ! I expect real stories from the newspaper, and I expect you to be prepared to speak about them!”

With that, all the male members of the class moaned as they looked down at their own box score clippings. Mrs. Gray cocked an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me,” she said, “that all of you young men brought box scores?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” we answered in unison. She rolled her eyes, another potent weapon, and sighed.

“Well,” she said, “I will excuse you all this week, but I am sending a note home with each of you requesting that your fathers not give you box scores to bring to class. Or, better yet, allow your mothers to help you.”

A moment passed while she went to her desk and popped a couple of aspirin into her mouth. “Lord, what I wouldn’t give for a cigarette right now,” those closest to her desk heard her mumble.

She appeared at the front of the class again. “Today, we will just have to choose from one of the articles one of our young ladies brought in,” she said. “Kelly, would you like to tell the class about your article?” she asked. Kelly, a tomboy, shook her head. “Ms. Gezzer, I would appreciate your cooperation,” she said in a very sharp voice.

Kelly shrank in her seat and said, quietly, “I brought box scores.” Mrs. Gray rubbed her temples.

“Let’s just try this again next week,” she said. “Open your math books to page 27.”

That evening, I approached my dad with the note Mrs. Gray had sent home with all the male students and Kelly Gezzer. He sighed. “You’d better take this to your mother,” he said. Armed with scissors, my mom and I searched the newspaper every day for the rest of the week, and fruitlessly so. It became abundantly clear that newspapers were not written for the benefit of 7 year-olds.

Sunday night came, and out of desperation mom clipped a story out of page two about the president, and spent an hour trying to explain “taxes” to me, and why they were very, very bad. At the end, I still did not understand why the government got to take my parent’s hard-earned money. It was distressing: that was money they could be spending on me !

On Monday morning, we each settled uncomfortably into our seats and passed our articles forward. Mrs. Gray spent a few minutes sifting through them, as we watched with considerable unease. I imagine that a reasonable amount of prayers were being offered up during those moments. Mrs. Gray’s eyes lit up as she found an article she liked.

“Class,” she began, “whom brought in the article entitled ‘Rodney King Controversy Continues?’” Justin Green, sitting next to me, raised his hand.

Justin was a small black kid, and though we were friends, I didn’t see much of him outside of the classroom. Beulah Park Elementary was just one of five elementary schools in a city with a large black population. Despite that fact, it was located in a primarily white neighborhood. The result was that I had few black classmates.

I do not remember having any awareness of this situation. No one drew color lines at that age; we were unaware of them, and everyone got along. It was a nice arrangement.

Justin looked a bit pale. “Justin, this is an excellent selection,” Mrs. Gray said, praising him. “Class, today we are going to learn about something very important. Last spring, the Rodney King incident exposed some members of the Los Angeles Police Department as racists, and I think it is a wonderful idea for us to discuss it.” She turned and began writing select facts from the article on the board.

I leaned over and whispered to Justin, “You didn’t read it, did you?”

“No,” he said, staring forward with his eyes widened. “I just clipped it out of the paper this morning. I didn’t even look to see what it was.”

“You think you can fake your way through it?” I asked.

He turned to look at me. He was still rigid with a sense of impending doom. “I hope so,” he said, and turned to face forward again.

“Justin,” I said. He looked at me again. “What’s a racist?”

“I don’t know,” he replied.

Mrs. Gray finished writing on the board and turned to the class. “Who can tell me what a racist is?” The class was dead silent. Mrs. Gray’s brow furrowed. In a sharper voice, she said, “Class, I would appreciate a volunteer. Don’t make me choose someone.” We were still silent. No one knew.

Just what was a racist?

Mrs. Gray grew several feet and took an earth-quaking step towards me. I started trembling. Surprisingly, she turned, and her eyes locked onto Justin. “Well, Mr. Green,” she said in a booming voice, “It’s your article. Perhaps you can enlighten us.”

I watched as Justin frantically searched his brain for an answer. Suddenly, one came to him:

”A racist is someone who drives race cars.”

The entire class emitted a sigh of relief. It was so simple! Everybody knew what race cars were. And they were awesome . The class instantly exploded in passionate discussion about race cars.

“Is Rodney King a racist?”
“I’ve never heard of him before.”
“No, the Los Angeles Police are racists.”
“They are?”
“That’s what the article says.”
“How do they have time to drive race cars, if their job is to catch bad guys?”
“I guess they do it after work.”
“Maybe it’s a secret!”
“Huh?”
“The chalkboard says he ‘exposed’ them as racists. I think that means he found out they were and he wasn’t supposed to know.”
“What kind of race cars do they drive?”
“Maybe it’s a Formula One! Like Mario Andretti!”
“Maybe it’s like the cars that Dale Earnhart drives!”
“Does Mario Andretti fight crime too?”
“I’ll bet he does! Race car drivers are heroes!”
“And if they can drive a super-fast car, they can do anything!”
“Do you think he has ninja weapons to help him?”
“Probably.”
“I have a Mario Andretti video game!”
“Does it have ninja weapons?”
“No.”
“Then he probably doesn’t use ninja weapons, then.”
“Yeah, video games are real. Your game would have them if he used them.”
“Are the Los Angeles Police in your game?”
“I don’t know. I’m only on the second level.”
“I wonder if Rodney King knows Mario Andretti.”
“I bet Mrs. Gray knows!”
“Mrs. Gr—“

That student had cut off his question and looked strangely at Mrs. Gray. The rest of us turned and looked, too. Mrs. Gray was back to her original size. Her arms hung limply at her sides, and her jaw was hanging open. Her face was twisted into a bizarre mixture of awe and disbelief. A moment passed, as she blinked slowly and continued gazing at her class over the silence. We didn’t know what was going on.

Justin, believing it was his duty as the man to come forward with such an important article, asked, “Mrs. Gray, does the article say if Rodney King knows Mario Andretti?”

Mrs. Gray was yet silent, and very still. Presently, her jaw closed. “Cl-Class,” she stammered, “I want you to open up your journals and write about how you found your articles.” She then swiftly walked to the coat room, without another word.

Justin and I looked at each other in bewilderment. “Is she okay?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe she doesn’t like race cars.”

We may have been ignorant to important things like racism and who the president was, but like all children, we had an instinct for knowing when something was wrong. Justin got up in front of the class, and said, “Um.” A moment passed. Justin was not a very good speaker.

“Since I was the one who brought the article in that started this, I am going to go see what’s going on.”

“Can I come?” I asked, accepting his authority.

“Sure,” he said.

We carefully tiptoed into the coatroom, peering around the corner, and found Mrs. Gray pacing at the far end. She was fanning herself with her hand, and mumbling to herself, and making the strangest sounds… Why, she was crying ! Justin and I shot each other terrible looks. A teacher was crying ?

Instinct took over and we abandoned our covert post to rush to her aid. She saw us coming and got down on her knees to meet us at eye level—something no teacher had ever done before. We reached her, and she was still trying to stifle tears.

“Boys,” she said through sniffles, “you really don’t know what a racist is?” Taking this to mean that we had been mistaken, Justin shook his head.

“It’s not someone who drives race—oof!” Justin elbowed me. I had not picked up on the fact that we were, in fact, wrong. “No,” I said.

A smile erupted on her face, and the tears poured down. “Good,” she said. “Good.” And she hugged us both. We were sent back into the classroom, and Mrs. Gray returned a few minutes later, her poise restored. “Class, put away your journals, and open up your math books to page 32,” she announced, returning to the front of the class. She turned around and saw the writing on the board about the article. It was swiftly erased.

There were no further current events assignments that year.