War

War

American History. Honkey history. Presidents and generals and captains of industry. All white. All male. Wouldn’t know there was a woman or black or brown or yellow or red person ever set foot on the continent except to pick cotton or stand up for target practice in another glorious military victory. Enslaved our bodies, now trying to enslave our brains. Count on one hand anyone who questions a damn thing in this school. Where our role models? Only black people work here are custodians, security guards that help the two white cops, cafeteria workers, the “Minority Relations Coordinator” who don’t coordinate shit but a Martin Luther King poster contest in a school where black students are the majority. Plantation with a gymnasium. One last year in this bitch and then out, Kidary Komunyaaka can find something real and deep and powerful to pour her life and passion into.

           “You will have the class period to answer the multiple choice section, 30 questions, select the best answer, as well as the essay portion, which you will need to think long and hard about—did you do the selected readings and listen during lecture? I guess we’ll find out.”

Mrs. Ruckworth. White black widow. Nails like sickles. Hair dyed the color of her heart, eye shadow painted like a rabid raccoon. Her hair is always pulled back so tightly the corners of her eyes seem to begin somewhere in her temples. She knows every page of the 25 year old textbook, every picture and caption, every glossary definition, every white male co-editor and their university of employment—though most were probably dead or retired by now, drinking Boost and eating oatmeal through a straw in white houses secured by alarm systems and surrounded by white picket fences.

           “You will keep the exam and your answer sheet face down on your desk until all your classmates have received theirs. Failure to follow these directions will result in automatic failure of the exam. Understood?”

           Mrs. Ruckworth slides through the lines of desks. Her clothes have all been fitted, dry-cleaned, purchased at boutiques in Bloomfield Hills and Grosse Pointe. She exhales superiority and control. Kidary dreads breathing in her metallic perfume as she passes. She adjusts her nose ring, as if it might ward off the toxins in her teacher’s odor.

           “Well, Miss Komunyaaka, that’s an interesting choice of t-shirts to wear today. A large clenched fist. And let’s see, ‘BLM.’ And that stands for?”

It is not a question. Mrs. Ruckworth does not ask questions. She feeds set-ups. In her world ugliness is wit and she knows exactly what BLM stands for. Ain’t nobody alive today who can read or with the attention span to watch cable TV who don’t know what BLM stands for. Every day, another Malice Green, another Fred Hampton, another Amadou Diallo, another Eric Garner, all across the rotting carcass of this country hundreds of Stephen Bikos…all wearing her father’s face. And like every kid, teacher, and administrator in the entire school district, Mrs. Ruckworth knows Kidary’s back story. How her father was stopped eleven years ago by the Detroit Police Department for a supposed traffic violation. How he was beaten with police flashlights and the number “14” was tattooed on her right wrist for the number of blows proven to have rained down on her father’s shattered skull. How the officers were found not guilty and to have acted in self-defense—how they “feared for their lives” at an unarmed but agitated, uncooperative black man. How the coroner said the cause of death was drugs and a previously undiagnosed heart condition. How her mother was a militant troublemaker and had turned her daughter into one too. How the young, troubled girl was going to end up just like her father.

           “I’m not sure, Mrs. Ruckworth. I think somebody said ‘Bilayer Lipid Membrane.’ I’m not sure, though. I just like the fist part. Don’t you?”

           “It means ‘Black Lives Matter’,” intones Timmy Birkett. He is quick with a comment and slow with any original thought. Maybe helping Mrs. Ruckman will earn him a little leniency on the forthcoming test he is sure to fail.

           “Oh, I see,” says Mrs. Ruckman. “Black Lives Matter. Intriguing. Thank you, Timothy. I’m surprised I didn’t know that. Now that I think of it, that’s actually been on TV and in newspapers the last few years.”

           The teacher places a test and answer sheet on Kidary’s desk, then fixes her student in the vice of her gaze. Sarcasm—a favorite weapon of choice. She knows a shot has been returned for a shot given. The possibility of verbal combat is amusing, even craved. It makes the chore of teaching less tedious and proves edifying for the rest of the class.

           “Hmmm. Black Lives Matter. Wouldn’t you agree, though, Kidary, that all lives matter?”

           “I do, Mrs. Ruckworth. But wouldn’t you agree if I got a broken arm and I go to the doctor, it would make sense if I didn’t ask him to check all my bones, just the one that’s broken?”

           Mrs. Ruckworth stops her advance.

           “Answering a question with a question. Avoidance and deflection. So you don’t believe all lives matter?”

           “Never said that. I believe all non-racist lives matter.”

           “Are you implying that someone is racist?” Mrs. Ruckman does not look at Kidary but cracks a sliver of a smile as she continues passing out exam materials. 

           “I think some people absolutely are. Yes, I believe that, Mrs. Ruckworth.”

           “And to whom specifically are you referring?”

Kidary touches one of the braids her mother has woven in her hair.

“Mutato nomine et de te fabula narratur.” Kidary’s comment is barely audible and would not be understood even if it were announced over the school’s crackling PA system.

           “What was that?”

           “Nothing, Mrs. Ruckworth. Just a song I’ve heard. I’m ready for my test. Just can’t wait to start.” Kidary touches one of the braids her mother has woven in her hair.

           “You will see me after school, Kidary.”

           “Yes’m. Hopefully it’s about the test grade I’m about to earn.”

           Mrs. Ruckworth’s glare melts glaciers but Kidary studies the blank back pages of her exam and answer sheet as if she is intently reading. The teacher finishes handing out all the exam materials, straightens her blouse and adjusts her skirt. She takes her place behind her lectern at the head of the classroom. She is Medusa whose snakes are made of words.

           “To complete this exam, you will need a number two pencil.”

           “All pencils matter,” mumbles Kidary under her breath, not looking up. 

            The battles are brief but fierce, the war long and never ending. Kidary and her teacher’s eyes meet, hold each other in their sites, each side using the moment to reload.