Before/After
On Thursday afternoon, Mr. Esposito told Anita and me that we had to go down to the cafeteria.
“Why us?” said Anita.
“Both of you are going to the Sharing Circle this afternoon, aren’t you? It’s in the cafeteria. Put your books in your lockers.”
When we made it out into the hallway, Anita banged her locker open and slammed it shut. I could hear her muttering to herself.
“Why he gotta tell the world my business like that.”
I spoke beneath my breath. “Everyone would’ve seen us leave anyway.”
Anita turned to me. “Who asked you?”
I closed my locker and walked down the hall without saying anything back. Anita was always too quick to start an argument, and I didn’t want to have one right where Mr. Esposito could hear us. But the anticipation of a fight didn’t scare me like it usually did. It had been two weeks since I’d spoken to her or any of our other friends, two weeks since they abandoned me at New Orleans Donuts. And every day for those two weeks, something inside of me had been ready for a confrontation.
She did have a point about the Sharing Circle, though. If Anita, Rochelle, Jordan, and I had all gone together, like I’d planned, we would’ve been protected by our numbers. The other kids would know that it was a con, a Get Out of Jail Free card. But with just two of us going, it looked like we had issues we were desperate to share. Issues that could be used against us, that could be used as ammunition.
We’d first heard about the Sharing Circle the morning before the snow day — though Mme. Rizzoli had nearly forgotten to tell us. When the morning announcements were finished, we’d sat at our desks and opened our orthographe Duo-Tangs without a word. In the silence, we heard Mr. Esposito tell the grade sevens about it in the adjoined room, stressing its significance, and Madame groaned at his muffled voice. She pulled a sheet of purple paper from her giant binder and held it up for us to see. The WordArt that spelled TALKING IS SHARING, SHARING IS HEALING made me fold my arms across my chest. It reminded me of the pamphlets I always saw people handing out at St. George subway station or outside the Eaton Centre, the pamphlets my mother said cults used to lure the weak-minded. After holding the paper up for a few seconds, Madame flipped it back around. She recited the most basic details in English and then started adding things in French, speaking swiftly as if she couldn’t wait to spit the words out of her mouth.
“Aucun de vous n’êtes obliger d’assister cela, mais c’est encourageé. C’est un espace sûr pour chacun d’entre vous de parler.”
This had been when Rochelle and I still sat next to each other in the fourth row, and she’d nudged me with her elbow. “She’s talking way too fast. What’s she saying?”
Anita and Aishani sat behind us and they inched forward to hear my translation. I tried to keep my voice as low as possible; I’d already gotten detention for speaking out of turn, and Madame had threatened to call home if it happened again.
“We don’t have to go if we don’t want to,” I whispered, “but they think it’s a good idea.”
“How is talking to a room full of strangers about my problems a good idea? So fool-fool.”
“Anita, you need an entire room of people to work out all the issues you got.”
“That’s cute, Shani, what’s the capital of Trinidad again?”
Rochelle snorted in laughter and I nudged her. “Shut up,” I muttered.
“Kara!” Mme. Rizzoli’s voice made me look up to the chalkboard at the front of the room. “Detention,” she said.
“But Madame, I —”
I’d spoken in English, which automatically stripped me of morning recess on top of my after-school detention. I kept quiet to avoid more strikes even though I could hear Anita and Aishani sniggering behind me, even though they both kept poking me hard in the back, increasing my frustration with every jab, willing me, tempting me to turn around and snap at them so I could get into even more trouble.
At three thirty that day, five other students had dragged their feet to Madame’s room to serve their punishment. A seventh-grader, Manuela Lao, and her friend Cristina sat next to each other and whispered about the Sharing Circle, about how going to the session would mean getting out of class all Thursday afternoon. It was how I got the idea: if I told the others about the chance to miss class, it would earn me, at bare minimum, a week of amnesty — for a while, at least, I’d be off-limits when they threw shots at each other. And not because they thought I was too soft to handle the teasing, either, but because I’d earned it. That amnesty probably would’ve saved me from being snaked at New Orleans Donuts two weeks ago.
When Madame dismissed us at half past four, I told her I wanted to put my name down on the sign-up sheet for the circle. Her beady blue eyes surveyed me.
“It’s not like you pay attention in class anyway. I’ll let Mr. Esposito know that you’re signing up.”
* * *
By the time Anita and I reached the cafeteria, there were about ten other students milling around the entrance. The long rectangular tables that normally crowded the room were folded and pressed against the far wall and there was a bohemian rug in the middle of the floor with fourteen tasselled cushions surrounding it. Two people were already sitting, cross-legged: one was a blond man in cargo pants and a wool cardigan over a purple dashiki; the other was a skinny brown-haired woman in a smiley-face sweater.
Mr. Silva, the gym teacher, was sitting on a stacking chair in the far corner, reading a newspaper. I groaned softly. I hated him. Hated the way he was always dressed in all blue, from his Maple Leafs cap to his windbreaker pants. Hated how his breath always smelled of coffee. But mostly I hated the way he hated us — not all of us, just some of us. He was the kind of teacher who made me wonder why he became a teacher at all, since most kids only seemed to anger him.
“Please join us!” said the woman. “Come in; don’t be shy.”
The other students walked farther into the cafeteria and started to sit down. Anita and I found cushions on opposite sides of the circle.
“Hi, guys! My name is Liz and this is my co-partner Jason. I’m going to be totally upfront with you: this is my first day on the job. Jason’s been around the block a few more times than I have, so I’m sorry if I seem a little nervous.”
She smiled around at us, and I wasn’t sure if she wanted to comfort us or be comforted by us, but we all simply stared back at her.
“Right,” she said. “So before we really get into it, we’ll do something super-easy, like telling everyone in the circle our names.”
“We all already know each other,” said Anita. “And you just told us who you were.” Her tone was blunt and unforgiving. I had to appreciate it even though it killed me to.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s just to break the ice,” she said. “Hi, my name is Liz.” She turned to Jason, who told us his name for a second time.
Everyone went around introducing themselves like how they do in the AA meetings held in the basement of my grandmother’s church. I’d witnessed the beginning of one of those meetings two years ago when I was eleven, when I helped Nana deliver some of her fried dumplings for Tuesday Evening Bible Study and mistook the meeting for the class. Nana had found me and ushered me back up the stairs.
“The people them sick,” she’d told me.
“They don’t look sick,” I said. “Maybe a little tired.”
“Sick in the spirit,” she clarified. “They must gather together and talk fi rid themselves of what troubles them, of what turn them over to vice.”
“Should we do that then?” I’d asked her.
She looked at me. “We strong. There’s no need fi talk.”
When the last person said their name (Jamal), Liz’s face flushed red with accomplishment. “That was great!” she said.
We said nothing back.
She glanced at J
ason, who nodded at her, encouraging her to keep speaking. “So, how many of you are here because you signed up?” she asked.
I looked around the circle. About five kids had their hands half-raised. Liz nodded. “And how many of you are here because a teacher thought this would be a helpful way for you to communicate?”
The rest of the students raised their hands, including Anita. I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking and saw her narrowing her eyes at me from across the circle.
“And what about you?”
It was Jason who’d spoken this time. He turned to me and all of the other students looked in my direction, their blank eyes pressuring me for a response.
“What? — I mean, excuse me?”
“You didn’t raise your hand either time,” he said.
“I wasn’t told to come here by a teacher . . .”
“So you signed up?”
Anita raised her eyebrows and whispered loudly. “Some people have no shame and like to talk-talk their business.”
My stomach dropped and I made sure what I said next came out clearly.
“I did sign up but not because I wanted to be here. I just didn’t want to be in math class.”
Liz squirmed on her cushion but Jason nodded. “I like your honesty.” He addressed the entire circle. “And guys, we don’t take it personally if you think this circle is complete B.S., you know, because most kids do. I would too if I were your age. But who knows, what you share here could end up surprising you.”
I didn’t look at him as he spoke but fixed my eyes on the dashiki he wore. I wondered if there was a tag sewn into the back and hoped that it itched his skin if there was. It was only after my palms started to hurt that I took my eyes off the deep purple — Barney purple — of his tunic and realized that my hands were clenched, my nails digging into my skin. Jason glanced at my hands and then looked at me with something like understanding or sympathy, but that only made my palms curl into fists again.
He continued to speak to everyone in the cafeteria. “I don’t want anyone here to be uncomfortable,” he said. “This is what we call a safe space, which means that we’re all free to talk here because nothing we say will leave this circle, all right?”
Liz looked around to make sure we all at least nodded or sing-songed half-hearted yeses. When she was satisfied she smiled again and I rolled my eyes. Nothing about her or Jason made me want to stay here, but the liberation from class kept me cross-legged on the floor.
“I think we’re ready to really get started. It’s okay to still be a little shy, but I think we can delve right in.”
Liz reached beside her into a tote bag with a green tree on the front, the words ECO-FRIENDLY stamped beneath the trunk. She pulled out a short wooden stick decorated with different-coloured feathers and dangling beads and then held it out for all of us to see.
“This is called a Talking Stick,” she said. “Many Indigenous tribes use it in councils. They pass it around a circle, and only the person who is in possession of the stick gets to speak. Everyone else has to listen. We’re going to use it today, but if you don’t want to say anything then you can just pass the stick to the person next to you, okay?” She turned to Jamal, who was sitting on her left. “So, the first question I’ll pose to the circle is, What are your biggest fears? Jamal, you can start us off.”
She gave him the stick and he immediately passed it to the person beside him, who handed it off to the girl next to her.
Jason watched the Talking Stick get transferred from student to student without pause. “Guys, remember, this is a safe space . . .”
It was stupid of them to think that mattered, to think that something like that existed simply because they said it did. Jason looked behind him to Mr. Silva.
“Joe, do you have any suggestions?”
Mr. Silva shook his head without looking up from the paper.
The Talking Stick reached me and I stared at it before taking it in my hands. I expected it to feel like bark but the wood was fake to the touch. I looked at it more closely and saw that a good chunk of the coloured beads were turning silver, like any jewellery from the dollar store. It made the entire exercise feel cheap, an intimation of something that Jason and Liz didn’t really get, the way they just didn’t get us, and suddenly sitting through class didn’t seem so bad.
“You’ve been holding the stick for a while, Kara. Do you want to say something?” said Jason. “It’s great if you do. Come on everyone, give Kara your support.”
No one in the circle did or said anything to reassure me that I’d be safe with them if I exposed myself. But I didn’t expect them to. I’d never expected much from people — but what little I did I’d learned to let go of two weeks before at New Orleans Donuts. I glanced at Anita, at her round face and two afro puffs that looked like Mickey Mouse ears. Chris had told me it was Rochelle’s idea to send Devon into the washroom after me, but I knew in my bones that it had been Anita’s idea to abandon me at the store. She hadn’t even wanted me to go with them in the first place.
I must’ve been looking at Anita for a while because Jason looked from me to her and back again. “If you’d like to address someone in the circle we can allow for that,” he said.
Liz looked alarmed by the idea and leaned toward Jason — but her whisper wasn’t as quiet as she clearly thought it was. “Isn’t that going off-script?”
“The script isn’t everything,” he whispered back. “It doesn’t account for real-world experiences.”
“But —”
“When you do this job, you’re going to have to learn to adapt. Run with it.”
She paused for a minute and then clapped her hands together. “Okay!” Her voice returned to that cheeriness that grated my ears. “Addressing someone in the circle is perfectly acceptable — just do so respectfully.”
Anita snorted. It was a dare. I cut my eye toward her.
“There’s no one in this circle worth addressing,” I said. “Not one person.”
“Kara, that’s a little —”
Anita started. “Why are you looking at me for? You saying I’m wutless?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Then stop looking at me when you run your mouth,” said Anita.
“It’s a free country. I can look at whoever the hell I want.”
Liz and Jason yelled at the same time. “Language!”
The entire circle shivered with excitement. I could see the vicious hope in their faces, the hope that maybe this afternoon wouldn’t be so boring.
Liz sputtered. “Okay, guys, I think it’s time —”
“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” said Anita. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing when you stay looking at me.”
“I think this is what people call ‘paranoid,’” I said. “Shani was right — you do have ’nuff problems. Maybe you really do need this circle. The teachers them think so.”
“At least I didn’t sign up myself.”
“I signed up to get out of class. You were told to come here because you’ve got issues. Everyone here knows you’ve got issues — probably why you’re failing, like, three classes.”
There were small bursts of laughter from both sides of the circle, and Anita looked around to see who was giggling at her. Beside me, Manuela leaned to her right to talk to Cristina and she covered her mouth with her hand. “It’s true, though,” I could hear her say “She got an R in English on her report card.”
Cristina laughed. “Is she so dumb that they had to make a grade just for her?” Her fake-whisper was loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Guys, safe space —”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said loudly.
“At least I didn’t go down on a dude in the girls’ bathroom!”
“Only because everyone k
nows it’s the boys’ washroom you like to use!”
There was a collective “ooh” from the circle, which made me breathe easier. It gutted me, hearing her use her prank against me, knowing full well that nothing happened in that washroom, but denial only made rumours stick in this school. The best thing to do was to bury your rumour with another one.
Quickly, Anita unfolded her legs and took a step toward me — and when she moved to take another one, Mr. Silva’s voice filled the cafeteria, gruff and raspy.
“Anita, that’s detention!” He was no longer looking at the newspaper. “One more step and I’ll send you to Principal Carrington’s office and it’ll be another suspension.”
She hesitated, narrowing her eyes as if calculating whether or not the trouble she’d get in was worth it.
“That will be ten suspensions in two months,” said Mr. Silva. “I’m not bluffing.”
He wasn’t. Mr. Silva loved to put us in detention or complain about us to Principal Carrington, calling us “disruptive” for lingering in the hallways, “threatening” if we were sore losers in gym class and chucked the ball against the wall if we lost King’s Court. He’d sent half the kids in the circle to the office for much less.
Anita kissed her teeth and threw her hands up in the air. “This whole thing is a fucking waste anyway.”
She walked toward the cafeteria doors.
“Wait,” said Liz, standing up. “Where are you going?”
“Class!”
I watched Anita leave. It was the first time I’d ever won a round with her and the triumph made my hands and legs tremor, made my gut writhe with the urge to vomit.
“If you’re not at detention by three fifteen, I’ll tack on two more!” said Mr. Silva.
Anita didn’t look back to acknowledge that she’d heard him.
Jason cleared his throat. “Do you want to make sure she gets to class or . . . ?”
“Why even bother,” said Mr. Silva.
Frying Plantain Page 4