by Robin Farmer
“And, Roberta . . .”
I turn.
“I said earlier that there’d be no religion homework for good class conduct.” Sister looks over the rims of her glasses and wrinkles her nose. “That’s true for everyone except you.”
CHAPTER 19
Bonnie waits for me after school. My girl. She loops her arm through mine.
“Won’t your parents take back your presents if you get in trouble with Sister, again?” Her mouth twists with concern.
“I don’t care.”
“Girl, you better care. I’d give my right arm for that bad 10-speed bike you got. And the phone, and the stereo. You’re spoiled rotten,” she says, jabbing my arm. She is trying to make me feel better but her approach stinks.
“I’d trade it all to have my dad home.”
“He’ll come back. Your mom is too pretty for him not to.”
“Will you stop that,” I snap. “Looks aren’t everything. Come on, you know that.”
“Just saying. Dag! Sue me for breathing.” Bonnie pulls her arm away. We walk in silence as we approach the flagpole.
Eyeing the flag whipping in the winter breeze reminds me of Sister’s sourpuss expression when I refuse to recite the Pledge of Allegiance. There’s a spark of an idea brewing but when I glance over at Bonnie’s mopey face, I lose my train of thought. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” Her voice is salty.
“We should do something for Black History Week. I read that some colleges are even making it bigger and celebrating Black History Month,” I say.
“Wow, we could never do that here. What should we do?” Bonnie asks.
“I don’t know. A protest maybe? I’ll think of something.”
“You know I’m down,” Bonnie says, holding up her fist. “Just say the word. Speaking of Black History Week, did you enter the Right On! contest?”
“You know I haven’t because you’ll read whatever I write, knucklehead.”
“When you giving your essay to me?”
“When I write it.”
Bonnie smacks her lips, blows air, and changes the subject. She drones on about some cute light-skinned boy (’cause they’re never dark-skinned) she met at the movies. I tune her out until we reach the corner where we head in different directions.
“Later, girl,” I turn away.
Bonnie tugs the back of my coat. “Enter that essay contest.”
“Okay.” I look up at a sky as gray and grim as my life and hold out my hand. A few drops tickle my palm.
I wave bye and run the rest of the way home, feeling smaller with every step. I hate going home. I hate going to school. So where do I belong?
Stepping into my bedroom, I slip on the latest Right On! that I’d left on the floor. Sprawled on my back, looking at the magazine’s torn cover, I’m struck by the best idea ever. Pulling out my poetry book I write:
America has a scab full of pus
She’s the land of the free
Just not for us
Her flag waves red, white, and blue
Her Pledge of Allegiance rings true
for so many folks who don’t look like me
So I can’t sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee”
We’re still marching for equality
While white people build equity
How can I be heard, raise my voice?
In class I’ll make a daily choice
I dial Bonnie’s number so hard and fast the edges of my finger hurts.
“Hello.” Bonnie speaks while munching.
“I know what we can do next month for Black History Week! And honor Malcolm’s legacy, since the anniversary of his assassination is February 21st. Let’s get all the Black eighth-graders to refuse to say the Pledge of Allegiance.”
I hold my breath and cross my fingers. Without her, my plan may be doomed.
“Sounds good, but can we get kicked out for that?”
“I’ve been doing it for nearly three weeks. Plus, they better not. My mom knows Mike Williamson. HSB isn’t looking to make headline news. He’s working on a story about racism in Catholic schools, and he’s including our school, but that’s a secret.” Okay, I’m lying.
“What? That reporter? You never told me that. They’re like friends? Your mom knows important people like that columnist? Girl, you can get an internship in high school and really be a famous writer. Yeah, let’s do it!”
“Bonnie, that’s a secret about Mike. Okay? Like pinky swear me.”
“Mum’s the word.”
“Let’s tell everyone at recess tomorrow. First day of BHW, it’s on and popping!” I hang up feeling less miserable. But just a little. Some truth-teller I am.
I pull out my diary. “Writing is easy, life is hard. And it’s never been harder than this school year.” I write until I fall sleep.
I dream I am on a beach. It’s unmistakably Atlantic City because chicken bones jut from the filthy sand. Mom is complaining about all the riff-raff leaving trash on the beach. Daddy, burying Charles, ignores her. Suddenly everyone disappears, leaving me alone. I’m scared. I run to the water’s edge, blocking the bright sun from my eyes.
In the middle of the ocean I see a tiny island with purple sand. A freakishly tall clown appears. He cups his hands and yells, “Jump in.”
“I can’t, I’ll drown,” I scream, eyeing the angry waves.
“Just dive in and swim to me,” he shouts.
I wade into the water until I am forced to swim, which I do with all of my might. Kicking and slapping the waves, I make it to the island. Exhausted, I crawl onto the island where invisible hands shake me. I open my eyes. Mom hovers above me.
“Sleepyhead, you know you’re supposed to take that uniform off as soon as you get home. Get up, time for dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Mom presses her palm against my forehead. She actually looks worried. “Come on, something is going around. You need to eat to keep your immune system up.”
At dinner, I decide to tell Mom about the roach incident. I need to build up my case against Sister Elizabeth in case she calls and rats me out.
“You know, I’ve been thinking. Maybe Girls Academy would be a better place for you, if you can get in.”
What? I squeeze my eyes to make sure I am hearing right.
“One thing for certain and two things for sure, it certainly seems like Catholic school is hindering your potential instead of developing it.”
For the first time since Christmas, before the fiasco with Daddy, I hug Mom.
“Now wait a minute. I am just thinking out loud,” she says. “I heard you loud and clear about not wanting to go to church. You have the grades to get in. Everything still okay in school?”
“Sister Elizabeth might be upset because I stopped saying the Pledge of Allegiance.”
“I don’t have a problem with that. She shouldn’t either—it’s freedom of speech.”
“I also got Brother Fred to say Jesus looked more like me than him!”
Mom’s expression straddles amusement and disbelief. “It’s okay to love God, but not religion,” Mom says.
“That just sounds wrong,” I stammer. “How can you separate them?”
The phone rings. So do Mom’s words. Cupping the receiver, Mom says, “We’ll talk later. I have to take this.”
Brain buzzing and body tingling, I wish the caller dialed a wrong number so our unexpected conversation can continue.
In my room, I mull over what just happened. Mom pulled a curtain off a part of my mind I didn’t know was there, and the light blinds me. How long will it take before my eyes adjust and I clearly see this new fuzzy idea that both scares and excites me down to my core.
The big day is finally here. My stomach is ready to fall out. Finishing the Lord’s Prayer in class, we turn to the flag to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Everything seems to move in slow motion as my classmates put their right hands over their hearts. Who will join me to make a stat
ement for Black History Week?
I scan the room and nearly jump for joy. Raymond, the new black boy who transferred here last month, Stephanie, Karen, Clyde, Vietta, and even a nervous-looking Donna, stand silent with hands at their sides. My head swells to the size of a Macy’s Thanksgiving parade float. If I hear most of the Black eighth-graders in the other homerooms participated, my ego will need its own zip code.
Right on! This is what solidarity feels like. This is Black Power. I glance at Donna. My girl. With white support, this protest may grow. I’m for that type of integration. Malcolm was, too, after his visit to Mecca. I imagine this heady sensation is what it feels like to march for civil rights—to try and make a difference for your people. I think of the Black Panthers and Angela Davis. I think of Shirley Chisholm, who ran for president when I was in sixth grade. I think of Malcolm. We stand on the shoulders of giants. Instead of my usual slouching, I stand straighter. I am young, gifted, and Black.
With great fanfare, Geoffrey keeps looking back at Donna. His rubbernecking gets Sister’s attention. Sister eyeballs the six of us protestors and, with a flourish, writes something in her green grade book. What in the Sam Hill?
“With liberty and justice, for all,” my classmates say.
“Don’t sit,” Sister commands and several students immediately bounce back up. “In fact, keep your right hand over your heart, if you had it there to begin with. Now, look around at your classmates. Look at who feels the need to disrespect our nation’s flag and the men and women who died to protect it.”
“That’s not what this is about,” I blurt. “We will honor the flag when every Black man, woman, and child is treated equally.”
“Is that so? I stand corrected,” Sister says with a smug smile. “Let me be crystal clear.” Sister begins to pace. “You have the right to not honor the flag. But every action has a consequence in my classroom. For every day that you decide not to salute the flag, I will deduct five points off your conduct grade. Now sit!” She gives Donna a cold stare.
A quick calculation means we can hold out for a total of three days before our grade, if already perfect, drops to a B. That means only the diehards like me, Bonnie, and a few others, will stick with it for the rest of the week.
“What does one have to do with the other?” I ask.
“Raise your hand. Stop blurting out like a barnyard animal,” Sister snaps.
Her anger pleases me. Malcolm would be proud. I can’t wait to hear from Bonnie who participated in her class. I glance at the clock. Homeroom ends in ten minutes.
Sister rambles on about the requirements for the live Stations of the Cross performance held every year during Holy Week before Easter. Only eighth-graders can play the roles. More than a month away, it’s a big production. Usually teacher’s pets and other try-hards are selected to participate in the sacred communal prayer service. The only role that requires talent, other than sucking up, is Mary. That goes to the best singer.
Sister seems extra animated, doing everything to ignore me. But I’m flying on a glorious cloud, and I need her to watch me gloat. I’m in control and no longer weak, like I was when she threw me out of class after slapping the Jesus out of me while shouting that I don’t belong here, but in Africa, a continent I’d know little about if I relied on HSB teaching me.
Thank God for Malcolm, who opened my eyes to my country’s love affair with racism.
I want her to look at me. I remember she never apologized for any of the pain she caused. All the pretzel selling and Yellow Bird singing in the world can’t fix that Grand-Canyon–sized hole she blasted into my soul. She hurt me, and I hurt my family. She needs to look at me.
I raise my hand, careful not to appear eager. She makes me wait wicked long before acknowledging me with a half-crazed stare.
“You want to be a part of the Stations of the Cross performance?” she scoffs.
Nervous teeters sweep the class just as there’s a knock on the door. It swings open. Sister Bernard pokes her head in.
“Sister Elizabeth, can you step outside for a second?” she asks, glancing at me.
“Take out your signed forms for the fundraiser and pass them up,” Sister Elizabeth says. “Eileen, please collect them.” She steps outside the class, pulling the door behind her.
Geoffrey turns in his seat and scowls at Donna.
“Whatcha do that for? Your pops will kill you when he finds out.”
“Mind your business.” Her voice trembles.
“That was too cool. Thanks, Donna,” I say.
Donna gives me a smile without showing her teeth. I hope she doesn’t get in trouble.
I look over at Stephanie, who glances back with fearful eyes. I give her, Clyde, Vietta, Raymond, and Karen a Black Power salute. I am eager to tell them during the change of classes that we made a proud stand today and if they don’t join me tomorrow that’s cool. I can stand alone.
Sister Elizabeth returns to class, her face redder.
“It seems boys and girls, that Roberta here has managed to get every colored student in the eighth-grade to join her gang, I mean movement. You are correct, Roberta. One thing should not have anything to do with the other. It behooves me to rescind what I said earlier about deducting points from your conduct grade. During the Pledge of Allegiance, you must stand, but otherwise feel free to monitor the moonbeams for all I care. I will leave that between you and your God.”
Her words barely register. I am floating above it all. We won! We won! We won!
By the time recess rolls around, I feel like a superstar. Black students huddle around me, everyone wanting my attention and talking at once. They congratulate me for making Black History Week meaningful at HSB. For emphasizing pride and focusing attention on how Black people are still being treated like second-class citizens, even though slavery ended over a hundred years ago. Most of the fifty-two Black eighth-graders say they will continue the protest for the rest of the month. Some say the remainder of the school year. I finally feel the way Bonnie must feel every day: like a queen bee.
On day four of the protest, I sit at my desk beaming. I can hardly contain my glee over Sister’s about-face regarding the pledge. What did Sister Bernard say to convince her to leave us alone? Who cares? Mother Superior knows she can’t suspend all of us for exercising our constitutional rights.
“Everyone copied the homework?”
“Yes, Sister,” the history class robot answers.
Sister erases the board clean.
“Can we talk about current events?” Eileen asks.
Sister nods. “You know the rules. Be respectful,” she says, chin in her hand.
Donna and I exchange grins. Sister is about to take a nap. We push our desks in a circle. Eileen chooses President Nixon as the topic. I listen while doing Spanish homework.
“I don’t totally get the fuss about President Nixon. My dad voted for him and he says what happened to him is just a witch hunt,” Eileen says, shrugging.
I perk up. Maybe Spanish vocabulary can wait.
“My dad voted for him. He says Democrats are sore losers,” volunteers Geoffrey.
“How can you not believe he’s a crook?” says Stephanie. “The Watergate investigations have been going on forever. I’m sick of hearing about them.”
“We have to talk about it,” I say, watching Sister nodding. “The problem is the most powerful man in the free world doesn’t know how to tell the truth. My dad, who didn’t vote for him, said he is guilty as sin and will be impeached before summer’s out.”
“Is your father a journalist at the Washington Post or a political science professor?” Sister asks, annoyed. Apparently, my words woke her up.
“No, but his friend is a chauffeur at the Pentagon and he overhears conversations while driving the political big shots around.”
“Consider the source,” Sister snaps.
Wait! What? I sit up. We have the floor, and did she just disrespect my father?
“‘I am not a crook.’”
Geoffrey throws up two peace signs, imitating Nixon.
The class laughs. I’m too mad to join in.
“Well, no matter how you cut it, Nixon has something in common with Thomas Jefferson.” I look directly at Sister Elizabeth. “They’re both liars. I mean, hypocrites.”
Donna catches her breath. Others’ gasps fill the air. Sister blinks as if something flew in her eyes. Maybe the truth. In a flash she rushes toward me, eyes ablaze. She looms in front of my desk, lips tight. “Out! Now! I will not tolerate your impudence.”
“What did I do? We are having a classroom discussion. Everyone is giving an opinion. Why can’t I? Presidents aren’t perfect.” Or teachers.
“I know what you’re doing. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I’m just participating in the discussion.”
“You hide behind your hair and glower and talk Black Power, but you don’t even know who you are.” Sister’s lips wrinkle in righteous anger.
“You hide behind your religion. You’re supposed to be holier, better than us. But the truth is . . .”
Sister pounds my desk. I lean back in case she swings.
“I said leave. Go stand outside the room until the bell rings.”
I saunter out, relieved that she didn’t send me to the main office. Another suspension, and I can kiss Girls Academy goodbye. What’s wrong with me?
I slouch against the wall, mentally beating myself up until the bell clangs. The hall swells with chattering students, kinda carefree like I used to be. I wait for class to empty and barely slip back in to get my books when Sister hisses.
“Get over here!”
I approach her desk.
“Tell your mother I will be calling her tonight. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but I will no longer tolerate it.”
I grab my book bag. I’m halfway down the hall when I realize to outsmart her I need crucial information. I backtrack to class, where she’s writing comments in red ink on a stack of tests. I cough. She refuses to look up.
“My mom stays on the phone after work. What time are you calling?”
Sister eyes me until I feel uneasy. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll keep calling until I get through.”