by Kurt Caswell
I came to realize the danger in this. When the girls asked me to repeat a word or a phrase, mostly I had no idea what I was saying. Of course, all the Navajo students, teachers, and staff did. Vanessa, Teresa, and Renee would ask me to say something. When I did, all the tables nearby went silent a moment to hear me. Then the three girls would laugh uncontrollably until they asked me to do it again. I didn’t know whether the way I stumbled over the language was funny or whether there was some darker purpose in the words the girls had offered. The possibility remained that the word was unclean or the way I mispronounced an innocent word warped it into evil. What a great joke on me. Was I saying something offensive in Navajo? How could I know? No one interrupted to save me or asked the girls to stop. Perhaps they didn’t wish to be impolite or make a scene. Perhaps what I said broke no boundaries in good taste. Still, I began to feel more and more uncomfortable in this shadow of language. To avoid it, I started asking Vanessa, Teresa, and Renee to talk to me in Navajo, and I would translate in English. This sounded like fun to them, since I knew only a dozen words or so in Navajo.
“But you don’t talk Navajo,” Teresa said. “You won’t know what we’re sayin’.”
“Oh yes, I do,” I said. “Try me.”
“All right,” said Teresa, and she spoke out an impossible string of words.
To which I responded with something random and silly, like, “Why don’t you go up to the top of the mesa and eat some rocks!” and they laughed and laughed and laughed.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I organized a car wash in Crownpoint to raise money for the seventh-grade class field trip. The gas station offered us free water and soap for as long as we wanted it. Redd agreed to take us into town on the bus one Friday after school. He dropped us off there and would pick us up when he finished his regular route. We set up our wash station, and Samuel Smith and Clemson Benally stood out on the street flagging down cars with the signs we had made at school.
Since that day at the Christmas Bazaar, Clemson had become more a member of the class than a member of Caleb’s clan. And Caleb, though he still didn’t seem to care much for me or for his studies, had mostly washed out as the classroom menace. I had to believe, though, that his muted presence was his choice, that he was still a menace, only somewhere else. My taking an interest in him and his low-rider bike gave me a credibility that raised our relationship from that of mortal enemies to some kind of neutrality. A cease-fire, perhaps. I wasn’t sure why Clemson responded in this way and Caleb in another. I expected them to go the same direction, but they didn’t. Regardless, I was happy to have Clemson’s help. He led the car wash that day.
“Car wash! Two dollars!” Clemson yelled out, running alongside cars on the road. “Car wash! Two dollars. Come over to the caaaar waaaash!”
“Car wash!” Samuel Smith sang out. “Caaaaaarrrr waaaaaash!”
We waited with our buckets and hoses, but no one came.
“Hey, you guys!” Jolanda yelled to them. “Get some cars over here!”
Clemson ran up alongside a big car and leaped out in front of it. The car stopped and we heard the tires skreeking on the asphalt.
“Not like that!” Jolanda yelled back.
“Yeah,” said Maria. “Not like that, you stupit boys!”
“Yeah,” said Jolanda again. “You stupit Romeo!”
The man in the car rolled down his window. He wore a mustache and a besweated cowboy hat, darkened along the brim where he put his hand. “Hey, get outta the way,” he said.
“Yeah, but we gotta car wash over there,” Clemson said, hopping back onto the curb. “And your car’s real dirty, too.”
“All right,” the man said, and he pulled into the gas station so we could wash his car. He gave us three dollars.
After that, the cars started rolling in, one after another. We were busy all afternoon. Jolanda collected the money in a paper sack. She handed it to me at the end of the day. “I counted almost a hun-dret dollars in there,” she said.
Everyone cheered.
We cleaned up the buckets and put away the hoses.
Bob King had given me a little money from petty cash to get the kids something in the store when we were finished. I gave each of them a few dollars. They filed in with the money and filed out with ice cream and sodas and candy and chips, and other things tucked away in their pockets. Most of it paid for, some of it not. We sat in a line on the curb in the sun and waited for Redd with the bus.
A few weeks later we used our class money for a field trip to Gallup. The kids couldn’t settle on what they wanted to do. They couldn’t think of anything.
“We don’t know,” said Jolanda. “Let’s just go over there to Wal-Mart and buy stuff.”
Well, that wouldn’t do. Inspired by Miles Wiseman’s karate lessons, I arranged to view a demonstration at his teacher’s dojo in Gallup. After that we would go roller skating, and finally out for pizza. We had done so well making money that we invited the sixth-grade class to go with us. As sixth-grade class adviser, Lauren had had a difficult time motivating the kids to help her with fund-raising events. She was happy that we offered to use our extra money to help her out. She told the seventh-grade class that they were very generous. They smiled and felt warm inside. That, more than anything else, was the greatest success of all our fund-raising efforts.
One spring morning, the eighth-grade class pushed the desks back so they could act out the parts as we read Romeo and Juliet, the scene where Romeo meets Juliet for the first time. We were ready to go when William Brown burst through the classroom door.
“See, Mr. Caz-will,” he said. “I got thhhem! I got my new teethhh.”
He smiled wide so the whole class could see the bright white teeth gleaming in his mouth. The wide gap I had come to know as distinctly William Brown’s was no longer gapping, the air through the force of his breath no longer whistling. He had not yet grown accustomed to so much stuff in his mouth, however, and his tongue stumbled and rammed into the back of the teeth. His words slurred and slid around in his mouth like loose marbles. Spit gathered in the corners of his lips and foamed up. But he was proud. He looked happy to have his teeth back, the teeth that had been so unjustly removed by Tom Thompson’s right jab.
“What do you thhhink of thhhem?” he said.
“Wow, William. That’s great,” I said.
And I meant it. It was great. The school nurse worked closely with Bob King and Louise to qualify William for some funding program that would pay for his teeth. They had been working on it all year. William had gone day after day in hope. Today, finally, hope had sprung. Going to school paid off for William. Of course, it was at school that William had lost his teeth in the first place. But no matter. The teeth were in his mouth now, and now he would protect them, not with his fists, not by learning to fight better, but by learning to make peace, by learning to use his voice to avoid fighting. And to prove it, he said so.
“I ain’ gonna fight no more, Mr. Caz-will.”
“That’s good,” I said. “That’s real good, William.”
“They are nice,” said Renee Benally.
“Yeah. That’s great, William,” said Teresa. “Looks so nice.”
“So handsome,” said Vanessa Angel, and she giggled.
“Yes, and they’re all mines!” William boasted.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s get to the play.”
“I’ll be Romeo!” shouted William, so happy to employ his good fortune.
“All right,” I said. “You’re Romeo, William. And who will take Juliet?”
No one moved a muscle. No one breathed.
“Give it to Leonard,” said Vanessa Angel, and she smiled and laughed. “He likes dresses.”
“No, I don’t,” Leonard said.
“How about you, Mr. Caswell?” said Teresa. And she thought that was hilarious.
No one volunteered. A long awkward silence spread out through the room.
“Renee,” I said. “Will you r
ead it?”
She rolled her eyes, but I knew I could count on her to do it. “Yeah, all right.”
We started in.
William said:If I profane with my unworthiest hand
Ttthhhis holy shrine, the gentle fine is ttthhhis:
My lips—
And he paused to look at everyone, like he’d spoken a dirty word, and then proceeded on:My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
To smoothhh that rough touch with a tender kiss.
“OOOOhhhh, yuck!” said Vanessa Angel. “A kiss!?”
“Now kiss her, William,” Teresa said.
“Yeah, kiss her,” said Mary Jane.
“No!” said Renee. “Or I’m not doin’ it.”
“No one is kissing anyone,” I said. “We’re just reading the play.”
“Okay,” Renee said, much relieved.
“Awww,” William said. “I want one, Mr. Caz-will. I want one real bad!”
“Kiss your dog, then,” said Teresa.
“Or your grandma!” said Mary Jane. And everyone laughed.
“Anyway, your teeth are somehow,” said Vanessa Angel, “and they look real nice too.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Renee, you’re next.”
And Renee said:Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much—
“That’s what he does, all right,” Vanessa Angel said. “He likes his hand, Mr. Caswell.”
Of course everyone laughed again. I laughed too. I couldn’t help myself.
“No, I don’t,” grinned William, his white teeth sparkling. “I don’ do it. For reals!”
“Yeah, you do,” said Vanessa.
“No way!” William said.
“Yes, you do,” said Vanessa.
“Nope,” said William. “I don’t like it.”
“Yes, you do,” said Vanessa.
William was silent. This didn’t seem to be working in his favor anymore.
“All right. All right,” I said. “Go on, Renee.”
“Ahhh,” William said. “So what!?”
“See,” said Vanessa. “He does it for reals.”
“All right,” I said. “Enough. Renee. Read.”
Renee continued:Which mannerly devotion shows in this:
For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.
“He’s gonna kiss her,” Teresa said.
I gave her a sharp look, and she put her finger to her mouth to tell me she already knew to be quiet.
William said:Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?
Renee said:Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray’r.
Renee put her hands together then as if in prayer, and Teresa, the born-again, put her hands together too.
William said:Ohhhhhh then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do—
“Aaaahhhh yuck,” said Teresa. “What hands do? What kinda story is this, anyway?”
“That’s not what it means,” I said. “Now, let’s just let them finish the scene. We have a new rule: no one can talk unless they’re reading from the play.”
“Aahh,” said Teresa. “Okay.”
“Hey! Teresa’s not reading from the play,” Mary Jane said. “She’s breaking the new rule already.”
“So are you,” Teresa said to Mary Jane.
“Now you are again,” said Mary Jane.
They grinned at each other.
“You both are,” I said.
“And now you are too, Mr. Caz-will,” said William.
“Ooookay,” I said. “William. Read.”
He said:They pray, grant thou, lest faithhh turn to despair.
Renee said:Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.
William said:Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.
Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purg’d.
And then William lunged at Renee, making a kissing sound and flashing his new teeth. Renee shrieked and shrank back. Everyone was laughing then, except Renee.
“Aaaahhhhh. No. No. No. No,” Renee said fast and loud. And when she was a safe distance away, she said, “If you do it William, I’ll punch out your teeth!”
He lunged at her again, laughing.
Renee doubled up her fists.
“William!” I said. “Be careful. She looks serious.”
“I know,” he said. “I ain’t gonna do it.”
“All right. Maybe we should have a little break,” I said.
“Yeah, hey, let’s go outside, Mr. Caz-will,” William said.
“No,” I said. “Let’s take our seats and I’ll give you all a couple questions to answer about Romeo and Juliet. You can turn in your written answers next class.”
Everyone groaned, but they went right to their desks and sat down.
The weeks went on this way. Soon, instead of begging or assigning parts to read in class, most everyone volunteered at one time or another, and we read the play to the end. When we finished and I had explained everything, told them the whole story of Romeo and Juliet as we read along, and all their questions were answered, I bought a copy of the Franco Zeffirelli film in Gallup. What luck. Imagine, Shakespeare for sale in Gallup! I warned the class that I would speed through a little scene where Romeo and Juliet were in bed together and they would see Juliet’s nipples and Romeo’s butt. But, I told them, everyone had one, or two, and besides, they had seen much more graphic films in the library, films I couldn’t fathom showing to seventh- and eighth-graders. They were babysitter films thrust in front of them when some teacher was gone, films with horrendous scenes of action and violence and scenes of death. And yet when they saw Romeo from the back getting out of bed naked, they gasped. I hit fast-forward and the flesh went speeding by, and the boys shrieked as they saw Juliet’s flash of breasts. When we moved on into the next scene, the room relaxed. As the end drew near, their faces looked grave as Romeo approached the dark tomb that was like a hungry mouth. They felt the event to come. We had talked about foreshadowing, and now they knew foreshadowing in their bones and blood, they felt it there, the tragic scene about to unfold. The little trailer classroom in the middle of that vast desert went blank with silence as Romeo wept over Juliet’s body and then tossed back the fatal poison and died. And then Juliet woke and wept and threw herself on Romeo’s dagger and cried out and died. And the soft music moved into the room, and the mood shifted and released, and the Prince said his thing about sorrow and woe as the bodies were carried out, and Teresa Smith turned to me with big watery eyes and she said, “You never told us this was a sad story.”
Well.
That was the end of Romeo and Juliet, for the most part, except for the papers I asked them to write. I don’t know what I was thinking. Somehow it made sense to me then that they try to write little critical papers about themes we had discussed in class. About foreshadowing, for example. I was sure they could handle that. Or about the chance mistakes that lead to the death of our two heroes: the letter that doesn’t get to Romeo, or the good Romeo gone bad when he murders Tybalt. Or about how Romeo’s relationship with God changes, about how Romeo comes to feel that God betrays him. I made up an outline for the paper, a guide for the students to follow, and made a list of possible topics. We discussed the job ahead of us. Everyone in class proclaimed that they understood and were ready to begin.
I put on some music in the classroom, a little Mozart mix, and gave the two classes an entire period to write. Some of the kids sat in front of the blank page for awhile, then got up and wandered around, looked over a friend’s shoulder at their paper, got bored, stared out the window for a bit, and then finally returned to their seats only to stare at the blank page again.
William Brown called out, “Ah, Mr. Caz-will. What is this stuff? This ugly music? I can’t think right.”
I turned it off.
I cruised the room helping a few students who would let me, trying to motivate them to get writing. I wasn’t so concerned or hopeful that they
would follow the outline to the letter. I expected them to finish about a page of writing about the play, type the paper in the computer lab, and we’d call it good.
Something about that last topic, the one about how Romeo’s relationship to God changes, struck a chord in Renee. Before she started in, she discussed her ideas with me. We talked about how Romeo goes to Friar Lawrence to marry Juliet. That means that he loves God, at least trusts God. And at the end of the play, when he hears news that Juliet is dead (but of course she isn’t), Romeo proclaims “then I defy you stars!” which she took to mean that he now hates God.
“Why do his feelings change?” I asked her.
“ ’Cause God took away his only lover,” Renee said.
“Right,” I said. “It doesn’t matter if Romeo is right or wrong. Maybe it’s not God’s fault, but Romeo believes that it is God’s fault. You know? You think you can write about that?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said. “I got it. I can do it.”
Renee sat down at the desk pushed up against the wall under the window and wrote feverishly through the entire period. She sat hunched over her paper. When I came by, she covered it over with her arms and body and looked back at me. “Not yet, Mr. Caswell,” she said. “Don’t look yet.”
A few minutes before class ended, Renee showed me what she had written. It was every eighth-grade teacher’s dream. The paper had an identifiable thesis, a body consisting of three paragraphs of about equal length, and a conclusion summing up the entire paper, just as I had outlined in my handout. Despite everyone in class beginning with that same handout and agreeing that they understood it, most of the other papers I looked at that day in class went every which way. I knew that I had asked for too much. What had I been thinking? I am still failing as a teacher, I thought, at least failing to properly gauge my student’s competency level and shoot for something just above it, rather than shooting for the moon. When Renee showed me her paper, it delighted me.