Bill and I were numb with shock. Would this crazy roller coaster we were on ever stop so we could get off? This was insanity. We were just high school kids! We shouldn’t have to deal with things like this!
While my mom made phone calls, Bill and I cleared the table and washed the dishes. My mom had previously supervised us when we did that, but this time she was completely preoccupied with activating her version of the National Guard.
At some point she got off the phone and briefed my father on what she had arranged. He called her his little spitfire—I didn’t know what that meant, but she seemed to approve of what he said. We had finished cleaning up the kitchen by then. She talked to us next, outlining what she had set up. She really was quite an organizer. To go from zero to a hundred miles an hour in something like six seconds flat was an amazing feat. But she had done it.
The next morning we were up, showered, dressed warmly, fed, and in cars by 5:30 a.m. At 6:00 a.m. the protesters were assembling at the board president’s house—actually about a block away so that we could assemble the signs. When everything was ready, we proceeded to the woman’s house. In no time flat the peace and tranquility of the early morning hours were completely disrupted by a crowd of more than fifty people marching back and forth in front of her house, carrying signs and shouting, “Stop the hate!” and things like that.
It didn’t take long for the woman inside the house to come marching out, furious, demanding to know what was the problem. My mom informed her in no uncertain terms that she, the board president, was the problem because of her actions condoning hate and violence. She told the woman that she wasn’t going to stop until every single member of the community knew exactly what the president had done.
As they argued, people marched carrying signs that said:
“Stop the hate!”
“Hater!”
“Hate breeds violence.”
“Child abuser.”
“Bigot.”
“President hates students.”
“President encourages violence.”
“President condones violence.”
“President encourages attack on students.”
The signs looked really good. The printer had done a good job. They looked very professional, were bright, were clear, and looked far better than some half-assed handwritten things we had seen at other protests.
The TV stations hadn’t sent camera crews yet—they had agreed to place coverage on their schedules, especially when my mom informed them that they rarely, if ever, provided any coverage of news from our end of the county. She asked them why they never came our way when news was happening. I had no doubt that they would be there at some point today.
In case they didn’t make it, my dad had brought his video camera and was creating a record of the whole thing, probably not as well as a professional cameraman, but at least he was recording the event. My mom also directed me to take pictures with the camera on my smartphone. After she reviewed them, she had me e-mail them to every possible news coverage group in three counties. She had done her homework and was working to get the message out.
The crowd grew a little bit bigger as more and more people started to arrive. A lot of folks had to get to work. A lot of them worked out of town, so they had to get on the road for their commute, so an early morning picket was all they could do. My mother welcomed them all with words of gratitude. She got people organized in chanting together for more effect. Someone gave her a bullhorn, which she started to use, amping up the volume.
Other people from the neighborhood started to arrive to see what the commotion was all about. Word spread, and people from farther away started to arrive to check it out. By the time the TV crews arrived at about seven thirty we were at maximum crowd. I really wish I had counted the number of people, but at the time it just didn’t occur to me to do that. Maybe I could go back and look at the pictures and get a count that way, or at least a really good estimate.
My mom was interviewed by several camera crews. She gave a synopsis of the story in abbreviated fashion so that it might survive editing and make it on the news. She extolled Bill and his heroic efforts at stopping violence against innocent people. She told about the outcome of that heroic act and how appalled she was that this woman was in any way responsible for the well-being and welfare of children when she so clearly encouraged violence against children under her charge. She was laying it on thick.
Of course, the president had called the police and demanded that we be removed from her property. But my uncle, the judge, was present. He was well known to the local cops, so before they even attempted anything, not that they were excited about the thought of breaking up such a huge protest, they conferred with the judge, who told them that the protesters were doing everything by the book and were perfectly within the bounds of the law. That was good enough for them, so they simply stood off to the side and watched in case violence broke out.
We kept chanting, loudly now. Apparently we were getting to the woman. We didn’t have to wait long for something to happen. She was unaccustomed to having anyone challenge her or stand up to her. Over time she had just started to take it for granted that people would do what she said. When no one would listen to her and disband the protest, she came marching out of her front door carrying a shotgun. She started shouting at people to get off her property.
The crowd chanted “Hate! Hate! Hate!” One woman screamed when she saw the gun. The cops were still there. They immediately came running, drawing their guns as they ran. The woman shouted, “Shoot them!” She seemed especially baffled and befuddled when the cops pointed their weapons at her and ordered her to put the gun down. When she didn’t comply they shouted their order and threatened to shoot.
The TV cameras were recording everything. We couldn’t have arranged such incredible craziness if we tried. She had guaranteed that we would be the lead story on all of the TV station newscasts that evening. She had guaranteed that we would be on the front page of the newspaper.
The crowd had moved back as far as possible when they saw the crazy woman with the gun. They moved back more when they saw that she wasn’t even remotely considering obeying the orders of the police. Three of the cops advanced on her, shouting at her to put the gun down. Three others were standing still with their weapons drawn, aimed at her, prepared to shoot in case she fired upon their colleagues.
One of them reached the woman, tackled her, wrestled the gun away from her. In the process the gun went off, but the shot went wild, not hitting anyone or anything. Several people screamed and dropped to the ground when they heard the shot, fearing that they were being fired upon. I think I peed myself a little as I hit the dirt. It wasn’t every day I participated in a protest or was shot at by a crazy woman before the police wrestled her to the ground and put her in handcuffs.
When the woman was subdued, with her wrists handcuffed behind her back, the TV cameramen rushed in to get as close as they could, all hoping to get an award-winning shot or video that would earn them a prize or at least a commendation from their boss. I could only guess that they must have gotten some good video, because the board president was screaming at the top of her lungs that we would all be judged and thrown into the burning fires of Hell, that we were sinners, and that she was righteous and was doing the Lord’s work. You couldn’t pay for better stuff.
They led the woman away to a police car and drove her off under arrest. The judge called his office and told them what had happened and asked that a friend of his take charge of the arraignment and throw the book at the woman, charging her with everything conceivable.
Mission one accomplished, my mom used her bullhorn to direct the crowd to our next stop. She got everyone moving, and we went to the school. We were easily over a hundred people by that point. With our signs and our chants and our large numbers we went to the school and blocked the driveway and entrance so that no one could drive onto the school grounds, including the school buses that were arriving every minute or two
filled with students. My mom had decided that we needed to up the ante if we were going to get the school board to act immediately—this opportunity might never come together so perfectly again.
With the TV cameras still running, my mom got several people, including a couple of gray-haired grandmothers, to lie down in the driveway so that the buses couldn’t bluff their way past. There was no way any of the minimum-wage drivers were going to drive over someone like their grandmothers. There were so many of us and only a few cops in our end of the county, so my mom knew that there was no way possible that the police could arrest us all. There simply were no facilities to handle such a thing. Hell, there probably weren’t even enough handcuffs in the entire county for them to arrest all of these people.
One TV station had sent a reporter along with their camera crew. The reporter was a perky, energetic young blonde woman who was reporting up a storm. She was animatedly describing the situation, making it sound like the school board was equivalent to marauding Vikings who were intent on killing babies and torturing old ladies. The woman was so obviously desperate for her big break that she was embellishing a wee tiny bit. But we weren’t complaining! I felt that our story was strong enough to stand on its own legs and didn’t need any embellishing. Actually, I suppose she didn’t embellish so much as focus on a couple of points and milk them beyond belief. Oh well, her problem, not mine.
I didn’t know who was on the school board, but my mom did. She had had someone call each of them earlier that morning to alert them to what was happening and to get them to the school. By that time all but one of them had managed to make it through the chaos and gridlock created by the protest and the blockade of the school driveway.
Also by that time, several of the cameramen had phoned their stations and told them what was going on and to get a reporter out there ASAP if they wanted in on the story in some way other than just footage. A couple of reporters had arrived and were quickly fixing their hair and getting their stories composed in their minds before going on camera. Regardless of what they said, they wanted to be seen with themselves in the foreground and the protesters and the traffic chaos in the background.
They made their way through the ever increasing crowds and started to interview individuals and small groups of people. Students who had made it to school before the blockade had started came pouring out of the school to get close to the action and see firsthand what was going on. The more the merrier, I thought. The crowd was looking pretty darned impressive as the reporters worked their way through individual on-the-spot interviews.
One of them got wind of the fact that I was at the center of the story, so he asked if he could interview me. I didn’t want to, but thought it was the least I could do since everybody else had done so much for me and for Bill. So I agreed. The camera was rolling, or filming, or recording, or whatever it does now in the digital age, and the reporter started by asking my name. Okay. I knew my name. I could do this. “Mark.”
“Mark, can you tell us in your own words what happened to you?”
“Yes. I was in the men’s room doing… what you do in the men’s room. I was just finishing up and turning to leave when someone grabbed me from behind and shoved me face first into the wall. It was a hard cement block wall. As you can see I got cut and scraped pretty good. It hurt too.
“They twisted my right arm behind my back and pulled it until I thought I was gonna pass out from the pain. I was seriously worried that they were gonna break my arm off. Really. Oh, and did I say it hurt? Well, let me tell you—it hurt.
“The guy got right up behind me. His lips were like an inch from my ear, and he called me ‘faggot’ and told me they didn’t want my kind here.”
“Are you gay, Mark?”
“I don’t think someone’s sexual orientation matters. Some people are gay. Some people are straight. It’s just not that big a deal.” I decided to borrow some of Bill’s material from yesterday when the reporter asked his next question, revealing a bit of his bias.
“Many men don’t like the idea of changing clothes or showering with a gay man, Mark.”
“I’ve changed clothes and showered with these guys for years. I’ve seen everything they’ve got, or in some cases don’t have, and let me tell you, by and large it’s nothing to write home about. I don’t think any of them are going to be attacked in the shower by marauding bands of homosexuals out to terrorize young straight guys. I’ve never heard any reports of it in all my years at the school.
“If somebody wants to look at my naked ass, I say have at it! It’s a good one, don’t you think?” I asked, turning slightly and pulling up my jacket and tightening my pants to show it off to its fullest advantage.
“We can’t put that on the air, Mark.”
“I know. It’s still a nice ass. And I still think people get all warped out of shape over nothing. If you’ve got a nice bod, and somebody wants to look at it, take it as a compliment! You must be smoking hot if guys and girls want to look you over!”
“Back to the story you were telling us. What happened next?”
“After Mr. Bad Breath told me he didn’t want me there, he shoved me face first into the wall again, really hard this time. My head bounced against the wall, and I don’t really remember what happened next. I sort of remember being on the bathroom floor thinking that the janitor needed to clean in there. And then there was somebody talking to me. I don’t know who he was. I’d like to, so I can thank him. He picked me up and got me down the hall to the nurse’s office. Most of that was just a blur.
“The next thing I remember was having a whole bunch of people looking down at me. They all looked really worried, and I couldn’t figure out why. I didn’t hurt—yet—so it was a mystery to me. But slowly I came around more and started to hurt. And I saw that I was bleeding—badly—from something on my head or face. They were holding bandages against my head and pressing ice packs on some swollen areas on my face.
“They wanted me to go to the hospital, but I just wanted to get out of there. When somebody threatens your life and assaults you, it takes a lot out of a guy. An ambulance crew arrived and checked me out. The police were there in force, and a lot of people were milling around watching.
“And then my best friend Bill was arguing with the principal. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was furious about what had happened and wanted to talk to everybody in the school—students, teachers, staff, everybody—about the whole thing. The principal didn’t want to do it, but Bill pushed him hard. Bill can be really persuasive when he gets fired up.
“So the next morning we had a general assembly in the auditorium during third period. Nobody, including me, knew what was happening. Bill put the whole thing together overnight and by himself. He’s really smart and fast on his feet. Bill told everybody—”
“We’ve got video clips from the web so we’ll use those. Can you summarize what he said?”
“Bill told everybody that if they didn’t stop an assault or report it when they learned about it that they were guilty of the attack just as much as the person who shoved my head into the wall. Why don’t you talk with him?” I said, pointing him out as he stood nearby watching the interview, smiling up a storm.
The camera and the reporter turned to focus on Bill and asked him for some more details. He deferred to my mom, who also stood there. She didn’t need a second invitation. She dove in with both feet and told the reporter what a magnificent job Bill had done telling his peers about hate and violence. “He was really brave to get up in front of everybody and do this. He showed some pictures of people, and then he showed pictures of them after they’d be attacked, assaulted, beaten—including his own. He’s the bravest guy I’ve ever seen, and he was brilliant.
“And then last night we had just finished dinner when the president of the school board called our house and informed us that the principal had been placed on administrative leave for allowing Bill to speak to his classmates. She also told us that she was suspending Bill f
or at least a week, and that his readmission to school would be contingent upon a review by the entire school board.
“That was absolutely infuriating! By her actions she was sending the message that it was okay to hate, that it was okay to jump somebody, that it was okay to beat somebody up, that it was okay to terrorize people! I couldn’t believe what she was doing. I couldn’t stand for such ridiculous behavior.
“So I got on the phone and started calling people all over the township. I had them call people they knew. I got people to volunteer to do different things, like Marty over there, who printed these signs for us, and Joe who made all of the poles, and so many people who did so much. Our children are very important to us, and I cannot stand by and watch some ultra-conservative bigot create a hostile environment for our children! They only get one shot at being kids, and their education is the most important thing we can do for them to prepare them to go out into the world. I will not stand by and watch some bigot do something so stupid!
“We gathered on the street in front of her house this morning at 6:00 a.m. and started our peaceful protest. We marched. We chanted. We were absolutely careful to stay within the limits of the law. We never once moved near her house or even onto her property.
“She came out of her house and told us to go away. Well, there was no way that was gonna happen, let me tell you. She called the police. They came. They agreed that we were doing everything properly, so they stood by and watched in case anything happened. And let me tell you, something happened! That crazy nutcase woman came out of her house with a shotgun and threatened all of us!
“I was terrified that she was going to shoot somebody and kill them! These were her students’ parents and neighbors and she was yelling and waving her gun like a crazy person. The police ran in, and she refused to obey their orders to put the gun down. She just kept yelling and waving her shotgun. Scared the life out of us, I’ll tell you.
“Eventually those wonderful men who risk their lives every day for us tackled her and got the gun away from her, but not before a shot was fired. Fortunately the shot went wild, and no one was hurt. Thank God! They hauled her away in handcuffs, screaming at us the whole time.
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