Blake noted awkwardness in her movements, like a corpse attempting locomotion. Yet she was no older than his mother. He twitched nervously as she glared at him.
“Class, stand and recite with me the Pledge of Allegiance.” Her voice was deep and masculine. Following their teacher’s lead, twenty-six fourth graders turned to face a large portrait dominating the left wall. The man in the picture was middle-aged, and flashed a sensitive smile. His eyelashes were long, and his cheeks either were naturally ruddy or powdered with rouge. He, too, was gray-skinned, and thoroughly bald. A golden aura radiated from his suit, and intensified in a nimbus around his head. The students didn’t know it was from photographic manipulation—they believed it was from piety.
“Repeat after me, children,” spoke the teacher, and the children obeyed, “I pledge allegiance, to President Swan, and the United States of America, and to the Republic, for which they stand, one people, one faith, one leader, under the rainbow of Divine Color, for liberty and justice for all Americans.” Her posture was erect, chin uplifted, left arm reaching outward toward the picture, right hand resting on her belt. Some of the students followed her gesture, as if seeking communion with a spirit.
“You will all sit now,” commanded Ms. Duncan, and the children complied with uniform precision. “We will begin our day, as usual, with a diversity moment.” Numerous hands were raised—a black girl, a Korean boy, a Hispanic girl, and two Pakistani boys.
“No, no, my little darlings,” rumbled Ms. Duncan, “today I want to give some students a chance who don’t usually participate in this activity. Blake, Katrina, Patrick? Our three little ghosts? I want you all to share with us how you contribute to the diversity of this classroom. Patrick, you first.”
Patrick’s head drooped, and a conflagration of red hair fell around his face.
“Ah, to be expected . . . spineless, quivering white meat. Your ancestors could act bold when they outnumbered and outgunned indigenous peoples. But deep down you’re just a bunch of cowards.” Ms. Duncan laughed. “You then, Blake. I’ll save Katrina for last.” The teacher’s eyes lingered on Katrina and her long blond hair.
“I . . . I’m just a white boy, Ms. Duncan,” mumbled Blake, “I can’t make diversity . . . I don’t have any. I know . . . I already know I’m like the worst thing there is.”
“Children, what is the most important idea I have taught you all year?” asked the teacher, her voice amplifying.
“Diversity is our greatest strength,” chanted the class duly.
“Excellent! Well, Blake, if you don’t contribute to our class’s diversity, what makes you think you should even be here? But please, go ahead and offer a little story about yourself or your family and I will judge if it’s diverse,” said Ms. Duncan with a candied grin.
“All . . . all right. But I’m telling you I’m not worth anything. It’s not my fault I’m not African-American, or Asian, or Hispanic. I wish I was but I’m not! It’s not my fault I don’t have Divine Color like in the pledge.” His eyes glassed with incipient tears, but for a moment the teacher thought she spied a flicker of defiance.
“Blake, perhaps if you look within yourself you might find what you’re seeking. Perhaps, even within the deepest evil, there is a little goodness. Look within and tell me something diverse about your family to knock my socks off.”
After a contemplative pause, Blake began. Katrina listened with the resignation of a prisoner next in line for execution.
“Well, my grandfather had some pretty cool stories to tell . . .”
“Yes, yes, go on,” coaxed Ms. Duncan.
“He was Italian. He moved over here way back in like 2052, when the Muslims first took over Italy and like . . . and like started killing the white people there.” Blake’s voice sank like a chasm.
“A much deserved retribution for a millennium of Christian intolerance,” mused the teacher.
“What?” asked Blake, wiping a tear from his cheek with his wrist.
“Oh nothing, nothing. Go on, you’re doing wonderfully!”
Blake hesitated, then continued. “Well, before he died, he used to spend lots of time with me. He taught me how to make pasta from scratch, and I really used to like it when he’d tell me stories about Rome—old, old Romans. I really had never heard of the Romans before he told me. Have you ever heard of them, Ms. Duncan?”
“How quaint,” grumbled the teacher. “Yes, Blake, I’ve heard of the ancient Romans. And what did he tell you about them?” The teacher dragged her body up to the child’s desk, and leered down at him.
“He told me lots of stuff. He told me myths. He told me that the Romans were really smart and tough, and were really good at law and engineering and things like that. And he told me to be proud that I’m part Italian.”
“How nice. Blake, did you know that a long time ago some white people looked down on Italians? In fact, some people from northern Europe didn’t even quite think of them as white.”
“They didn’t?” exclaimed the child, his face animated with hope.
“It was never a widely held conviction, and was fleeting, but some people thought that.” Ms. Duncan’s dry skin cracked as she smiled.
“Well . . . were they right?” Blake stared at his sweaty palm on the desk, wishing it weren’t so fair.
“No,” she lamented. “Perhaps some of the Italians, what’s left of them, are a little more blessed, than say, a Swede, in terms of pigment. But at the turn of the second millennium, genetic data about humans began to reveal that all the peoples of Europe are genetically bonded. Your grandfather, and yourself, share the same biological blasphemy of the Germans, the English, the Spanish, the Poles, and the Russians. And you all share the capability, in varying degrees, of producing those despicable colored eyes and brown, blonde, and red hair.”
“Oh.” The boy scratched his head. “Well, I hate my brown hair. I wish it was black so I could be more diverse. And I only mentioned the part about the pasta because last week Lin talked about how her grandma taught her to make egg rolls and you seemed to really like that.”
“Little fool, it takes a lot more than black hair to be diverse.” She chortled, and wiped her nose with her fingers. “But forget about the pasta, Blake—tell me more about the ancient Romans. Tell me more about what they were good at.” The teacher’s black eyes were vats of boiling oil poised to plunge.
“Well, he said they were smart and strong.”
“And you’re proud to be part of that heritage? You want to be ‘smart and strong?’”
“He told me I should be proud because of it,” whispered Blake.
“So, do you think you’re better than, say, Lin, because you’re white—Italian, English, Irish, whatever the hell else you are?” Ms. Duncan’s hands knotted into fists, her shoulders rounded back, and her face jutted down within inches of the boy’s eyes.
“No, not at all. I know that I’m worse than everyone else because of it. I hate myself because of it!” Tears ran unchecked down his cheeks and his face flushed scarlet.
“Do you know what your Roman ancestors were really like? Hmmm? They thought they were better than everyone else. And they killed everyone they didn’t like! And they were cruel and mean just like all the other white peoples of Europe. And they used their damned technology to oppress others! That’s why you’ve never heard about the Romans in school. That’s why you’ll never hear about them in school, or any other European civilization. Because you’re all a bunch of scum!” Ms. Duncan salivated from the mouth and grabbed Blake by his narrow shoulders, shaking him vigorously.
“You want to be a supremacist? You want to be a killer? You are evil! Do you hear me? You are evil because of your blood, your genes! You and all your people are bad, bad, bad! You make me sick!” She dug her nails into the skin beneath his shirt, and he winced. “You know what? You’re not even an American. Did you know that? Do you even listen to what I teach you? You’re not like the rest of us—you’re not an American. Maybe we should depor
t you, like the little Alien you are, back to Italy where the Muslims can teach you a lesson!”
Blake could feel the coldness of his teacher’s grasp, and he squirmed down in his seat with all his strength. Sliding free under his desk, he crawled between Ms. Duncan’s legs then shot from the classroom. She swiped air with her fist as he flew past, her face a wheelbarrow of sneering cement.
“Good riddance,” she said, limping to the front of the class. Several of the students had begun to cry.
“I’m sorry you all had to witness that. I apologize. But that little episode makes a good introduction to what I want to talk about next. Katrina, you can attempt to succeed where Blake has failed tomorrow. If you can’t do better than a European-American cultural story, then don’t bother coming. You too, Patrick.”
“What do you want me to talk about tomorrow, Ms. Duncan?” sobbed Katrina.
“I don’t know, whatever you can manage. But it has to be truthful. Don’t make anything up or you’ll pay for it.” The teacher raised a wavering finger at the girl, and her eyes were wide and dangerous.
“Like what . . . what . . . what would be something good for me to . . . to . . . to talk about for my div-div-diversity?” choked out the girl, who had begun to hyperventilate.
“Well . . . maybe you’ve had a crush on a boy of Color? Or better yet, maybe even a girl? I don’t know, maybe your mother had a lesbian experience in college, or an affair with a man of Color while married to your worthless white father. That would be so touching. Or, maybe you could bring us news tomorrow that your parents have decided to Americanize. Better still, maybe by tomorrow morning you’ll tell us that you’ve decided to Americanize. That’s a lovely dress by the way, Katrina. It fits you wonderfully,” noted the teacher, her eyes scavenging the fair, crossed legs.
“But . . . but . . . but . . . but none of those, those, those things are t-t-true about me . . . or my f-f-family.”
“Then you can get out right now. Unless you’d like me to grab a fistful of that sacrilegious blond hair and yank it out of your scalp.”
Patrick bolted to Katrina’s desk, and led her, gasping, from the room.
“Wonderful, students. Now that I have rid us of that white pollution, we can begin today’s lesson.” Half the students were sniffling; the other half were glowering.
“Tito, pop quiz. This is for a grade. Come to the front, and tell the class about the Thirtieth Amendment to the Constitution that President Swan succeeded in passing recently.”
The boy walked tentatively to the front while eyeing the three empty seats.
“Bruja,” he mumbled as he approached Ms. Duncan.
“What? What did you say?” She growled. “Tell me what you said. Now!”
“Nothing, Ms. Duncan. I . . . I just want to tell the class about the Thirtieth Amendment.”
The teacher’s eye’s narrowed.
“If we speak different languages we can’t all be the same. Remember the goal, Tito—one people, one faith, one leader. One, one, one! Diversity, diversity, diversity! We must all be the same, to prevent discrimination and hatred, and that includes one language. English and Spanish are both European languages, and are therefore inherently evil. But English is the language of President Swan. So speak English, or get out of my classroom.”
“Yes, Ms. Duncan.”
“All right, I’ll help get you started with your quiz. President Swan, the first and most holy disciple of Divine Color, has succeeded in adding three new amendments to the Constitution while in office. Is it easy to amend the Constitution, Tito?”
“No, it’s like really hard.”
“Good, that’s right. Do you remember the requirements for adding an amendment?”
“Lots of the states have to want it?”
“Three-fourths of the state legislatures have to approve it. That translates to a minimum of thirty-eight states. Tell us when the Thirtieth Amendment was passed and what it says.”
“It was passed I think like four or five months ago. It says, like, well, it tells what Americans are and how to get to be one.”
“That’s right. Can you still become an American by being born here?”
“No.”
“Can you become an American by marrying an American?”
“No.”
“Well, if a person wanted to become American, how would they do so?” The teacher blazed a ghoulish stare through the boy.
“They would get treated. They would get Americanized.”
Ms. Duncan began to circle him.
“Tito, are you an American?” she asked coyly between measured steps.
Her stench, wafted by her big, swinging hands, permeated his nose. He watched the hairy gray fingers begin to curl and uncurl with each revolution. The boy’s chin riveted to his chest, and his eyes studied the carpet’s tesselations.
“I don’t know. I used to think I was, until this year.”
“Well, have you been treated? Have you Americanized?”
“No.”
“Well, then, you’re not an American, are you? I don’t care how many years your ancestors toiled in the fields of California. You may be racially superior to the white wretches I just threw out of here, but I’m afraid you’re just as much an Alien as they are. The horrible truth, class, is that none of you are Americans yet. None of you! Thankfully, I elected to become an American, as have most of the teachers here.” She touched her cheeks gingerly like a beauty queen, then glared down, again, at Tito.
“Well, little Alien, when are you and your parents going to be treated?”
Alien. Tito bristled at her word choice. His grandmother had informed him of that word, how it used to cut her like a shard as a girl.
“I don’t think we’re going to get treated.”
“Why not?” she thundered. “All the good restaurants, all the good clubs, all the good colleges, all the good jobs are beginning to require that you be an American before they let you in. Once we’re all the same, once we’re all treated, there will be no more discrimination—there will only be blessed diversity. So why, in the name of Divine Color, don’t you and your family want to become American?”
“Well, I guess mostly because my uncle tells us not to.”
“And who is your uncle?” demanded the teacher.
“My Uncle Juarez—he lives in Aztlan. He’s a soldier in their army there.”
Ms. Duncan staggered, theatrically, as if knifed in the back. “Aztlan! Aztlan! So your uncle is a damned traitor? You want to listen to a secessionist traitor? Scum bags like your uncle stole our fine State of California and turned it into a nationalist cesspool. But why doesn’t he want you to be treated? Other than the fact, of course, he probably wants you to move to California to join their war machine.”
“Because he said he’s heard rumors it like forces you to be gay and makes you act weird and stuff.”
Ms. Duncan’s eyes scrambled multidirectionally before settling on the boy. “Do you know something, Tito?” Her voice’s bass, projecting down, pillaged his ears. “The machismo you Latino trash display is disgusting. Do you dare tell me you think it’s undesirable to be gay? Who wouldn’t want to be gay, or even better, bisexual?”
“Well . . . me, my mom, my dad, my sis . . .”
The teacher threw a straight, hard punch with her brawny right arm. It wasn’t a slap or a clumsy strike—it was heaved with a pugilist’s art. Her hips twisted to generate torque, her knees bent, and an efficient breath expired from her lips. The blow caught the boy squarely on the chin, and his body sprawled backward, head dashing against the wall. He fell to the floor in a clatter of arms and legs.
Ms. Duncan’s bared teeth were knives in a bath of gray saliva. She took a step toward Tito, but stopped. Eyeing the photo of her principal, she shambled back to her desk. For the rest of the period she stared blankly, posture slumped, eyes riveted to the flag.
***
The couple was escorted into a rectangular conference room. Within, seated at
an elliptical table, were two women. An oversized portrait of President Swan smiled down approvingly.
“I want you to know, Ms. Duncan, that I’ve already called the police. You will never, I mean never, lay a hand on Blake again, do you understand?” The man bypassed the empty chair intended for him and pointed a trembling finger at the teacher.
“There won’t be any need to, Mr. Wilkerson. Blake isn’t welcome at Oaks Elementary any longer,” Ms. Duncan said, and smiled. Her voice was an idling engine.
“Blake isn’t welcome?” Mrs. Wilkerson stepped forward, incredulous. “You mean you’re not welcome at Oaks Elementary any longer. I’m a teacher myself, and I know your career is dead in the water now. And if you ever lay a hand on my son again, I’m going to lay a hand on you, got it?”
“Do try. I dare you,” mouthed Ms. Duncan, eyes progressing from a gleam to a blaze.
Principal Sullivan interlaced her fingers with those of the teacher beneath the table.
“Calm down, Ms. Duncan. Don’t let these Aliens upset you. They’re not worth it,” whispered the principal. Ms. Duncan inhaled indulgently, savoring the charnel breath of her companion.
“What the heck is this parent-teacher conference supposed to solve, anyway, Ms. Sullivan? We want this woman fired! And we’re going to sue her for assault and battery,” Mr. Wilkerson fumed.
“And how do you propose to do that, Mr. Wilkerson?” Sullivan seemed genuinely perplexed, and her broad shoulders raised then fell in her suit. “How can you sue Ms. Duncan?”
The incredulity was mutual.
“How? How? She grabbed my son, shook him hard, dug her damned fingernails into his arm, then tried to hit him as he ran out.” The father relived his son’s ordeal through gesture as he spoke. “I don’t need a J.D. to know there are both civil and criminal repercussions here.” He scowled at Ms. Duncan.
“Mr. Wilkerson,” asked Sullivan, “are you oblivious to the legal and legislative revolution of the past year?”
“Of course I’m not. This country’s going to hell and it’s mostly because of that nutcase there behind you.”
The Gods of Color Page 2