A disturbing echo of larger trends in Deplorable thoughts

I would have put this in the book “Boystories”
because it is indeed a story about boys,
but those are usually funny stories.
This one is not.
This one belongs in “Deplorable thoughts.”

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The first boy brought to my office is Danny, a huge bearcub of a boy, one of our football players, a nice kid I know because he never fails to jump ahead of me in the hallway to open a door before I can touch it, who always asks if he can carry my tote or anything else I have in my arms, a happy kid who never fails to offer a smile or simply cause one. I am surprised that he is ordered into a chair by the principal, who grabs an incident report clipboard from the rack, thrusts it into the boy’s hands, and snarls, “Start writing!”

The actions aren’t surprising. Teachers and administrators deliver boys into my office on a regular basis. The boys sit in my chairs and fill out a form about whatever has just occurred, their side of the story and their explanation for their part in the incident.

It’s a good system. Having to write it out makes the boy think about his actions, calm down, and often realize that what he did was wrong and why he is now in trouble. It also gives the disciplinarian time to gather up other participants, if there are any, and start investigating if investigation is necessary.

So, as I said, the actions aren’t surprising. It’s the characters and the tone that jar. Danny’s never been in that chair and rarely do staff members allow themselves to engage with the boys in anger, even more rarely the administrators or the principal himself.

Danny does not look at me. He keeps his head down over the clipboard as he starts to write. My job is to simply babysit him until he is called in for conference with the disciplinarian or principal. If spoken to, I am to discourage the boy to do anything but write, unless…
If a boy is injured from a physical altercation,
I am to apply icebags and band-aids and non-aspirin as required.

Could Danny, huge teddyboy of a hulk Danny, have been in a fight?
I can’t imagine it. He’d sooner smile at an unkind word than throw a punch and I cannot imagine a single boy on campus stupid enough to try to fight the biggest guy on campus.
But, without any info given me by Mr. Venito, I do have to assess for myself.

I step out from behind my desk and walk casually in front of the sitting boy, pretending I need a folder on the table by the door. Danny looks up for a quick second and then, quicker still, back down, his cheeks flaring red beneath the huge smudges of black.

Why is there dirt on his face? It would take several boys to knock him off his feet, at least I’m told it usually does in the football games.

“Danny? Are you hurt, hon?” I ask gently.

He doesn’t raise his eyes to meet mine, his voice barely a whisper. “No, ma’am. I’m okay.”

I have no idea what has happened but I am satisfied that the boy isn’t hurt. Whatever else Danny has done that’s so bad, I know he wouldn’t lie. It’s just not in him.

So I sit back down, disturbed and confused, as one by one, four more boys are deposited into my chairs and ordered, in the same surly manner, to “start writing.” It becomes clear to me, boy by boy, that there was no fight. Each new boy’s face is similarly dirty, the same dark black/grey substance smeared over their chins, their cheeks, their - oh shit, I get it - their foreheads.

It’s blackface.

I am beyond appalled. This doesn’t happen here. This has never happened in this school. We don’t have racial problems. Being a Catholic school in the suburbs, our student body is predominantly white Catholic, yes, but we have a growing population of black students, Jewish students, Muslim students, Hispanic students, and a smattering of all sorts of others and we welcome them, by simple courtesy and by decreed and enforced school policy.

This is not a blind eye to the truth. This is an observation. I’m the disciplinarian’s secretary. If we had racial incidents occur, even minor, I would know it. I would have been the one typing the reports into the computer. With the exception of two incidents occurring during summer session between visiting students, in my seventeen years here, we have never had a racial incident.

So why now?
Why did five boys in art class feel the need to use charcoal for purposes most decidedly not in the product’s original use?

Could it have anything to do with the buzz in the hallways I’ve overheard, snippets of conversations I cannot ignore as they pass talking enthusiastically loudly? “When do you think he’s going to throw them all out?” “Can’t wait to see her in jail.”
“…good to be rid of them…“

Could it have anything to do with whatever has Abdul, a kid I barely know, suddenly wanting to take his lunch with me in my office?
(“Sure, kiddo. Come on in. What do you have to trade for a cheese stick?”)

Could it have anything to do with the tenor of the election just passed, with the incendiary rhetoric spewed upon an eager angry populace, all primed and pumped to embrace the vitriol, to convert themselves into homebred IED’s (Improvised Explosive Devices) that catch fire and explode in vile destructive streams of hate, spewing shrapnel through the nation?

They’re kids, yes, but they heard it all.
They heard every foul headline grabbing rant and lie and call for the blood of anyone, everyone not the candidate’s own.
They heard it all and it was exciting.
It was convincing.
The hatred was embraced openly by their parents and too too many across the country.

They’re kids now, some of them even first time voters.
This is their introduction into how the world, their world, works.

And this is how they react.
Even my big sweet young friend Danny.

The man is not even inaugurated and his bile is already polluting my life.

Last updated November 13, 2016