by Torey Hayden
Unfortunately, almost none of this freer behavior was carrying over into the classroom. Venus remained very much her usual closed-in, inhibited self around Julie and the other children. I could occasionally get her to move of her own volition, if the group was working near to her. She would come willingly to stand by me or sit on my lap so that I no longer had to go get her and move her physically. And very, very occasionally she would nod or faintly smile. But these were all still very much exceptions to the rule. Most of the time, she just sat, catatonic as ever.
Because of this, I thought maybe I could make the transition by moving She-Ra into the classroom.
I’d been reading an old favorite of mine—Treasure Island—to the children after lunch. I always did this every year because I loved the book and because I found that whatever age the children were, there was an innate fascination with pirates that lent itself to many other activities. In this case, we decided to make pirate chests as an art project. I’d brought in a big container full of colorful clear plastic chips from a nearby factory to use as jewels, plus an assortment of colored foil and cellophane and other shiny items to be turned into appropriately gaudy treasure chest contents. Then we used cereal boxes to create the chest itself. The boys all took to this enthusiastically, of course. And Venus just sat, of course.
Once it was clear that the boys were well occupied, I took out a large piece of cardboard I’d cut from the side of an apple carton and brought it over to Venus’s table.
“You know what I’m thinking?” I said as I pulled out a chair and sat down. “I’m thinking that instead of making a treasure chest, what you really need is a proper Sword of Power. Don’t you? I mean, we’ve been pretending with the yardstick and that’s been okay, but I think we should have a real one. Don’t you? One just for you? That is your own?”
Venus’s eyes went wide.
“I was thinking we could use this cardboard. I’ll help you draw a sword shape and we can cut it out. Then you can stick fancy jewels on the handle. What do you think?”
Venus’s face lit up. Very, very slightly she nodded.
I drew a freehand sword and cut it from the cardboard. Taking silver foil, I showed Venus how to fold it over the blade and glue it to make it shiny silver. She wouldn’t try it at first. I sat with her, taking her hand and moving it over the foil to smooth it onto the cardboard while Julie walked among the boys, helping them.
As the afternoon passed, Venus slowly became involved. She chose some colorful wrapping paper for the hilt, which I helped her stick on. Then working on her own, she carefully picked out “jewels” from the assortment of plastic chips I’d laid on her desk and glued them onto the sword.
I rose and moved among the boys to see what they were doing. Venus continued to work. She was very self-contained, sitting hunched over her table, her movements tight and constricted. She gave the impression of intense concentration, as if she were crafting the most delicate masterpiece, and, indeed, it turned out she was, as she added the plastic chips, the sequins, the glitter in a delicate pattern on the hilt of the sword and then eventually up along the blade of the sword too. As she worked, she never looked up or around to see what any of the others of us were doing. Instead, she kept her head down, her shoulders forward, and added decoration after decoration to her Sword of Power.
My fly in the ointment was Julie.
After school had finished that afternoon and we were wiping glue off tables and picking bits of paper off the floor, she said, “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“Not comfortable with what?” I asked, having no idea what she was referring to.
“Your using this cartoon thing with Venus. Does Bob know? Have you talked it over with him?”
No, I had not talked it over with Bob. I didn’t generally clear my lesson plans with my principal, so it had not even occurred to me to talk it over with Bob. I was irritated, not only for her rather casual implication that I didn’t know what I was doing, but also simply because I was the teacher here and she was the aide, so it wasn’t her responsibility to continually question my actions.
“What bothers you about it?” I asked.
“It’s not a very good standard of material. Do you think? I mean, that whole series was just designed to sell toys. Just consumerism gone mad. There’s no depth to these characters. No literary value to them. Wouldn’t it be better to choose something … well, more educational to stimulate the children? And something more nonviolent. And …”
“Yes?”
“Well, in Venus’s case, something more culturally appropriate. Venus is African-American. Have we got the right to shove some blonde, white bimbo with pneumatic boobs at her?”
Admittedly, I hadn’t even considered that. My sole goal had been to engage Venus. When she chose the comic as one of her first acts of self will with me, I just took it and ran.
“Julie, I’m about as color-blind as a person can get. I can’t remember the last time I even noticed the color of Venus’s skin.”
“But that isn’t color-blind, Torey. That is just blind. We get so used to thinking from the point of view of white, Anglo-Saxons that we aren’t even aware we are prejudiced. You don’t question if it’s appropriate to be giving this girl these kinds of role models because you’re assuming our culture is right without questioning it. But if you were truly color-blind, you would be embracing heroines and role models of all colors. Equally.”
“This doesn’t make a lot of sense to me,” I said, “this idea that I have to be conscious of someone’s race in order to be not conscious of it. Venus’s skin color is immaterial, just as the length of her hair is or the material of her shirt. I chose what I chose because that’s what she showed an interest in. My goal is simply to wake this kid up again, because when she came into the classroom, she was the walking dead. So, if she’d taken an interest in Spam cans, I probably would have gone with that. I just went with what was there. ‘Culturally appropriate’ never even crossed my mind.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m saying this.”
There was a pause.
“This isn’t me putting you down, Torey,” she said. “I know we always end up like this, always on opposite sides, and I don’t mean that. I really admire the way you work. You’re the most spontaneous teacher I’ve ever known. You can make a lesson out of anything. On the spot. Without any preparation. I could never do that. I have to have everything planned down to the last word in the plan book. So, I really admire this about you, because it would be so hard for me to do it. But sometimes, because things are so spontaneous, I think maybe you’re not aware of all the sides to it. I mean, couldn’t you just try to choose an African-American heroine for this girl? Someone she could be proud to identify with? Say, like, Rosa Parks?”
“Rosa Parks instead of She-Ra?” I asked, hoping that if I said it aloud, the absurdity would strike her.
It didn’t. She nodded approvingly.
“They’re not really in the same category, Julie. I think Rosa Parks is a fantastic person and a wonderful role model, but she just doesn’t represent the same sort of thing that She-Ra does. It isn’t even She-Ra, per se. It’s someone powerful and strong.”
“And you think Rosa Parks isn’t powerful and strong?” Julie replied.
I sighed in exasperation. “Yes, of course she is. But in a different way. She isn’t a comic book superhero. And just at the moment we need a comic book superhero.”
“But why? Why some unrealistic comic book Barbie doll that Venus will never be like in a million years? Why not someone she can genuinely model herself on?”
“Because I think she can be like She-Ra. These are qualities, Julie. They have nothing to do with culture or race or gender or any of that crap. Everybody is capable of them. These are human qualities. And they are easier to see in a cartoon character, in a superhero, simply because they are exaggerated. It’s easier to know exactly what they are and how you behave to get them. That’s all I want right now.”<
br />
“I can’t agree with you there.”
Picking up the scraps of paper I’d collected, I crossed the room and threw them into the trash can. “No, I can see,” I said because I could. We were on two different planets in this conversation. I didn’t know how to change that.
The conversation bothered me. Long after the school day had ended and Julie and I’d gone our separate ways, I was still thinking about it. Was I being inadvertently racist because I had exposed Venus to white superheroes? Was I somehow disenfranchising her by denying her real-life role models of color? In She-Ra’s world of Etheria where people transmogrified into pink cats, did color matter? Truth was, I felt it was Julie who was being racist by putting limits on what Venus could enjoy, by saying, “The only appropriate role models for you are those who look like you, even in your imagination.” But the truth was, I didn’t know the answer to this one.
Julie’s conversation ruined things a little for me. The next day I did not come quite so innocently to our lunchtime cartoon viewing. I now paid attention to who was what color, and the truth was, in Etheria, many of the characters were not even human. There were robots and purple-faced witches, rainbow-colored owl-like things that flew by flapping their ears, and a sorceress who was faceless altogether. But the good guys—Adora, She-Ra, her boyfriend Bow, her friends, Glimmer, Bright Moon, and Flutterina—were all white.
Still, imperfect as it was, She-Ra’s world remained my common ground with Venus. She watched the cartoon enthusiastically, her small body tensing with the action. She pulled my arms up tight around her and smiled at me when I hugged her close. After the cartoon, we went to find her Sword of Power where I’d put it to dry on the back counter after art the previous afternoon.
Venus moved ahead of me to get it. There was no hesitation in her actions. She could have been any little girl then, going to get a favorite item. Reaching for the sword, she lifted it up.
“Wow! Look at that! Magic or what?” I said. “Let’s see you turn into She-Ra.”
Holding the sword pointing upward, Venus closed her eyes and twirled around. “For the honor of Grayskull!” she called out.
“Wow! That works perfectly!” I said.
Venus gave the sword a test swing.
“Come here,” I said. I pulled her over toward the full-length mirror in the dressing-up corner. “Look, do you see? See how great that magic sword looks?”
I had her standing in front of me, a little girl with scraggly hair and dirty skin. Her clothes were worn and ill-fitting. Her nose was crusty. She had sores along the sides of her mouth.
“Aren’t you beautiful?” I said and smiled at her reflection. “Look. That sword’s made you every bit as super as She-Ra, huh? Don’t you think so?”
Her eyes sparkled. A slow smile spread across her lips. She nodded.
“I’m looking in that mirror and I’m seeing someone who really is a Princess of Power. Someone who really knows how to use a Sword of Power.” I knelt down and wrapped my arms around her.
Venus kept her eyes on her reflection in the mirror. She nodded.
“You know what I’m thinking?” I asked in chummy sort of way.
Venus raised her eyebrows in question.
“I’m thinking, what if you stay changed into She-Ra this afternoon?” I asked. “When the other kids come?” I was hoping that this was the magic she needed to be brave enough to talk and interact in the classroom. Perhaps with the Sword of Power at her side, she would risk it.
The expression in her eyes changed slightly. Concern clouded the joy.
“You could keep the Sword of Power with you, if you want. At your table. What about it? What about between now and recess? You could be Princess of Power for that time.”
A long pause followed.
Venus kept her eyes on her reflection in the dressing-up mirror, and as I watched her, she transformed. Without a movement, without a word, the joy drained out of her.
“You don’t want to do that?” I said. It was more of a statement than a question, but I wanted her to know it was all right to make that choice. That she could. “That’s okay.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, which surprised me, because I hadn’t expected her to say anything.
“No, what? What’s the matter?”
We were still in front of the mirror. I still had my arms around her in a sort of backward hug. We were talking to each other through our reflections.
“I don’t want to,” Venus said very softly.
“That’s okay. It was just a suggestion. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to. In here you decide.”
She regarded my reflection. The fun was gone from her dark eyes.
“Does it make you feel afraid?” I asked.
She nodded.
“Of what?”
She didn’t answer.
“The boys?”
She didn’t respond.
“Do the boys frighten you? I know the boys are noisy. And pretty rowdy. But they don’t want to hurt you. You’re safe in here. I wouldn’t let anything happen.”
She shook her head. I wasn’t altogether sure what she was meaning by that.
A small silence came.
“I’m not really She-Ra,” she said finally. “It’s just a game.”
“I see.” Then I nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
“That makes me scared.”
“Oh?”
She didn’t reply.
“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “Can you explain it more?”
A long silence.
“I’m not really She-Ra. Not for real.”
“Well, no. Because she’s just pretend, isn’t she? She’s just a cartoon. But the things about her—being strong and able to do things that are good—those things are real. And you do have those things inside you. For real. You do. I know. In here.” I tapped her chest. “When we pretend with the sword, we’re just letting them out. But they’re already real. Inside you, you’re strong and able to do things that are good, just like She-Ra.”
Venus shook her head.
“Yes, you are,” I said. “You’ve got lots of good things inside you, Venus.”
Venus shook her head more vehemently. “No,” she said.
“Well, I think differently, because I can see those things in you. And I’m not the only one. Wanda can too, can’t she? That’s why she calls you ‘beautiful child.’”
“No. She just says that ’cause that’s something retards say.”
I looked at her. “Who told you that? That isn’t true.”
She dropped the Sword of Power on the floor and left it there. Her eyes shrouded. The vacant expression returned.
I looked down at the cardboard sword. Something had happened. I’d inadvertently ruined something. But I wasn’t sure what.
Chapter
24
That was my first real conversation with Venus. Up until that moment, I had never had a multisyllabic exchange with her, much less an actual conversation. It wasn’t until it was over that I even fully comprehended what had happened.
On the one hand, I was astonished. It answered so many questions. For instance, obviously she was capable of genuine speech. Her grammar and vocabulary were acceptable. The concepts she was expressing were reasonably sophisticated. While not erasing entirely the concern that she might be developmentally delayed, the conversation was well within normal limits for a seven-year-old. So, even if she were delayed, it was nothing near the level of Wanda’s difficulties. This was positive, valuable information.
On the other hand, I was saddened. The conversation gave evidence of a repressed, unhappy little girl.
And then, of course, the next day she wasn’t there.
Of all the students, the one who was making the most heartening progress was Billy. At the beginning of the year he had been “everywhere”—buoyant, wildly enthusiastic, noisy, explosive, unable to focus himself on anything for long. His academic work had been appalling because
he’d never stayed seated long enough to finish any. His uncontrolled enthusiasm was more annoying than charming, because he burst in on everything, hogged the limelight, and ignored everyone else. He spoke loudly and often aggressively. And his off-the-wall sense of humor, usually expressed by taking any figure of speech literally and catching the unwary speaker out, wore thin long before Billy would give up the joke.
Billy’s had been one of the few cases where I’d found the district’s insistence on interminable student assessments to prove valuable. Discovering that Billy was a gifted child when previously he had only been identified as a troublemaker had given me something concrete to work with. Reframing him as an underchallenged, poorly directed child of considerable ability, I’d set about to find something for him to sink his teeth into. This had been difficult initially, because Billy’s academic skills were nowhere near where they should have been for a boy of his apparent ability, so, when necessary, I’d had to come up with a way to jump-start some of these skills. For example, to allow him to work on projects that would engage him more, Julie and I recorded huge chunks of resource materials, such as encyclopedias, onto cassette tapes. Or I armed him with the cassette recorder to interview people instead of writing it down. And I looked for interest areas, knowing that if he were genuinely gifted, they must be there somewhere. But these proved hard to find. His flighty approach to everything meant he pursued everything with equal enthusiasm but stuck to nothing.
The real turning point for Billy, however, was our traffic light system. He was such an impulsive, scatterbrained personality that the tight structure of the behavioral modification program seemed, for the first time, to give Billy the necessary framework for inner discipline. He thrived in the new, rather rigid setup. Even so, self-discipline was still a hard-won virtue. Although he participated enthusiastically and was very motivated to earn the treats and the stars, he had been the last of all the children to actually manage it. Even the twins learned how to keep their traffic lights on green before Billy did. But he made it in the end, and was he ever proud of himself!