Not Enough

“These people grieve differently to us,” that was how she said it.

These people. She meant black people. The school walls were covered in posters. RIP Zeke. We’ll never forget you, Zeke. Just Zeke. She didn’t like it. I don’t know if it was the untidiness, or the disruption to routine. The day after Zeke died, she told the students that if they needed time to reflect, time to mourn, they could use the school chapel but nowhere else. Twenty minutes later, I saw her lock the school chapel.

It was just the two of us in her office. I think she felt safe to say it around me. It pissed me off. I mumbled something about people’s reactions when Princess Diana died. Candle in the Wind was the least of it, for crissakes. I said it loud enough to hear, so I assume she just chose to ignore it. It didn’t fit her narrative. I said something, at least. I’m not sure it was enough. I was still golden-wonder boy back then - my career stretched out in front of me like a red carpet. Maybe I was too scared of rocking the boat. Lot of good that did me.

After I left her office, I realised something else that upset me more. Us. She had referred to us. I’m not part of her us. At least I hope not. I don’t want to be. She just assumed that because we are both white, we’d share common ground. Maybe it is selfish of me to focus on the bit that affected me. Doesn’t matter. She and I are not us.

Zeke had fallen through a roof. An old factory. He shouldn't have been up there really. When you live on an estate south of the river, sometimes you have to colour outside the lines if you don’t want to be chewed up by your environment. Go with the flow. So he broke a few rules. He wasn’t just accepted, he was popular. Everybody liked him, even if he drove you crazy sometimes. The point is, he got in trouble, but he didn’t go after people. He was just a kid.

I went round his mum’s place. Amanda. A bunch of us did. We were friends at work, but I’d never been to her flat. Zeke’s Dad was there. He was in bits. He couldn’t hold Amanda together because he’d been torn apart himself. His brothers were looking after him. We tried to look after Amanda. These people grieve differently, she had said. I dunno, I thought back then, but Zeke’s Dad looks pretty fucking much like any Dad who has lost his son would look.

Zeke’s Dad was black, but his mum was white. It would have been a big deal back when they got together, I guess. None of our friends gave a shit. Not the black friends, not the white ones. I guess maybe the head teacher did, given the way she reacted to everything else. Different generation. Don’t you love how that is rolled out as an excuse for it so often? Different generation; they’re allowed to be racist.

The head teacher and her deputy took over the funeral. I don’t know for sure if was because they were just used to taking over everything, or if it was because she was determined to avoid the funeral being too black. I reckon I know why. These people. I wasn’t allowed to go. Even though I should have been teaching Zeke at the time, I had to stay and cover lessons for the teachers who had to go even if they didn’t want to. That pissed me off too. I told another assistant head teacher not to dare put me down to do any teaching. He was a bit better. He’d been ground down though. I nearly went to the funeral anyway, without permission. Amanda talked me out of it. It would have been the second time I went to the funeral of colleague’s kid against the head teacher’s instructions. Come to think of it, Charlotte’s kid was mixed race too.

I went to the memorial the night before. The deputy head teacher stood up and spoke about the terrible loss we all felt at Zeke’s death. Zeke fucking despised that man. Pretty sure he despised Zeke too. He was gay. I think that made him think he understood racism. Can’t be that different to homophobia, right? These people just had to hide their blackness, the way he almost hid his gayness. Act more white.

There were maybe seven hundred people at the funeral, I was told. Not everyone even fit inside the church. We knew the numbers would be like that in advance. One hundred and eighty were from our school. We put them all on coaches and sent them there, whether they were Zeke’s friends or not. His friends in other year groups had to go to lessons. At least I skipped lessons, I guess. They wore their school uniform, “to honour that part of Zeke’s life, at Amanda’s request,” the head teacher told us in an email.

I was at Amanda’s flat the night before; “No, Zeke hated his school uniform. He couldn’t wait to change out of it every day. I’d rather his friends wore their own clothes to the funeral,” she said to the head teacher over the phone. “Oh, yes, I understand. Well, yes, they could get lost in the crowd. Okay. Yeah, if they have to. Okay. Bye.”

Had the head teacher forgotten that Amanda’s friends from school were going to her flat every night? Did she not realise that we’d know her email was a lie? Keeping track of our own students is a good reason to make them wear uniform. But the fact she lied just makes me think she didn’t want these people wearing their own clothes. These people dress differently to us. I couldn’t prove it. So I said nothing. It definitely wasn’t enough.

There was worse. The weekend before the funeral, a group of us had spent the two days in the technology block making lapel badges. A laser-cut black plastic ‘Z’ hot-glued to a red ribbon and a safety pin. Z for Zeke. Students, teachers, school counsellors, we all worked together. Black, white, mixed race. We made seven-hundred of them.

“I don’t want students wearing them,” said the head teacher, as we handed them out before the funeral. We’d told her about them in advance.

“Sorry,” I said, “what is wrong with them?”

“I don’t want our students wearing gang colours.”

“Gang colours?” I took a tie from my blazer pocket. I had found it on the floor earlier that day. “Our school tie is red and black.” I held it out to her.

But she was gone. Taking the bags of badges where she could, and telling students to remove them. Many kept them on. I kept mine on too. It was too late to get them all. About thirty or forty students wore them to the funeral. Hundreds more from elsewhere wore them at the funeral. We’d already forwarded them on via Amanda. Perhaps people wondered why our school wore so few.

In the days that followed, the head teacher confiscated the badges whenever she saw them. Teachers were directed to do the same. They kept on re-appearing. Even kids from other year groups wore them. We’d made seven hundred, after all; there were plenty of spares. Then we were directed to set detentions for any kid still wearing them. I wore my badge for the rest of the week. I never set any detentions. The head teacher avoided me. I was Head of Year. I imagine she told herself she was doing me a favour.

Eventually another deputy head convinced me to at least hide it inside my lapel. She and the head teacher had started their careers together. They hated each other. That deputy was just looking out for me. She once told me to not spend too long teaching at the school. Too long in an inner city school would not look good on my CV. I don’t know if she supported the kids’ right to wear the badge, or just hated the head teacher enough, but she never set any detentions either.

Every time I saw a student wearing a Z, I pulled open my lapel to reveal mine. So I had my little act of defiance. I am not sure it was enough.

***

This story is inspired by real life, but all characters and events are works of fiction.

It is also intended to be supportive of the Black Lives Matter movement. It portrays an imperfect person making imperfect responses, so please consider that where there is any feeling of concern about the message. However, if you feel I have made a gross violation, please comment so that I may apologise and try to understand how I have caused offense or upset.