Karishma reached toward the screen as if to touch the image of my defaced garage and then drew her hand away. “The more the topic hits home, the harder it —”
“Home,” I whispered.
OPINION: WELCOME HOME TO EAST HANNESBURG HIGH
by Louise M. Wolfe, Hive staff
7:32 a.m. CT, Tuesday, November 24
It’s not hard to read between these two lines.
“There is no place like home.”
Go back to where you came from.
Senior Chelsea Weber is Black. Junior A.J. Rodríguez is Latino, Mexican American. Freshman Hughie Wolfe is Native, a citizen of the Muscogee Nation. They also are the first-ever nonwhite students to win starring roles on the EHHS stage. Though Wolfe didn’t perform, they were all originally cast in last weekend’s production of The Wizard of Oz.
In response, hateful, anonymous notes were slipped into their school lockers and residential mailboxes. Being Hughie’s sister, I received one in my locker, too.
A final message was painted in red on the Wolfe family’s garage at approximately three a.m. on the day of the first performance. The perpetrator also shattered a large window.
Was it the symbolism? Intentional or not, casting those three students as a Kansas girl and farmhands in a story centered on the concept of home sent a strong message. Even given the fantastical personas the boys would take on when the action moved to Oz itself.
Somebody decided to target them and their families because of it.
Why? Because of the assumption that only white people are owed the spotlight?
Because of the belief — as the messages suggest — that those particular student actors somehow can’t already be at home in Kansas?
This kind of harassment is sweeping the United States. Descendants of immigrants are lashing out against newcomers and people of color and citizens of Indigenous nations.
It’s happening right here at EHHS.
Maybe you’re thinking that’s terrible but it has nothing to do with you. You’d never send hate mail or vandalize someone’s house. You’d never threaten anyone.
But behavior like that doesn’t come out of nowhere. It’s fueled every time we ignore or excuse or explain away bigoted words and actions. Those that are obvious and blatant, those that are small and subtle, yet ever-more destructive in their cumulative effect.
It’s fueled every time we minimize each other’s perspective or lived experience. Every time we presume to judge — to approve or dismiss — pain or a perspective outside our own.
Yes, we all make mistakes. Recently, I made a couple of huge mistakes and hurt people who are precious to me. I am sorry. I’m working to make amends and do better.
We can all do better.
Let’s take responsibility.
Let’s welcome each other home.
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
2:15 p.m. CT, Tuesday, November 24
It’s a pain in the ass that the Wolfe family has to repaint their garage, but I don’t see what the big deal is otherwise. So not everyone loves you. Get over it.
— Neal Miller, junior
______________
On behalf of the Honeybees defensive line, if anyone tries to mess with my ex-girlfriend, her little brother, or his friends again, you will have to answer to us.
— Cam Ryan, senior
______________
First, I want to personally express my solidarity with the Theater students and their families and my condemnation of the attacks on their peace of mind and the Wolfes’ property.
Please know that many teachers are regarding this as a wake-up call to better educate our students throughout the curriculum.
— Jonah McCloud, teacher
______________
Until now, only my closest friends here knew it, but I am a citizen of the Prairie Band Potawatomi. I am proud that Hughie Wolfe is representing Native people in Theater. I hope to see him onstage this spring and in years to come.
— Buffy Mitchell, sophomore
______________
Shelby had decided that starting at a four-year university wasn’t her only option. On Wednesday, school was out and the Grub Pub had already shut down for the Thanksgiving holiday weekend. We took advantage of the opportunity to road-trip to Johnson County Community College in Overland Park. It’s a sprawling campus of redbrick buildings, lots of green grass, and lots of parking lots. Moneyed. Close enough to East Hannesburg that Shelby could potentially live at home, keep her waitressing job, and commute to school two or three days a week.
Classes weren’t in session. The offices were closed. But it’s one thing to check out a place on the web, another to walk around. We started at the Carlsen Center and went from there.
“It’s still expensive, but I might be able to swing it,” my best friend said afterward, driving home in the light rain on Kansas Highway 10.
She’d cleared out the trash from the floorboards of her dad’s station wagon and hung a vanilla-scented, leaf-shaped air freshener from the rearview mirror. To either side of the road, cornfields and hay bales peeked between autumn trees. A prominent sign advertised land for sale.
“I have to admit, I’m jealous that you automatically get college for free.” Shelby hit her turn signal and moved into the fast lane. “You know, on account of your being Indian.”
I turned down the vein-removal ad on the radio. “I don’t automatically get college for free,” I said. “I’m applying for a tribal funds grant along with other grants and scholarships for Native applicants and for veterans’ kids and for people in my range of kick-booty test scores who’ve taken AP classes practically since preschool and haven’t gotten a B since — watch out!”
Shelby swerved, blasting her car horn at the hatchback that had drifted into our lane.
“That wasn’t my fault!” she exclaimed. “That was its fault!”
“Her fault,” I specified, having a better view of the driver from the passenger side. I elected not to mention that she was probably cussing us out and definitely giving us the finger.
“Not your fault,” I agreed. “You’re doing terrific. Breathe and drive. Drive and breathe.”
Traffic had thickened considerably. The roads threatened to ice over.
“Driving,” Shelby said. “Breathing.” She checked her rearview mirror and slowed to put more distance between us and the hatchback. After it exited, she asked, “You got a B?”
“Seventh-grade Gym,” I admitted.
Shelby switched to a radio station already playing Christmas music. “Gym?”
“I served a volleyball directly into Mrs. Garcia’s head.”
Shelby was trying not to laugh. “She teaches Phys Ed. She should’ve blocked it.”
Mrs. Garcia had been making a note on her clipboard at the time, but I appreciated my best friend taking my side. “Valid point,” I told Shelby. “She should’ve blocked it.”
Family dinner was delivery barbecue at my cousins’ house to welcome home their dad, who was on leave from Andersen Air Force Base in Guam.
Then we all went to the Wednesday night service at First Baptist in old town. It’s not like church in Oklahoma, with our grands, our greats, our aunties and uncles, our countless more cousins. But Mama brings a Mvskoke Bible, and we make do.
The gratitude service had drawn a full house, so Rain and I ended up sitting on the thinly padded wooden pew behind the rest of the family. “Louise,” she whispered, “at Bierfest, when you didn’t come back right away from walking Joey to his Jeep, I went looking for you.”
I had a wispy memory of a text from her, asking if I was okay. “I shut off my phone.”
“I figured. I spotted you two, realized you were fine,” Rain said. “Better than fine.”
I hadn’t told her about the breakup yet. I was trying (and failing) not to think about it.
She added, “I took one shot, for your eyes only. And Joey’s, I guess, if you want to forward it to him. I’d forgotten all about it
until today when I was showing pics to my dad.”
The pastor welcomed the congregation, and we shushed. Rain slipped her phone onto her lap, shielding it with one hand. Making sure mine was on mute, I did the same.
Mama’s rule is “No phone during church.”
Daddy’s rule is “No phone during church unless it’s silent and no adult sees you.”
I studied Rain’s sun-drenched image of Joey and me kissing. I could almost taste the spice on his full lips and hear the oompah music playing in the distance.
One last time, I decided. One last show of faith. I’d try again to finish what I’d started to say on my front porch. If Joey wouldn’t listen, there was nothing more I could do.
I owed him an apology. He didn’t owe me anything.
The pastor directed us to Psalm 107:
O give thanks unto the Lord; for He is good;
for His mercy endureth for ever.
That night, after putting on my flannel pj’s and climbing into bed, I received a text from Daniel, asking if I would be willing to cover the Turkey Trot the next day.
Seizing the opportunity, I wrote back: Only IF J videos it.
Before our breakup, Joey had mentioned that his sister had decided to stay at K-State to study (or maintain her denial about their parents’ divorce) and that he would be at his mom’s for Thanksgiving. Since there was no point in roasting a whole turkey for only two people, they’d planned to have dinner at Applebee’s. He’d be in East Hannesburg tomorrow for sure.
An excruciating hour and a half later, my phone rang. “Joey will meet you tomorrow morning at the race,” the managing editor told me. “But he’s not happy about it.”
After I thanked him, Daniel said, “By the way, I met with Pastor Ney in his office and told him everything. He’s not his wife. Not that he was oblivious to PART or, for that matter, her personality. But I don’t think he fully realized —”
“Daniel!” I pushed away my comforter. “By ‘everything,’ you mean . . . ?”
“Everything I know about the ‘go back to where you came from’ notes, the broken window, and painted message on your garage, how Coach said I had to choose between Wrestling and the Hive. Everything except that you know who’s behind it all, too.”
My mixed feelings aside, I knew Daniel appreciated that I’d kept his secret.
He added, “I told Pastor Ney that Pete could’ve been arrested, probably would’ve been arrested if I hadn’t shown up, and that Pete gets bat-shit out-of-control when he drinks. Then I told the pastor about the can of gasoline.”
“About the hate mail,” I began, “do you know —?”
“I’m still not clear on whether that was all Pete or if his mom put him up to it. Believe me, he resents the hell out of her, too. Pete’s miserable and he’s looking for a place to put it.”
I could hear in Daniel’s voice that he felt sorry for Peter.
“What did the pastor say?” I asked. “Did he believe you?”
After all, we were talking about the man’s wife and kid.
“He did after I used my phone to play my conversation with Pete from that night in the car.” Smart. Daniel had recorded them talking, like we did with interviews for the Hive.
He added, “Besides, when I’d dropped Pete off, I got the feeling that wasn’t the first time he had come home wasted or had blown his curfew on a school night.
“Then Pastor Ney thanked me. He said I’ve been a good friend to his son and that the Immanuel Baptist family needs more fine young Christian men like me.”
Couldn’t argue with that, but . . . “Are you going back to church there?” I asked.
“No way in hell,” Daniel said.
When Mama and I stepped outside on that sunny Thanksgiving morning, Daddy and Hughie were clearing fallen leaves from the Shire and installing miniature ceramic turkey figurines beside each round door. Because hobbits love to eat and so do we.
Running lines together was their new father-son bonding activity. Turned out Daddy had helped Hughie prep for his post-musical statement for the Hive, too.
But there was still plenty of Tolkien love between them.
Carrying cvtv hakv and Watergate salad, Mama patted Daddy’s shoulder. “We’d best get going.” Then Hughie ran back inside to fetch the yapping puppies in their carriers.
The plan was for my family to drop me off at the city-mall complex for the Turkey Trot. They would continue to my cousins’ house to help prepare the meal. After finishing my Journalism assignment, I’d call for a ride and join them all for dinner.
My grandparents and great-auntie had planned to drive up, but massive thunderstorms were rolling across Oklahoma. We’d had rain showers here in Kansas off and on for days. So Daddy had delayed painting over Peter’s graffiti because of all the moisture in the air.
On the upside, word of what had happened had spread quickly on the cul-de-sac. My family had taken comfort in an outpouring of support from our neighbors, many of whom had sent thinking-of-you cards or personally delivered casseroles.
We even received a potted white peace lily from the homeowners’ association.
The Turkey Trot is a 5K run, a soup-kitchen fund-raiser, and an opportunity to burn off calories in anticipation of the Thanksgiving feast. It felt like the whole town had turned out.
I was heartened to spot Emily and Rebecca, daring to hold hands in public. A bold move for Emily, but huge for Rebecca. Today she wasn’t hiding behind her hair.
Waving, I scanned the people around them. Nobody else seemed to take notice, at least not in a bad way, and I silently prayed that would hold throughout the event.
Cam’s mother jogged up to me. “Happy Thanksgiving, Louise!”
She had on a race T-shirt and an orange headband. “How are you, dear?”
Before I could reply, she added, “Do you happen to know Cam’s new friend Hannah? Do you think she’s a nice girl?”
I thought it would do wonders for Cam if his mother stopped treating him like a pampered prince. “I don’t know Hannah well, but I like what I do know. She’s a strong enough cheerleader to have been competitive in Texas.”
So far as Mrs. Ryan was concerned, it was the highest praise I could give.
She’d be quoting me on that.
Nearby, Cam was pinning was on his race number, and his dad was pointing out a middle-aged man in a turkey costume. Talk about holiday spirit.
“Oh, forgive me, Louise!” Mrs. Ryan exclaimed. “I didn’t think. You poor thing. Surely, it can’t be easy for you, seeing Cam with another girl.”
I did my best to maintain a polite smile. “I persevere. Is Cam’s brother running today?”
“He’s with his fiancée’s family,” she said. “But the Turkey Trot is becoming a Ryan holiday tradition. I fully expect the newlyweds and my darling grandbaby to join us next year.”
I noticed how positive she sounded about that. “Your darling grandbaby?”
In textbook grandmotherly style, she immediately fished her phone out of her fanny pack and began scrolling through endless photos of baby Nolan who — as it turned out — was her grandson. Her biological Kickapoo grandson.
Mrs. Ryan was bursting with pride. She even bragged about how her future daughter-in-law, Laurel, had completed her education degree at KU and was in her first year of teaching elementary school in Baldwin City.
Yeah, I wished Mrs. Ryan had been equally welcoming last spring back when she viewed Laurel exclusively as a single Native mom and barista. Before she’d found out the baby was Andrew’s. But in my own family, the love of little ones has worked miracles.
I smiled at the adorable photos. “Grandmothers are one of life’s greatest blessings,” I said, hoping to nudge her in all the right directions. “Congratulations.”
She gave me one of her stiff-arm half hugs. “Happy Thanksgiving, dear.”
I half hugged her back and answered, “Bless your heart.”
As Mrs. Ryan disappeared into the crowd, Joey
found me. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Did you read my editorial?” I asked.
He’d skipped Journalism on Monday and hadn’t shown up Tuesday at school at all.
“No, Louise.” His voice was clipped. “It wasn’t on the top of my to-do list.”
The national anthem played. The announcer began the countdown.
“Start talking,” Joey said, making a half-assed effort to position his camera.
“This way!” I wove through waiting runners, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm.
I did feel guilty about tricking him into hearing me out. And I’d still have to turn in the story about the race for the Hive. But I was desperate. If we’d knocked out our assignment first, Joey would’ve bailed immediately afterward. False pretenses was the only way to go.
“Where’re you going?” he called, plainly losing patience.
I gestured for him to follow. “We should get creative with the shot. I want you to record me reporting from the middle of the race itself. It’ll give viewers the feeling of being here.”
When the starting pistol fired, I ran ahead for a minute.
Then I turned, planting myself in the center of the route.
Here they came: Runners, joggers, family teams. Over a dozen dogs on leashes.
Countless strollers. A red toy wagon. One potbellied pig.
Joey and I faced each other. He knelt as low as he could. “I’ll keep the lens zoomed wide,” he said. “That’ll get as many racers and their shoes into the frame as possible.”
He was there under protest, but he’d resigned himself to doing his usual best.
The over-sixty ladies social club that frequented the pub was power-walking in matching rainbow tutus. They briefly split into two groups to navigate around us.
That’s when I spotted them, picking up the pace — the Thanksgiving enthusiasts who’d decided to have some real fun with the theme.
“Ready, Joey?”
He double-checked the sound. “I’ve been ready for a while, Lou.”
“This is the twenty-first century,” I said. “I’m a Muscogee girl — a Native girl — living here in suburban northeast Kansas. I should be able to skip along, singing a song, trying to survive high school without fakey-feather-headed redfacers swooping down like flying monkeys on national holidays and at ball games. But they do — they swoop — and sometimes it’s hard for me to talk about all that.”
Hearts Unbroken Page 17