In the Real World
Page 20
Grandpa Will calls me over after dinner. “The worst is over. Now just bite your tongue and focus on what is right for you.” He adds that I had better expect him back if I start skipping classes or breach the contract in any other way. “And make sure you don’t get kicked out again.”
Biting my pen is better for me than my tongue and I do quite a bit of that while composing an official-sounding letter, in which an attorney of a non-existent but very real-sounding name and address expresses that he has been made aware of the possibility of discrimination against certain personalities at Flatland High School and he asks for the cooperation of the principal in getting to the bottom of this or he will be forced to take legal action.
I have no idea what response I’ll get, but I feel better now that I’ve written it. I keep the logo and letterhead on my computer in case I need them again. I am, after all, doing what Grandpa Will suggested.
JEROME
After dinner Grandpa Will wants to stretch his legs and asks me to join him for a walk around the block. This usually means he wants to talk about something. He starts with his standard questions – will I be okay and how school was. He repeats what he told me earlier; he needs time alone with Dad before Rowan and I come and live on the farm. Not until the next term break at the earliest. My aunt and uncle provide a stable home. I should enjoy it. “And Mariette needs you.”
It makes me laugh out loud.
“Do you think that’s funny?”
“Mariette is fine on her own. She hardly notices me. If it wasn’t for Fred we wouldn’t hang out together.”
“Are you two fighting over what happened with Charl?”
“No, I said sorry for not believing her. We don’t fight. It’s just that we’re not really close.”
“Would you like to be?” he asks.
I’m not sure what he means, so I walk beside him in silence.
“Do you think you can keep her out of trouble at school?”
“No, but I guess she won’t risk getting in trouble with you again.”
“You mean after last night?”
I nod even though it’s dark out.
“Do you believe she suffered deeply or are you projecting how you would feel in her place?”
“Maybe.”
“What did you think when you were watching it, Jerome? Is that what you would have liked to do to her; did you imagine you had?”
“No, of course not.”
“So tell me where you stand on this issue. Are you with your aunt, considering that maybe I abused Mariette and could get in trouble, or are you with Gerard – you wouldn’t do it, but you’re quite happy I did?”
“It’s not my place to say that, Grandpa Will.”
“No, it isn’t, but you do think about it and I am asking.”
I wish he wasn’t and I wish we were back at the house. “I don’t know. I’m not her parents.”
“Discipline isn’t abuse, Jerome, but the line between them is a thin one. Not too long ago the message given to kids was that hitting them hurt the parent more than the child. Do you think that can be true?”
“Are you saying that what Dad did wasn’t abuse and it hurt him more than me in the end?”
Grandpa Will puts his hand around my shoulder. “Yes, to the last part only. Charl lost control. It wasn’t discipline. His action was abusive, but not deliberately so. It was a one-off and it didn’t provide him with satisfaction of any kind; quite the contrary.”
“So what’s the difference?”
“In my book, discipline happens in a positive personal relationship in which the objective is to correct behaviour. Abuse has no such goal and satisfies only one party. The relationship is either destructive or non-existent. I’m not trying to make excuses for what Charl did to you. That was wrong, but it was a mistake. He still loves you and I think that feeling is mutual?”
“Of course.” I know what Aunt Karen thought yesterday and what many other people think about these things, but I can understand the difference and so can Dad.
“Or don’t you believe physical punishment can make people feel better?”
“I don’t know, Grandpa Will.”
“Does the subject make you feel uncomfortable?”
I don’t answer that either, since it must be pretty obvious. I’m not sure if he’s still referring to Dad and me or if he means Mariette.
“You bet it made me feel good to spank her, but no more than it made her feel better. It goes both ways and as long as it does, it’s okay,” he says.
“Are you saying she wanted it? How? Why?”
“Because she didn’t want to go out alone into the dark night any more than Karen wanted her to. By using those hurtful words she was trying to make somebody stop her leaving and she needed somebody else to make the decision about going back to school for her or she would feel she had sold herself out. Now she can blame me for forcing her back and she still doesn’t need to take the responsibility of a job. You bet she asked for it. Or did you think it was okay for her to say the things she said?”
“No, of course not, and I was glad she didn’t run, but…”
“But?”
“I don’t know.”
He stops with his hand on the door, but doesn’t open it. “You do know. You know that you don’t want to tell me what you’re thinking and you don’t want to tell me for two reasons. One is that you’re not yet convinced about the abuse part, because that’s what everybody today is being made to believe, and the other is that it actually did cause a reaction in you, but it embarrasses you to admit it. You don’t have to respond to this.” He opens the door.
The rest of the evening Grandpa Will plays games with Miranda and I stay upstairs to write in my diary. He says goodbye in the morning. “Keep me informed.”
Mariette wears her jacket to hide the bleached shirt, but zipped-up just far enough so Grandpa Will can see the green parts sticking out at the top. Once at school she takes it off. Almost immediately we’re stopped by Mr Shriver. “What is this?”
“It happened in the wash,” Mariette answers without blinking.
Of course Mr Shriver doesn’t believe her, but all he says is for her to wear a different shirt tomorrow. Moments later at least eight others also walk in with washing disasters. Mariette follows Mr Shriver’s advice and on Wednesday she’s back in her worn, see-through shirt.
“Why? The other one was cool,” Kathleen says.
“Because I’m not wearing what everybody else wears and if you’re clever you’ll stop wearing yours before it turns into a riot.”
Mariette might be right. At least half our class and many others now have bleach patterns on their shirts. Some are very creative. One has checkers, another has speckles and there are names and pictures.
On the whole Mariette doesn’t seem to object to causing a riot. She openly refuses to participate in classes, answers every question directed at her with “I don’t know” without even looking up or waiting for the teacher to finish, and she staples newspaper cut-outs to homework assignments. When they comment, she argues that she’s attending classes, bringing in homework and answering questions. She can’t help it that they’re the wrong answers. Or was the teacher intending to punish her or kick her out of school for being dumb? Wouldn’t it make a public outcry if a teacher was accused of unwillingness to teach the less intelligent? The national newspapers would be glad for a story like that. Within their first two periods most teachers give up trying to get her involved.
“I’m not going to play the game of the future when we all know that the future will soon be violently disrupted from its current course. I’m sick of them brainwashing me and I despise their system and everybody in it,” she answers when Charlotte wants to know why.
“You’ll get in trouble again,” Fred says.
“Not if I’m doing nothing more than behaving the way students are expected to: stupid, uninterested, forgetful, incapable, unreliable, dishonest, thoughtless, disorganized and without any i
ntellectual interests. That’s the way they want it; that’s the way they’ll get it.”
Mariette’s only problem is that she can’t be not interested in some subjects. So during history on Wednesday when Mr Fokker talks about idealists believing in their cause and in some cases being willing to give their lives for it, Mariette compares them to terrorists seeking a short burst of glory rather than being ignored altogether. “If nobody listens to people because their democracy stinks, they find other ways to make themselves heard. Just like all those soldiers that go to war, most of them too young to vote, to drink or to get married, but they’re allowed to happily go shoot at women and children and you give them medals for that.”
“I see that the long vacation has certainly calmed you down,” Mr Fokker says with a grin. “Are there other people who feel strongly about this subject, strong enough to merit a discussion, or should I ignore this as a provocation? How about you, Jerome?”
I had not expected to be addressed directly. “I agree with Mariette that it is stupid that we have to grow up with terrorist threats and all that, but we’re not allowed to vote or drink. I think we should be allowed a voice, at least about our own lives. It’s wrong for kids to be sent to war but not vote, isn’t it?”
“I would consider that very wrong. So what do you think would be better: Allowing kids to vote, so they can go to war, or not allowing them to vote and not sending them to war?”
“Not sending them to war. My grandfather says it’s the way people keep remembering war heroes that makes kids want to go.”
“Maybe you should leave your grandfather out of it for a change,” Charlotte says.
“No, Jerome’s grandfather is right. If people are only told of the heroes and friendships of war it’s going to attract young people. They are going to war with the idea that they’ll come back heroes, but soldiers used to go to war with the expectation that they’d die there. Not too long ago that was the desired way to go – for the Romans, for example. Many young boys, some indeed not much older than you, signed on to fight in the Great War. As far as I know, in this country no person was conscripted who had not reached the age to vote, but it isn’t like that everywhere. Anyhow, they went because they believed they’d be on a great adventure and would have a chance to show off their bravery. That was the dream for most of them. Everything they encountered came as a shock to them. Many couldn’t cope and they did remember the horrors at first when they returned, disillusioned, often mutilated, wounded and shell-shocked. They remembered the fears, the lost friends, the dirt, the lice, the rats and the stink of decaying bodies. But when they came home they didn’t get asked how bad the smell was. At best they were asked how many bad guys they’d killed and after a few years of war people are no longer interested in the politics.
“The situation at home after a war is often one of economic decline as the war industry collapses. For a while the old life has to be built back up, but soon the soldiers find themselves without a job, without benefits for their injuries and in relative poverty in comparison to those who stayed home. After having told their horror stories once they don’t get much sympathy anymore and what is a medal on the wall if you’re being derided in the street?
“So they start longing for the good old days, the days of close friendships in the trenches, the day general so-and-so inspected the troops, the days they were still convinced they were helping their country and those at home would be proud of them. It’s those times that are recalled for the younger generation because those stories are more eagerly listened to; those stories are what are accepted by publishers because those are what people will buy and slowly the horrors can be truly forgotten.
“Having a parade, a get-together, once a year to remember that they were once important is all that’s left for them. Therefore the dilemma is this: Do we rob them of this last ritual to deter young boys from dreaming of war or do we let them continue and instil in the population the belief that wars can be won and a country protected? Remember that rituals are the quickest way for people to feel safe; rituals and belief. Do you want to take that away from people?”
Mr Fokker looks at me with that question.
“Yes, because that way you eventually keep people from having to forget those horrors, don’t you?”
“Now you’re jumping to conclusions,” he answers. “You say that remembering wars doesn’t stop a new one from happening. I agree with that, but does not remembering wars stop new ones from happening?”
I automatically look at Mariette, who jumps at the chance. “Not as long as schools keep teaching kids to turn against each other by creating houses, and not so long as we all have to sing for a flag that’s used to send the message that we’re better than people in other countries are; that we have democracy and freedom and equality and therefore we all have to shut up and be obedient because we had the right to vote, and the whole society believes that because the politicians say it on TV and teachers say it in schools and nobody manages to think for themselves.”
“Are you sure your mouth can keep up with your thoughts?” Mr Fokker asks.
“Yeah sure, laugh at me. Smile at the stupid kids who haven’t learned yet as if it’s all not a big deal, but it is! They brainwash all the kids into believing the myths about being obedient to guarantee freedom and a good future and then those kids become teachers and then it will never stop.”
“How long have you been going to school?” Mr Fokker asks.
“Too long.”
“I don’t believe the brainwashing techniques worked on you.”
“See, you keep making fun of me. I’m just a kid, not worthy of an opinion.”
Mr Fokker takes his writing pad from the drawer and slides it onto Mariette’s table. “Could you please write all this down? I prefer your opinion on paper and I’m very serious about that,” he says quietly.
Mariette doesn’t argue much and starts writing, which leaves her quiet for the rest of the lesson. Maybe I could suggest that at home.
Grandpa Will calls that night. “I have a bit of disappointing news for you, Jerome, something I think you should keep between yourself and Gerard for now.”
“What happened?”
“Charl made another attempt to end his life today. He was in the hospital and it didn’t work, but they won’t allow you to call this weekend, nor can he have visitors, not for a while at least.”
“Why?”
“That’s what they’ll try and find out. They’ll be extra careful from now on, but you had best not talk to your cousins or Rowan about it for now, okay?”
I tell him that I understand though my question was why wouldn’t they allow visitors; the rest I know. He repeats that I can talk to Uncle Gerard and to call him any time if needed. “So, have you thought about our conversation?” he asks.
“I’m convinced that what you said during that lecture about our family has hit her a lot harder than you did on Sunday.”
“I’m glad to hear that, but I was after your feelings for her.”
“She’s only my cousin, Grandpa Will, and I’m no more than that to her.”
“So could you get your cousin on the phone for me?”
I carry the handset upstairs and knock on Mariette’s door. She shouts “Yeah?” so I walk in rather than call back through it. I wouldn’t have paid attention to what she was doing if she hadn’t jumped in front of her computer screen to keep me from seeing it. What I see is a composite drawing of what looks like Mr Moralis’ face, painted as a wanted poster and underneath it are the words “child molester”. I forget to give her the phone until she pulls it out of my hand and kicks my leg. I leave, unsure of whether to confront her over this, but I decide not to. She won’t listen anyway.
I go back to my room and sit on my bed. Many ‘what if’s go through my mind. What if it had worked? Would I be able to live with that? What if I hadn’t mentioned him drinking again? What if I had stayed in my room that night? What if I told Grandpa Will the reason?
“I know.”
“How was school?”
“Fine; just boring like always.”
“You have a friend, though? Why don’t you invite him over this weekend? I’ll take you all somewhere; you and your friend, Mariette and Kathleen, Miranda and Ellen. We’ll have a big Sunday outing.”
I tell him that I appreciate his offer and that I’ll be okay. What I don’t tell him is that I’m not really that upset about it. In truth I’m a bit relieved. I like this life. Dad can do what he wants over there. I just wish Grandpa Will hadn’t told me.
On Thursday when the final bell goes after English, Mr Shriver asks me to wait. “I gather you may be disappointed about having to come back to school, but my offer for the literature group still stands if you’re interested.”
“I’m not sure. My poems are just simple, about things in my life; some even rhyme.”
“That’s what poets write about, Jerome. You can’t write what you don’t know and there are no rules about rhyming. Not too long ago, poems that didn’t rhyme weren’t considered true poetry. Just consider Oscar Wilde or Shakespeare, even. The people today, who put limits on what is acceptable as true poetry, aren’t just discarding the great poets of the past but they don’t understand the meaning of art. Every art form is a personal expression of what can’t otherwise be expressed. Poetry uses words for that – any words. Listen to your heart; that’s where the true artist finds inspiration. Believe me, there’s no judging quality in our group. Or you could share with me first and then decide.”
“I’ll try.”
MARIETTE
Friday is my biggest problem. I have no intention of dressing up in a monkey suit and performing seal tricks with a ball, so when I arrive I trip and fall and hurt my arm really badly. I can’t do anything but hold it and I squeal when the PE teacher tries to look at it. “I think it’s broken,” she says, so I get to go to sickbay with Kathleen, where I repeat my performance until they call Mum. She also buys it and suggests going straight to the hospital. That’s going a bit far, so when we’re in the car I slowly start moving it and say it’s getting better now. By the time we get to the decision junction she buys that we could go home first and see how it goes. Jerome comes home at three. “Thanks to you Fred and I had to do PE,” he says.