Ahgottahandleonit

by Donovan Mixon

  His mother, while not particularly prone to violence, never abandoned it altogether as a mode of discipline. For her, the obedience and respect of her children was a matter of life and death. Once, at around thirteen years old, while standing with friends on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building where he lived, Jones had mumbled a curse word when his mother called to him from a window to come inside. Her response was as swift as her descent downstairs, which he never heard. “I am not your friend,” she’d yelled and smacked him on the back of his head in full view of his homies. With a fistful of his collar, she pulled his face nose to nose with hers and spoke in a harsh whisper. “I am your mother! I will not tolerate you disrespecting me, your daddy, your sister or yourself! Before I’d let you do that, I’d take you out myself!” she said and slapped him again this time in the face.

  Man—Jones chuckled to himself—my boys never let me forget that one!

  He thought of their way of raising them as a kind of social armor for the particular challenges of growing up black in America. In a word, this armor could be summed up as a kind of encouragement. Sometimes the encouragement would come as pure criticism of his actions laced with insistence that he was an inherently better person than what his behavior suggested at the time. Often it would be anecdotal, a description of a situation in which a young black teen would be able to think his way out of a tough spot instead of using violence, vulgarity or profanity. Many times they would describe how to combat subtle racial slights that could cause you to behave in a way that would ultimately derail your objective, be it a job, school admission or simply passing a test.

  And finally, particularly for the boys, there was the talk.

  Why are you so late from school, Theodore? Something happened?

  A cop car stopped a bunch of us just as we came out of the store.

  What? What were y’all doin’?

  Nothin’, Mom. I’m serious. We were just goin’ down the sidewalk, laughing and passin’ the ball between us an stuff. The cops said that there was some kind of robbery. They checked our bags—everybody but Bob, that is.

  What? Bob? Why not him?

  They made him stand against the wall too, Mom, but they didn’t check him. He was the only white dude in the group. The cop that searched us said they were looking for a black guy in a basketball jersey. The other cop stood on the side with his hand on his gun.

  Theodore! You didn’t give them any back talk did you?

  No, we just answered the questions and they left us alone. Mom, did you hear anything about some black dude and a robbery? We all figured they was lyin’ by the way they was laughing at us. The white dude Bob didn’t see what was the big deal. He didn’t seem worried or angry like the rest of us.

  Sweetheart, you’re getting big now. As you grow up you’ll be out and about more and more and I gotta tell you this. Child, listen—shh…don’t interrupt me! You’re my only son. I want you to grow up to become a fine man one day. But you’ll have to stay alive to do that. I’m a Christian and I’ve tried to raise you that way. We’re not supposed to make distinctions between people based on their race or color. But many of God’s children do. Now listen to me, boy. Unlike your friend Bob, you have to remember the plain hard truth that you were born black in America and while we are all children of God, some, not all mind you, of our divine white siblings would hurt or kill us for being black as easily as they could look at us. This includes the police. Maybe I should say especially them. They have the guns, the power and the state on their side. They have the power of life and death and are willing to use that power, at the slightest provocation, on black bodies especially.

  When they yell stop, please stop, son. I never saw nobody outrun a bullet.

  As Jones sat taking account of the boy in the oversized white T-shirt and jeans, he questioned his own motives, wondering why he cared so much. But deeply, he knew exactly the nature of his concern. He feared the boy was on his way to becoming another unarmed brother shot dead in the street. Could it be that Tim hadn’t received the talk? If he had, he wondered what Tim’s reaction had been. The kid didn’t exactly take criticism very well. Humph, he thought. Current times sure don’t resemble our time back in the day. Without cell phones, the cops were able to run rampant beating and killing us—do their dirt totally undetected. But still somehow we—well, some of us—maintained a sense of hope and we expected to be helped by the adults around us, even if it was going to hurt.

  At that thought, another door from the past opened, and he was back in the office of Mrs. Pettiford.

  Theodore Jones?

  Yes, that’s me. Mrs. Pettiford, right?

  Come in, young man. Yes, I’m Mrs. Pettiford, your new guidance counselor. Hmm…let’s see, um-hum. Theodore!

  Huh?

  Are you planning to go to college after high school?

  Uh, yes…

  I’m asking because I see no record of basic college prep courses in your transcript for this year. And you need a foreign language. Did you know that?

  Uh, Mr. Rizzo said that I could choose the courses that I wanted and…”

  Humph…Mr. Rizzo said what?

  He said I could take whatever I wanted, that I’d be alright…

  No, child! If you intend to go to college, we’re going to make some changes in your program right now. So, again, do you plan to go to college after high school?

  Yes, Mrs. Pettiford, I do.

  Ok, for starters we’re going to get rid of these vocational courses and put you in algebra and physics.

  Aw man!—really? Do I have to, Mrs. Pettiford? I mean…

  Jones smiled as he came out of his muse until he noticed that his students had been watching him. He didn’t care, the term was done. D-O-N-E! All of the musical instruments had been stowed away. Only the xylophone had to be pushed into the far corner. He would be able to leave right after the bell. Tim’s frisky mood was the only possible damper on the situation. But he could handle that.

  “Mr. Jones,” boomed the youth. Jones almost laughed out loud thinking that the boy’s artificially bassed voice sounded like a basset hound talking through a cardboard paper towel cylinder. That is, if a basset hound could, well—talk. He wanted to ignore him, but now he had to pay attention since the kid had begun to raise his voice.

  “Mr. Jones, I’m talking to you,” he said again a little louder.

  Jones pursed his lips with an air of nonchalance, released a long sigh and glanced at the clock before responding, “What is it, Tim?” he asked. His voice sounded tired.

  “I have to go to the baffroom,” he said, grimacing and glancing at the clock.

  “There’s a ‘th’ in that word,” Jones said with a faint smile. “You’ll have to wait ten minutes ’till the end of the period.”

  Tim pretended to whisper to a classmate, making sure to speak loud enough so that the entire class could hear. “Aw man, I have to take a piss and this guy just be sitting up there like he some king or something. Mr. Jones, I gotta go…”

  Jones wanted to tell him to cross his legs. “Just wait a few minutes, ok, Tim? I’ve a headache, so give me a break today—whoa, where are you going? Go back to your seat!”

  Instead of leaving the room, Tim swaggered straight up to the desk, swaying from side to side like a boxer, grinning, biting his lower lip. In spite of the theatrics, his classmates weren’t paying much attention. It was a movie they’d seen before.

  Jones raised his voice, “Tim, return to your seat and sit down. Now!”

  “Yo, Mr. Jones,” he said as he arrived at the desk.

  “Leave me alone, Tim. Can you wait the ten minutes and be quiet? People are reading.” With a knowing smile, Jones said, “Maybe you should try it yourself?”

  A wrinkle of emotion rolled across Tim’s brow at the mention of reading. “Yo, Mr. Jones, I know what you was like when you was in school.”

  Hearing that, Jones smiled weakly, thinking that he knew where this was going. They’d spoken a gre
at deal about his school days during their tutoring sessions. They had become friendly, and he’d allowed Tim to tease him to a certain extent. Jones fancied himself as one of the ‘cool’ faculty, refusing to wear a tie like all the other teachers, able to banter back and forth with the kids without losing their respect. But this was a delicate moment. He didn’t want to appear smug or too glib because he knew that Tim could feel disrespected and that would only serve to escalate things. Jones also knew that Tim didn’t like his jokes very much and had even accused him of hypocrisy. More than once, he’d pointed out when his teacher had scoffed at school regulations while insisting that for them, playing by the rules was the only way to make it.

  So, instead of cracking wise, Jones asked, “And how was I in school, Tim?”

  Tim, a bit surprised at his teacher’s poise, hesitated a moment, shifted his weight from one foot to the other before coming out with, “I know what you was like, Mr. Jones. You was a punk. I’m sure of it.”

  Jones took account of the young man standing before him. On his small chin were the beginnings of a goatee. The kid held his dark, nearly shaved head at an angle that clearly communicated ‘challenge’ in every way. He stood his ground and stared into the eyes of his teacher. The only signs of stress were a few beads of sweat on his brow and the shake of the ear stud in his left lobe.

  Jones sat with his elbows planted heavily on the desk. His hands were facing each other as if he were praying. Much later, thinking back on all of this, Jones would note and appreciate that the kid hadn’t used stronger language. Profanity would have come off as pointless, even stupid, and could have ended badly for him. Punk was a good choice and much more effective as a challenge to his teacher, five minutes before the end of the school year.

  Nervous giggles rippled across the room—students were paying close attention now. Still seated, soaked in sweat and embarrassment, Jones smiled back at the youth. He felt exhausted and wanted to tell the kid to ‘get out of his face’ or something like that. Instead, with a weary voice, he asked, “Is that all you have to say?”

  Tim hooked his thumbs in his pockets. “Yeah, that’s it. You probably was a PUNK in high school!”

  “Okay,” he said sitting up and shifting in his seat. “Now go and sit down, please.” Jones pointed towards the back of the room.

  With a satisfied grin, Tim practically skipped to his seat, giving fist bumps along the way to classmates.

  Jones’ later reflection led him to consider that perhaps this was one of his best improvisations. That is, in spite of the surprise of the moment, he was able to keep cool, respond gracefully, maintain the tempo, and stay true to the form. Additionally, and most importantly, he executed all of this while never forgetting the main theme: his role as a high school teacher who wanted to keep his gig. However, ominously, the phrase, “Dammit, that’s it! I will have to deal with this boy,” did come to mind.

  When the final bell sounded, Jones, as usual, stood at the door of the classroom with a tired smile. As he said his goodbyes, he was thinking of the previous night’s repertoire.

  “Have a good summer, Mr. Jones.”

  “See you in the fall, Grace.”

  “Take care, Mr. Jones.”

  “Autumn, you’re leaving already?”

  “Yes, you too, James, uh Tim—not-not you,” Jones said, blocking the doorway.

  Tim spun around on the ball of one foot and clapped his hands once and gave his teacher his best pained expression. “But Mr. Jones, I really have to leave!”

  More students left the classroom. “Don’t forget about me, Mr. Jones.”

  “Bye bye, my dear Ruby.”

  WTF?

  “Wh-what about me?” Tim stuttered out, with panic in his eyes.

  Suppressing a smile, Jones wanted to sound cool with his answer. “No, Tim, I must speak with you, that’s all,” he said, waving goodbye to passing students.

  The air in the room was heavy from the afternoon sun. Tim flicked sweat from his eyes as he pleaded. “Let me leave, you know I gotta go to the—”

  Jones let go of the door. It swung and banged shut with a freaky finality. When Tim jumped back from the noise, a strong trace of BO lingered in the air.

  Catching a whiff, Jones asked himself, What the hell am I doing? and took a swift step towards the boy. Extending his hand, he spoke with a soft tone. “Oh, come on, Tim, I jus-just wanted to—”

  Reflexively, Tim took a swipe at Jones’ open hand, “N-nah man…what are you doing? Get out of here. I’m going now—yo!” he yelled and backward vaulted over a desk like a dancer from West Side Story.

  When Jones accidentally knocked a trashcan into the wall, he paused and appeared to come to his senses for a moment, but by then Tim had backed himself into a corner. No more than seven seconds had passed, but both of them were breathing heavily in the heat. Jones, though, wasn’t tired. For once, he had Tim’s full attention—for what exactly, he didn’t know. He also didn’t know that the usual soft contours of his face had transformed into a mass of angular folds and lines that scared the shit out of his student. When Tim’s sneaker caught under a cymbal stand, the crash brought home to Jones that he had no idea what he was doing, that he’d lost control of the situation. The thought frustrated him, angered him so he let fly an eraser at the kid’s head. He missed. The boy dove like a drunken soccer goalie over the xylophone, knocked it to the floor and landed on top of it. Holding his side from the pain, Tim jumped to his feet and pleaded with Jones to calm down. Jones, without missing a beat, was already right next to him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Jones. Really,” Tim pleaded, his hands outstretched.

  What now? thought Jones.

  “So who’s the punk now, Tim?” he said, holding back tears. He could barely stand the sight of the boy, yet he was unable to look away. Then, once again, all was still and quiet, except for their breathing. Leaning forward, hands on both knees, he finally figured out what he wanted to say. “What’s the matter with you, Tim?”

  “What do you mean?” he sneered. “What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you?”

  Jones remained bent over. “Just what I asked, what’s the matter with you? Why do you hate yourself?”

  Hearing that, Tim’s mouth flew open with disbelief. “Man. What are you talking about?” He spoke slowly as if his teacher had ceased to understand him.

  “This is not the time for that, Tim. I’m serious, why do you hate yourself?”

  “I don’t. I to-told you!” he said wiping sweat from his brow.

  Jones stood upright now. “Are you sure? I mean. It doesn’t seem that you are trying to take care of yourself or your future.”

  Tim took notice of Jones’ height advantage. His teacher had a couple inches on him. He swallowed hard. “I…um…”

  “What’s up at home?” Jones said, cutting him off.

  “Nothin’s up at home, m-man!” Tim snapped back best he could. His stutter had begun to kick in.

  Once again, Jones blocked his way when he tried to move past him. “I had a voice at home. I was listened to Tim. What do you say? Are you?”

  “What? Lemme out of here! Of co-course I’m li-listened to. You crazy? What do you think, man?”

  Jones hesitated. “I think you believe that the world isn’t interested in you. I think that you’re about to give up. Well, I’ve got news for you, boy. Someone is listening. You exist. What you say matters and has consequences, son.”

  Tim pushed a small table between them and tried to slip past.

  His teacher yelled, “Whoa, where do you think you’re going? I’ll tell you when we’re done!” As Jones moved to block the boy’s passage, he knocked over a giant box of pens and markers. Their impact on the floor scattered them underfoot in all directions. Perhaps he was getting through to the kid, perhaps not. But as far as Jones was concerned, Tim wasn’t getting out of that corner, not yet. Adding to the boy’s misery was the flag that hung just overhead between them. Tim had to continually
push it away from his face to look at his teacher.

  It seemed as if Tim was going to cry at any moment. “I ain’t got ti-time for this bullsh…,” he said, but Jones cut him off with a stiff index finger.

  And for once, the boy asked the perfect question. “Mr. Jones, what’s up? Wha…what are you do-doing? Fuck!” he screamed, “Come on, old man, get out of my way, I’m go-going home!”

  Something about the ‘F-bomb’ set Jones off. “I’ll show you who’s the punk,” he growled and lunged at the boy. When Tim moved to slip under Jones’ outstretched hands, his foot rolled on top of three board markers. Like a major leaguer’s dash to steal home plate, he slid forward, feet first through Jones’ legs.

  Without thinking, Jones reached down and grabbed Tim’s left arm, clamping down upon it with his ankles as he tried to balance himself and turn around. Behind him, Tim’s feet flailed wildly turning over chairs as he struggled to get free. Working hard to hold on to the squirrely teenager—he delivered his sad message:

  “I’ll–show–you-who–the–punk–is–Chump!

  Do-you-think–that–you–

  can–really-just–come–to–school–

  and–do–or-say–anything?

  Respect–nothing?

  Not–to–day-you–won’t!”

  At one point, Jones could see that fear had disappeared from Tim’s face entirely. The boy had ceased to be worried. Even though he continued to try to escape his teacher’s grip, he hadn’t kicked or punched him. With every turn of their tussle, Tim would groan with an expression that was a cross between a grimace and a sad smile. He had surrendered to what was happening even as he asked, not demanded, for his teacher to stop. After a point, as if to give his teacher a clear signal, Tim collapsed to the floor. Exhausted and grateful for the pause, Jones released his grip and leaned against a cabinet. He started to speak again but stopped midsentence to watch the boy jump to his feet, leap out of the window like Superman, perform a perfect somersault and pull up into a full sprint across the grass. In a blink, he was gone.