Khristian E Kay died on 5/29/2020, just days before having the chance to hold a copy of Room 117.
As an artist, and an editor, I am honored to have had the opportunity to work on this heartfelt collection.
Khristian’s passion as a public elementary school teacher in a bad neighborhood shines beautifully in Room 117.
for Josie
The turnover is
astounding there were
six me(s) before
I came aboard
The longest one
lasted 90 days
the shortest
just a few
I teach in what
Is called a CBU:
Comprehensive
Behavior Unit
A self-contained
Special Education
Classroom of
6 through 8th graders
with behavior
and emotional
issues too severe
to be in a room
with their
unencumbered peers
On top of their academics
my job is to teach them
How to self-regulate
How to be calm
How to be nice
How to fit in
How to be social
How to care
How to survive
Maslow’s Hierarchy
The kids believed
they could run anyone out
and it seems they
were successful
they called me “teacher”
on the good days
But those were few
I was “White Bitch”
on the regular days
“Fat White Bitch”
on the worse
not much delineation
Appropriately
90 days in
to their consternation
I was still there
Some just called me
“teacher” and
Some continued to
ask me what my name was
I point up to the bulletin
board above my desk
My name is in large bold
300 point font
I say it is the same
as the first day
My colleagues are
not much better
trying to remember names
After each
subsequent turnover
becomes laborious
There is a lot
of energy to invest
in learning
someone else’s name
They call me
Mr. Room 117
Eighteen Hundred “Good mornings.”
I stand post outside the classroom door
welcoming my children in each morning
Other students, not mine, pass by:
“What’s up?” they say with a head nod,
a handshake here – fist bump there
a few even smile and wave but mine –
mine are afraid to show affection
show that they like me – to violate that code
is a sign of weakness – no emotion –
not until they are safely hidden inside the room
I say to them: “Good morning.” as they enter
They respond with scowling faces and
sour groans mumbling “fuck you bitch”
“shut up talking to me” or worse: nothing –
I think once someone said ‘good morning’ back
but then corrected themself
“I mean, fuck you”
There are subliminal signs of affirmation posted everywhere
To spur on or encourage the staff members to recognize
the hardships they endure, the thanklessness of their work
to remind them of their life’s chosen purpose
These are posted all over the staff lounge and staff work area
above the photo-copier, on the refrigerator, on the doors above
the microwave, next to the trash cans, even in the staff toilets,
On the wall across from the entrance way is the sign
“I’m a great teacher and I get better and better each day”
While washing your hands is the respite “My job is worthy”
Taped to the refrigerator while grabbing last night’s
leftovers from your insulated lunch bag
with a yogurt cup and some celery sticks one can read:
“I will share my gift for learning”
Above the microwave while heating up your microwave
popcorn one ascertains “Almost everything
will work again if you unplug it, even you.”
On the copier door that needs to be constantly opened
to fix the consistent paper jams reminds one
“I’ll stay focused and remember why I got into teaching”
By the trash can next to the door stained with
leftover foodstuffs, coffee grounds, soda residue, smeared yogurt
reaffirms the ideal “I love teaching. Teaching is my passion.”
Below the exit sign as you leave with a heavy sigh and a false
air pump of confidence to continue the tackle of the day
“My students, their parents, and my colleagues respect me.”
While in the men’s toilet urinating remember
“You are making a difference”
When cleansing your bowels confirm the epithet
“You’re doing what’s in the best interest of your students”
My students are pack rats
always squirrelling away food
in the crevices of their desks,
their lockers, their book bags,
my desk. They hoard their food
It seems there is never enough
They have to hide their food because
it is always open season on food.
As soon as a package is seen
the cries commence: ‘Gimme some.’
Begging ‘Let me have some’
They will circle one another
Wait for an opportune moment
Then seize the other’s food
Run off to a safe distance and
devour it like jackals mouths open
peals of laughter and chewing away –
spilling their greed all over the ground
Wasting their spoils.
Somewhere on some social media platform
They heard a myth that white people
cannot tolerate hot foods.
They are always trying me: ‘eat this,
try this… are you going to throw up?’
I bring in peppers from my garden
I share the jalapenos – once
I let them try a serrano. They are
dumbfounded as they spit out
the heat and watch me consume them
I bring in sushi with hot chili sauce
Rooster Sauce they call it and wasabi
The wasabi makes their noses run and
their eyes well up they drink water
straight from the faucet. Another time
I made them carnitas en chili de arbol
It was too spicy and much was left
uneaten, mouths burning they cried
“But you’re white?”
Theirs is not good or healthy food
It is all processed: chips, hot fries,
flaming hots – I once made them
nachos – they would not eat them
since they had never seen an
unprocessed tortilla chip
‘what is that?’ they said pointedly
‘those aren’t chips.’
I bring them healthy snacks
Apples, oranges, grapes, melons,
Cauliflower I show them how I eat
raw cauliflower dipped in Red Hot
“I eat that shit on everything” I joke
They like this and pick up this habit
But mainly it is the processed foods
the Takis, Dinamitas, Flaming Hots
they fight over these, these are sacred relics
and must be devoured for their power
To be worshipped
They ask me why I do not fight
They are always fighting, first
with words then insults then bumping chests
No one wants to go first
They are encouraged by others and in turn
encourage others to fight
To punch, tackle, wrestle, bite, kick, pull hair
There are rules and they keep score
Bad form for kicking but then they will brag or retell
the story of how so and so got kicked in the head
face, nuts, stomach they glorify
the fight
They ask me why I do not fight
I tell them it is a waste of time
A waste of energy
Nothing is ever solved, resolved nothing good
ever came from fighting
No one ever wins a fight
It just escalates from name calling
Two people punching
Getting their crew to show up and rumble
Then moving towards weapons
Sticks, bats, knives, guns it progressively
gets worse
They ask me why I do not fight
I tell them I was not trained
to fight I was trained to kill
I am ex-military we do not waste our time fighting
We kill: end of story
One should not go around killing
There are no rules no points scored
No bragging rights
Someone dies – Dead
How many did you kill? I tell them
That is between me, and
Myself
They ask me if I was ever in a fight
I tell them yes, once
It is nothing one should brag about
I show them the scar on my nose
The bridge dented
I was hit here with the butt of a rifle
I tell them
Did it hurt? They ask
Of course I say they broke my nose
What happened then? They ask
I’m standing here, aren’t I?
Alive
Active Shooter!
This is not a drill
Across the street from my classroom
Police are serving a high-risk warrant
There is fear that the home’s occupants
may open fire
We do not know this – yet
What we know is we are at the lockers
getting ready to go home for the day
when the code was called
I corral them back into the room
We lay low everyone
wants to know what is going on
Some go to the windows
to peek behind the blinds
I hiss at them
to get away from there
to be quiet
Instead they lift the blinds
Yell excitedly that SWAT
is across the street
Try to open the windows
I physically have to move them
away chastising, explaining
the dangers – They say
“They are gonna shoot the cops
not us.” I tell them
about the Odessa shooter
pulled over for a traffic stop
Who then shot at the police
and fled shooting people randomly
as he drove away – I tell them
people do not need a reason
to shoot you
they just need a target
Don’t be a target
New Boy has been here for 4 months
and they still won’t use his name
White Boy used to be New Boy
because he arrived in September.
White Boy is of mixed race so this
culture segregates him out
and thus he is known as White Boy.
Here it is a derogatory term
and is meant to isolate him. But
White Boy is happy because he
is no longer New Boy.
He has been named.
New Boy is from Chicago so that gives him
some sort of street cred but still
they want to fight him
And New Boy bloodies White Boy’s nose
This buys New Boy reprieve and accolades
for about a week and then someone else
chooses to challenge him
This is what they do with new students
They surround them with fists at the ready
Each taking a pot shot and jumping away
I have to step between them
blocking punches and kicks
a bouncer on top of everything else
I have to referee these fights
several times a day until New Boy
is no longer New Boy
but called by some other name.
Lexi is a fighter
She carries a boxer stature
wiry and muscled
legs astride one
slightly ahead
of the other
bouncing off the balls
of her feet a
stutter step here there
she has a quick jab
Both left and right
She is always shadow
sparring with someone
though she does not
pull her punches
Instead she lands them
with an intense fury
of earnestness
I contact local
Teen MMA and try
to get her involved
there instead she
wants to fight me
jabbing and kicking
I just block
trying to get her
to come back to her
academics
I tell her I will
not fight her
She punches me
nevertheless
If she does not
get her way she
tosses the room
clears off the desks
punching and kicking
anyone who gets
in her way
Safety and
administration
often wrestle with her
as she punches
and kicks at me
I block her strikes
as she screams
“Fight me! Bitch.”
But I refuse
I tell her I won’t
And I block
trying to get the rest
of the class
settled and back
to learning fending
off Lexi’s attacks
Dances his best Mr. Bojangles soft
shoe across the floor, twisting and
shaking doing the “floss” making
His goofy faces bulging eyes crooked
smile he works the crowd for laughter
His clothes are dirty his hygiene bad
he hoards food in his desk and locker
He has bruises and came to school
with the mumps once I took him to
the hospital I follow my checklist for
Child Protective Services he meets
all the red flags for neglect or abuse
I cannot get a hold of his father and
He tells me his dad is in jail again
He is staying at a group home with
His sister and asks me for a ride to
the shelter since the bus does not go
there I tell him the office will provide
a ride that I am not allowed by contract
to give rides to students he does not
want the office knowing his situation
I follow CPS rules and contact the
Social Worker and my administrator –
it is not abuse nor neglect and I am
cautioned off from reporting as it is
determined to be poverty, so I am told
– I shrug I am a mandatory reporter
by virtue of my position as a teacher
He came to school with a white crust
of milk around his mouth and some
one said he looked like a crack-head
He is a jokester a clown and acts out
to protect himself so he rubbed chalk
dust all over his face and acted a wild
fool “I’m Crack-Head Bobby,” he took
Jolly Ranchers and crushed them up
“I need a fix.” and he snorted the candy
I told him not to do that that the crushed
candy is sharp and cutting like glass
and he could hurt himself by doing that
“But I’m Crack-Head Bobby!” he states
The class laughs at his antics and he
wins the day hiding behind his mask
of humor his horrors of day to day
One day on the way to school I saw
Him standing on the island between
the boulevard begging for money
He saw me and waved shouting out
my name “I’ll see you at school.” He
turned back to the stopped drivers
dancing his best Bojangles soft shoe
Miracle dances on the table rocking back and forth
the hairpin legs already pulled out, bent
and replaced several times over
bending under her shaking – her tongue pink and glossy
sticking all the way out down her chin
I tell her to stop “Be safe.” Iterating the litany of
the school expectations:
‘Be Safe. Be Responsible. Be Respectful’
Miracle responds with “Suck my dick you fat ass white bitch.”
I tell her she needs to pay attention during biology class
She sticks her middle finger out at me
This is old territory the table has collapsed before
with her dancing on it falling to the floor hitting
her head, getting scrapes on her knees and legs
Her mother wants to know why I did not stop her,
why I let her hurt herself I tell her I did not
that I cannot physically control her
Miracle tells her mom “He never is helping me.”
I defend myself I say when I go to help Miracle
She tells me to “Get the fuck away from me bitch”
Miracle sticks out her big tongue as far as it can go
This is her tell
Whenever she is about to do something bad
Miracle sticks out her tongue
She does not know she does this
She is confused as to how I know she is lying
or about to do something she is not supposed to do
She is up on a table rocking it back and forth
dancing her tongue lolling out
She pulls out some markers her tongue hangs out
I tell her to put the markers away
“Don’t talk to me bitch!” and she turns her head to the class
rolls her eyes
She starts to write on the walls, the desks the classroom textbooks
with her markers her tongue lolling about
Miracle asks to go to the bathroom, her tongue lolls about
I know she is going to run through the halls
disrupting other classrooms I tell her
to return to her seat she calls her mom:
“Teacher won’t let me go to the bathroom.”
I tell mom my concerns – I am told her good girl would
never do things like that “Why don’t you teach her?”
I tell her I cannot teach her daughter
when she misbehaves…
Mom just hears “I cannot teach.”
Miracle sticks her tongue out and runs about the class
whispering into the ears of others
then stands by the door
I tell her to sit down that she is not going to go run the halls
and no one else is going to join her
She spits on me and says “Fuck you bitch.”
Miracle returns from art class hiding something in her hoodie
Her tongue out she pulls out a bottle of blue paint
I ask her where the paint came from she says
“Teacher gave it to me.” I tell her I do not think so
She pours this onto her desk and smears her hands in it
I reach for the paint and she squirts it on the carpet
Miracle drops the bottle her hands coated in blue paint
She jumps up putting her hand prints on the walls
desks, window shades, the backs of other students
I secure the rest of the paint while
Miracle skips to the blackboard and prints her hand print
over and over and over her tongue sticking out
Miracle comes to class with a new box of colored pencils
She sits at her desk her tongue hanging out
breaking the new pencils into little
pieces and throws them at the other students,
at me, then tells her mother that I won’t let her color
I tell the class to get their reading books out
that it is time to read now
Miracle says “I ain’t doing that shit.”
Her tongue hanging out she comes over
and clears off my desk papers and books go flying
Miracle laughs and my attention is focused on her
now and no one is able to read as Miracle
dances through the spilled papers and books
They laugh at her antics and Miracle
bathes in their attention
Miracle demands attention be focused on her
She goes to the classroom phone “I’m calling my Mama.”
I abandon my lesson from the board and
I tell her to leave the phone alone – her tongue lolls out
as she punches in numbers “Teacher is a fat white bitch.”
I hang up the phone “I was talking to my Mama!”
She unplugs the cord from the phone base
and runs around the room swinging the receiver by it
her tongue out she tries to hit the other students
Miracle smacks the receiver against a desk
I wrestle her for it taking it from her hands
she gets mad snorts and spits out
a large green glob of snot onto my shirt
I escort her from the room she pounds on the door
pounding the plexiglass out of the frame
Miracle comes to school with long braids plaited in her hair
She unbraids them making sure everyone watches her
I ask her why she is unbraiding her hair
after her Mama had paid good money to put them in
Miracle answers “Shut up talking to me Bitch.”
Miracle has a pair of scissors and starts cutting her hair
I will not wrestle the scissors away from her
I try to reason with her
She cuts large clumps and then throws them at
the other students who recoil as she laughs
at their discomfort – she cuts off all of her braids
Miracle comes to school with her mother the next morning
Mom claims that “Teacher cut off my daughter’s braids.”
I tell her I did not that she did it herself
“Where’d she get the scissors from?” I tell her
she stole them from my desk “My daughter would never.”
I tell her I have a classroom full of students
who will attest to this she says
“You already poisoned them against my daughter.”
Miracle jumps on the desks and leaps from one to another
again I remind her to be safe
I remind her of the other times when she jumped to a desk
slipped off and smacked her head
Her tongue is out and she says “Your fat ass can’t catch me.”
She leaps to a desk and it flips and she falls to the floor
She has a nasty bump on her head and is crying
She tells her mom that I made her fall
Miracle and I conference with her mother and the principal
We talk about her need to learn how to read, to behave
to function in society, her pathway through education
We talk of her safety
our concerns and how she needs to follow basic expectations
We talk of her responsibilities to herself
to her mom to her class and to others
We talk about her lack of respect for teachers for others
Miracle sticks her tongue out
points at me and argues “But he’s white!”
Gaps is always eating, his momma
will pack him a mid morning snack
a lunch, Lunchables, an afternoon snack,
and some treats – he eats all these
before lunch and then gets a school lunch
He begs me for some cereal or chips
whatever it is I have and sits at his desk
eating, noisily – chomping and talking
crumbs spilling down his chest
onto the floor some spewing out
as he talks excitedly about his night
or how he braved some scenario
beating up this person fighting another
I tell him not to talk with food in his mouth
I point to the floor and ask him to pick up
the crumbs and he argues with me
“that isn’t mine!” “I didn’t have Cheerios”
As Cheerios fall from his lips.
He is sincere.
Hooks my arm in hers
and introduces me as her Grandfather
I smile a powerful beam
grab her little brown hand
and tell her that I would be lucky
to have a granddaughter such as she
Last year Carissa was bumming
outside my classroom door
I asked her why she was not in class
She said she had no place to go
Her class was going on a field trip
She said she did not have enough money
to go on the trip so she had to stay behind
I asked how much she needed
She said one dollar
I checked my wallet and only had some tens
So I slipped her a ten and told her to
use the rest for lunch or snacks
Her smile lit up the room and she twirled
and ran off to catch up with her class
By the end of the day the rumor mill
had run amuck ten fold
The story became that I had given her
a hundred dollars to go on that class trip
And that I was spoiling her
like I was her Grandfather or something
Carissa is a beautifully exotic girl with
a brilliant smile a little crooked
as if she is hiding a delicious secret
her eyes widen like dewy saucers
shining in the morning sun the crease
of her scar running from her brow
to her high cheekbones from when her
Momma tried to cut the demons out of her
accentuates the light like an etching of a spider
silk crack in delicate bone china
She walks with me to her social worker
Back straight and poised our arms hooked
With a formality pulled from some deep recess
Carissa introduces me to her worker
Who shares a familiar knowing wink with me
Not as her teacher, pops, grampa, or gramps
But says “This is my Grandfather.”
I should be so lucky
Dewayne stuffs his mouth continuously
with whatever he can find available
devouring bags of chips after bag
mixing different chips into one bag
and crushing them into dust he dumps
these into his mouth swallowing
pouring these bags his head back
mouth open and talking loudly and
excitedly grinning he will lick the dust
from inside the bag with his fingers
stained red from the artificial coloring
he inhales bags of Halloween candy
vacuum-like wrappers piling on his desk
running about the room shadow boxing
his hyper self further invigorated
Dewayne can take a handful of Takis
and Jesus-like feeds the multitude
dozens of kids with their hands out
all fed with chips.
Scarred and scabbed over Bed Bugs likes to fight
He bullies the ones smaller than he
He used to be the bullied, last year
curled up on the floor fetal style crying
Crocodile tears and a wailing of pain
not associated with the physical
He has marks all over his body the others attribute
these to bed bugs and they named him so
He likes the girls flirting with them
by inappropriate touching or using
graphic sexualized language trying
to impress them to prove his prowess
Bed Bugs will run across the desks ‘parkour’ style
kicking papers and books to the floor
He leaps to the windowsill to the heating ducts
tipping desks over from imbalance
begging me to chase him or try to catch him
I warn him of the dangers of falling
I do not chase him that only makes him more reckless
If I try to grab him to make him stop he could fall
He calls the girls “thots” and “sluts”
but still they laugh at his antics encouraging
him to run and jump and slide and kick
I tell him to stop so he does not get hurt
He laughs me off yelling “parkour!” and leaping aside
He tips a desk and falls across the surface
his head hitting the edge of a chair
He goes down blood oozing from his forehead
I try to help him but he rises using his shirt
as a bandage and swearing at me runs from the room
Bed Bugs’ Mom calls the police seems he claims I pushed
him down and made him smack his head
The police put me in a conference room
they interview the other students – me last
The kids tell tales of ‘parkour’ and obscenities
the police want to know why I did not stop him
Kat is messy, she likes to instigate and mess up
the minds and lives of everyone around her
She will often yell in the halls
“They’s fighting! They’s fighting!”
Just to get people to run out of classrooms
Katera’s version of crying wolf
She’s prolific on social media starting
fights with this one or that one but then
forgets that in real life she is not protected
by circuits and digital fortresses instead
she has to deal with those people the next day
often she will skip school to avoid her messiness
Kat is messy, in school she mixes makeup and lotion
stirring into her cereal and spreading it across
the desk she will pour glue
and then sprinkle glitter and cereal
just as a means of entertainment in the classroom
Katera’s version of chemistry
She is masterful at avoiding her schoolwork
often decrying how bored she is and how much
she hates school how much she hates work how
much she hates the classroom with its rules
and directives and procedures for behavior
often she will skip school to avoid this messiness
Kat is messy, dealing with people and her avoidance
She prefers to go shopping with her mom and aunties
She will often relay her purchases
telling everyone “I hate peoples.”
to avoid having to talk or engage with anyone else
Katera’s version of flirting
is to hit a boy she likes or insult his manliness
then runs out of class to kiss him in the bathroom
She returns and insists that I protect her from them
She obsesses over videos of people eating
and she will watch these over and over
often she will come to school to watch this messiness
Today he tells me he wants to be known as Mo Mo
Last month it was Mar Mar
Before that: Marky Mark (until I showed him
a video of Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch)
Mo Mo is a ball of energy about 3 feet tall
always dancing or jumping on the desks
shuffling across the floor in his socks
He makes up raps about things I say to the rest of the class
Embellishing my words to fit his rhymes
“I gonna beat that ass if yo’ don’t have a pass
You need to have a pass / have a pass
I gonna beat yo’ ass if yo’ don’t have a pass
But I ain’t goin’ to jail for that
No ain’t goin’ to jail for that”
Mo Mo’s family sells weed, all of them,
to the locals everybody knows who’s holding
His older married sister handles the drop phones
His mom makes the deals his older brother keeps the bank
Mo Mo and his younger siblings run
interference with the police
since weed is not legal here yet
Mo Mo tells me this as he lays on my desk eating lunch
He prefers to spend his lunch time with me
telling me the benefits of an AK74 over a 47
of the Dracos hidden under the liner of the couch
The safe in his brother’s closet
The men that drink his mother’s liquor as she
makes deal after deal
The men they have to help out of their apartment
The secret passage in the basement to the barbershop next door
where Mo Mo and his siblings smuggle out bags of weed
in their book bags because boys coming out
of a barber shop with their book bags looks legit
Mo Mo tells me he keeps his nine in the wastebasket by his bed.
then bounds Spiderman-like up onto his feet at the corner of my desk
He leaps to the floor dances a shuffle singing
“got my gat gat gat / gonna rat a tat tat
Shoot all these mutherfuckin’ rats with my gat gat gat…”
I tell him to take his tray back to the lunch room he smiles
Picks it up and dances out of the door
“I’ll be right back back back with my gat gat gat…”
Is a big girl worthy of the storm in her name
When her anger unleashes she loses all control
A dervish of fists and kicks and tears
A tempest decimating everything in her wake
She towers over me with a height
Hiding the 12 year old girl that she is
I try to soothe her fervor calm her demons
Regulate her exasperation before
being pulled into her tantrum
She will twirl her foot or stomp her feet
when she does not get her way
Seeing the 12 year old girl that she is
I walk her to the gym where the late bus riders wait
She begs me to stay with her I tell her I cannot
Knowing that to tell her of union rules and
school policies will just go over her head
I tell her I have to leave
Being the 12 year old girl that she is
She says she does not want to be alone
I wave my hand at the gym full of other stranded students
You aren’t alone you have all your friends
“Please she says…” and pouts sticking her big lip out
tilts her head flashes a smile bats her eyes
Playing the 12 year old girl that she is
She pleads: “Look. Puppy dog eyes please…”
Scrunching her face “Look! Puppy dog eyes.”
I look up at her and have to remind myself she is
A little girl gripped in anxiety and of being alone
I acquiesce and she grabs my hand and skips along side of me
Acting the 12 year old girl that she is
Domo is a man-boy a bear of a child at 6 foot 4
300 plus pounds he is missing his two upper front teeth
having them punched out in a fight Domo is always fighting
He wears white t-shirts stained with sweat and baggy sweat pants
He will lie on his back on the floor and eat candy or cereal
dumping it from the container into his mouth
When he gets up you can see the outline of his head in foodstuffs
He bullies the littler students punching them or kicking them
until they cry
Sometimes he will grab them and choke them
or toss them down the halls
He laughs and hurls graphic insults at the girls
asking for sexual favors and rubbing his body up against them
Dropping his pants asking them to touch his penis
Other teachers are afraid of his size but Domo is a bully
not because he is mean but because of his size he is
a Teddy Bear who does not know what to do
or act trapped inside his body other than to intimidate others
He is afraid of the boys his size or ones that will stand up to him
Often I have to play linebacker as he will rush
into the room to attack a student
I block and grab him stopping him and then jokingly hug him
We then dance about the doorway
as I lead our way out of the room
We often hug things out and he breaks into a big grin
showing the world the toothless Teddy Bear within
The girls cream for Kenny
They gang up outside of the door
trying to get his attention
His phone blows up
beeps and clicks as the girls
text and sext and facetime him
asking him to come out in the hall
meet them in the bathroom
Some shout through the air vents
“Meet Tenesha in the bathroom
in 10 minutes” others just blatantly
pound on the door
Kenny was held back a year so
he is 15 and prime meat
Tucked up inside his hoodie
Kenny sits in the back
of the class sleeping
He comes to school high
every morning squirreling his
breakfast for later when he
awakes and the hunger hits
His PO wants me to call him
when he is like this I call
every day and they make a note
somewhere on some tally sheet
tucked away in some bureaucratic
sense of responsibility
As long as we cross the Ts
Kenny packs bags of weed in his
book bag sometimes inventoring
His stash on the classroom floor
when he thinks I cannot see him
He carries just enough to not
get arrested for trafficking
By the time I have contacted Safety
or an administrator Kenny
has handed off his stash
Some of the kids have figured out
how to open the doors with a half
of a scissors they open a storeroom
door and then text everyone on a
group chat/text the location
The kids clamber into the storeroom
under the guise of going to the bathroom
or some will just leave their class
They smoke their weed giggling
and making all kinds of noise
not realizing that anyone passing by
would be suspicious of a storeroom
that smokes and giggles and laughs
Kenny is always in the midst of these
caught in the threats of suspension
but that would sully the bottom line
another black boy statistic
suspended, expelled, school drop-out
it’s just a little smoking
I know this man is telling no lies
As you beat him with your fists
and curse denigrate his worth
This man who has only loved you
with his caring words to soothe
and brighten that dark within you
I know this man is telling no lies
He trying to teach you right
And you beat him! He give you
attention and you give him pain
he takes it all in and shoulders
your fear your burden your cry
I know this man is telling no lies
As once someone whose name is
forgotten a face I can no longer draw
cradled the junkie anger in me
and saw my beauty my worthiness
and exposed the beauty that you are
Jason believes himself to be a rapper
He will rap over existing performers’ work
repeating their words and phrasing
recording and mixing it and releasing it on Youtube
To his credit he does call it the MT Jason ReMix
The MT stands for the Milwaukee Twins: local rappers
Jason lays claim to, I joke that it stands for what is in his head
He does not understand the joke
He claims he does not have to go to school or do any schoolwork
because he is already making it big as a superstar
The other kids Google him and find nothing
I try to impress upon him the need for education, for reading
for writing so that he will be able to create these raps
He tells me that I am Old School that
that is not how it is done in this age
He talks of his bodyguards and managers and promotional agents
I ask him to tell me when his next show is but I never
get a reply or invitation, neither do the kids
I tell him in all seriousness that he is failing school
He has not done any school or class work
I ask him to write: poetry, verse, rap whatever… he copies
down others’ words and hands them to me saying they are his
He does not realize that I know how to Google also
Valencia makes me an origami skunk,
I thank her and tell her it is clever,
my students complain
they do not know what origami is
or why she is making me one
She soars through the hallways
a seagull tacking on thermals
Sometimes she waddles like a penguin
hands down at her sides
Other times her wings float her softly
a majestic butterfly or
hurriedly like a moth.
I have adopted her into my classroom
When she came to this school
she would scream
She would tear rooms apart
throw chairs at people
kick, bite, pull hair, punch
She would be dragged out of the classroom
an adult on each limb
as she screamed, kicking and flailing.
One day she stood outside my room,
breathing heavy
the fury alighting her eyes –
I invited her in pulled out a chair
asked her to sit, relax, breathe
and then went back to
teaching my class.
My students talked about her, insulted her
they seek the weakness: too poor to have the right shoes,
dirty clothes, they often insult the parents
striking the jugular about each other’s mommas –
Valencia is a foster child
they swoop in on this and make fun of her
like a pack of hyenas braying around a carcass,
sniping and nipping at one another
as she quietly wept,
I told them to leave her alone,
Asked how they would feel
if they were upset and
people were making fun of them.
Eventually Valencia composed herself
and quietly, politely
excused herself from the room.
Since then she comes to my room every day
sometimes all day,
sometimes for a period, sometimes just to say hi
She finds my students’ antics funny
and will burst out in laughter.
They want to know what is so funny
and she replies: “You.”
Valencia has a lovely laugh, crystalline and honest
She wants to study Japanese when she is older so
She practices pronouncing Japanese words
I compose Senryu and Haiku for her
and she translates them into Kanji –
she tells me that each stroke she carefully
scratches onto the paper represents
the words I had written down.
I do not know I cannot read Kanji
I trust her and tell her so. She finds me funny,
She tells me some of the things I write make her laugh.
It is good to hear Valencia’s laughter.
That’s when because my brother Jamar in the hospital
and we had to pick him up
That’s when oh my god oh my god my brother Jamar
got stitches in his head
That’s when he got this big bandage around his head
like in those war videos
That’s when oh my god we over at Big Cheesy’s house
throwin rocks at her and shit
That’s when I pick up this brick and tell Big Cheesy
I’ll throw it at her – Say I won’t
That’s when she up and threatens my little brother D-Mac
– he’s little! And Big Cheesy’s big!
That’s when I throw that brick right through
her kitchen window “bam”
That’s when her momma come out in her bathrobe yelling
“I’ll get you little niggas”
That’s when she say “I know your momma and grandma,
I know where you live.”
That’s when we start running down the street laughing at her
and Big Cheesy – oh my god
That’s when I tell D-Mac that he better not say anything
about this to Momma
That’s when I tell him that I will crack him in his shit
and hold my fist up like this
That’s when we get home and my grandma start yelling at us
about breaking windows
That’s when I tell my grandma that we didn’t do shit
that they’s lying
That’s when my momma come up and ask D-Mac
what I’d do
That’s when D-Mac just like that tells Momma I threw a brick
in that bitch’s window
That’s when I bust my little brother in the nose – oh my god
“bop! bop!”
That’s when he start crying and I tell him “I told you I crack you
in yo shit,”
That’s when my momma whip out her belt and start
cracking me
That’s when I try blocking the belt sayin “Momma! Momma
don’t whoop me, D-Mac is lying”
That’s when my momma say “D-Mac don’t lie to me,”
“smack smack smack”
That’s when she say “I know you broke that fuckin window.”
“smack”
That’s when I tell my momma to not hit me no mo
“I won’t do it agi –gi –gi…”
That’s when my grandma start hitting me with the back
of her hand “bop”
That’s when my momma say “We all hit you because
we love you!”
That’s when my grandma say “gi gi gi gi – y’all a bunch of
greasy monkeys.” “bop bop”
That’s when I tell my grandma “you gotta keep your fucking hands
off me cause
That’s when I’m gonna get my 38 and pop yo ass.
pow pow pow”
That’s when my uncle say “Don’t you talk to your
grandmother like that.”
That’s when my momma and uncle start fighting
“bop bop bop.”
That’s when my other brother Jamar comes out
with his Draco
That’s when he tell my uncle to stop hitting Momma or
he’s gonna crease his ass
That’s when my uncle grab my brother’s gun and
smacks him across the head
That’s when Jamar goes down all bloody and Momma
jumps on my uncle’s back
That’s when my grandma starts cackling and laughin
about monkeys
That’s when she slaps me across the face and says
“See what you devils wrought?” “bop”
That’s when the Draco goes off “pow pow pow” and shoots out
the windows by the couch
That’s when everybody stops and Momma tells my uncle
to hurry quick leave
That’s when he picks up Jamar and take him to the hospital
before the police come
That’s when we clean up the house and hide the guns and shit
in a hole in the basement
That’s when Momma leaves and grandma says “Git yo
monkey asses ready for bed.”
We are experiencing a Code Red
This is an active shooter scenario
It may be a drill it may not be we
have 4 or 5 of these a month some
are drills most are real situations
The kids are desensitized and will not
be quiet they talk and yell and argue
why they have to follow these “stupid”
procedures, why they cannot leave
“I’m going to use it you can’t stop me”
“I don’t wanna be in here” “God gave
me a mouth so I’m gonna use it”
As I review the step by step
instructions I realize that to them
every day is an Active Shooter drill
These are kids who cannot play
outside in their yards for fear of
being caught in gang or drug crossfire
these are kids who are wary
when walking to the park and
encountering others or groups of
others in assaultive battlegrounds
My words logical as they may be
do not fit their mindset their experiences
Mo Mo tells me that if a shooter
enters our door he is going out
the window I tell them of the 2 boys
from Kentucky who waited outside on a hill
and had a friend pull the fire alarm
The students left the building in orderly
fashion and were shot as they left
the building – my students point out
this flaw in following orderly fashion
Jason accuses that I will hide under a desk
afraid of the shooter leaving them to be shot
I give up on the prescribed procedures
I engage them in another way
I joke and tell them that if a shooter
came through the door and demonstrate
by grabbing Jason and put him in front of me
pretending to use him as a shield
I tell the rest to get behind me
They all laugh at the absurdity even Jason
I tell them let’s pretend: I am the shooter
I hold my hands together as if holding a weapon
“I have my automatic Sig 45 with 15 in the clip
and I am coming through the door – Go…”
Mo Mo jumps from the floor before he can
get to the windowsill I yell “Pop! Pop!
You’re down.” I sweep my hands across the room
“Pop! Pop!” each time aiming at a student
“Pop! Pop!” I point my fingers at Katera
saying “Katera is just sitting there screaming
‘He’s got a gun! He’s got a gun!’ So I let her
live for the moment.” White Boy has his phone
out live streaming on social media “Pop!”
I point to the kids huddled in the corner
“Pop! Pop!” I pretend I empty the clip
“That’s fifteen. Time to reload.” I lower my hands
Again I point to the ones huddled in the corner
“These are the only survivors,” I tell them
“They are huddled behind your fat ass teacher
who had the rest of the clip emptied
into him as the shooter tried to get y’all”
There is snickering at my language
but they are solemn now I tell them there
is no running the best defense is pretending
the room is empty to not give a shooter
a reason to enter the room to begin with
Gaps tries to change the topic redirect to
a less scarier one and he asks me why
teachers do not have guns to protect them
Crack-Head Bobby says if we were outside
He is running away Tori asks what I would
do if we were outside – I smile “I showed you
I’m grabbing Jason.” The tension breaks again
I say rules would state that I have to keep
a gun locked up in the closet or a drawer
I tell them the shooter takes me out before
I can even get to the closet I pantomime
being shot as I go to the door “Pop!”
Today’s lesson is dying – we practice at death
Fat Santa Claus Lookin’ Mutha Fucka
I am a big guy, fat, rotund
The kids try to pierce my armor
Make fun of me of my size
I wear my grey hair long
And with a beard I grow out
for the holiday season
The kids try to insult me
They say “You think you
Santa Claus?”or they
call out to me “Hey! Santa Claus.”
When walking through the halls
I always answer with a wave,
fist bump, they call me that “Fat
Santa Claus Lookin’ Mutha Fucka’
I embrace their insults
I smile and waggle a finger
I wink and say “Be good.”
The younger ones do not know
What to believe: I tell them
the North Pole is just a cover story
so children will not try to seek me out
They ask why I am working here
I tell them “Santa has to have a day job.”
They ask how I get to all the houses
in one night and I tell them “Magic.”
And I do simple sleight of hand tricks
I see their barricades crumbling
They ask me about reindeer, I tell
Them that reindeer are old school
I ride a special motorcycle
with a side car as my sleigh
They have seen this in the parking lot
Their facade slips further
They ask me about my list
of naughty and nice I tap
my phone and pictures of them
with their addresses, phone
and relevant information
pop up on my screen
They give me that look of
uncertainty not sure what to embrace
The older ones challenge me
“What are you bringing me?”
I say “Right now nothing,
You need to be better behaved.”
I tell them I am Santa
At special parties
I volunteer my time
at the homeless shelters
churches, Boys and Girls Clubs,
Hospitals and anywhere else
that could use a visit from old St. Nick
These older ones say I must be rich
Playing Santa Claus and all
I tell them no I volunteer my time
“What that mean?”
I give my time, I don’t get paid
“You don’t get paid!?!”
I tell them no that is what
Volunteering is all about
They call me stupid
One boy wants to test me he says
“If you Santa what do you say?”
I know what he wants me to say
So he can procure laughter
at my expense so I grab my stomach
lean back look him straight in the eye
and with a hearty laugh I say
“yo mama, yo mama, yo mama.”
I sit in my chair in the living room
The doggies gather around to comfort.
The larger one lays her head upon my
lap and nudges me to pet her I scratch
behind her ears and along her muzzle
The other, the smaller one, comes to my
side and begs my hand under her belly
scratching lightly in her favorite spots.
They each are extremely jealous of the
other if I pet one I must pet both
if I dare to stop with one I am met
with disdain from the other so I sit
petting my dogs and occasionally
drifting off to sleep being awakened
by a nudge at either hand because my
petting has stopped. This is my night –
this is
also my day. My students seek help and
attention they also are extremely
jealous of one another. If I try
to help one – others will complain that I
am not helping them that I show undue
favoritism “You never help me.” and
when I switch to the complainer the first
complains that I am not helping them but
am helping someone else. Sometimes they will
be working fine and I bring one to my
desk for extra help. Soon I am flocked with
students nudging my hand to help them. Some
will climb upon my desk others under
some nearly sit upon my lap “Help me.”
“You never help me” “You’re always showing
favoritism.” They chime in a chorus.
The girls will often braid my hair in turns
braid then unbraid then braid again they seem
never to be satisfied with their work.
The boys taunt me “You have to leave it like
that for the rest of the day.” They tease me
in awe of my predilection for self-
deprecating attitude, I shrug all this
away as I “refuse” to assist them.
Their chorus becomes white noise and drones on…
The smaller one nudges my hand from sleep.
Epilogue: in which the epilogue is really the prologue
“It has been forty years, a milestone. If I were an alcoholic or junkie I would be given a chip. A chip with a pair of 40 pound brass balls attached, and maybe a cake, definitely some coffee. But I receive nothing – nada – zip – zilch. My milestone of non-violence, of refusing to fight, 40 years of self-inflicted pacifism, gets me nothing. It is confusing to most: why? Why do you put up with it? People hit you, spit on you, call you names and worse but still you refuse to fight. Have you no dignity? Does it not bother you?
I tell them the last time I fought I killed a boy and so swore I would never fight again.
This sounds like bravado from a braggart but it is far from that. I was in the military going through Seal training. I call him a boy but he was probably older than me. I was 17 and going through training, filled with false confidence buoyed by being surrounded with men, my team members, who wanted to demonstrate their fighting prowess, their skills, their confidence. We were on a training exercise, “War Games” we called them, ways of practicing killing one another. We were not at war these were not maneuvers – these were drills, training exercises, play acting.
We were in Central America, I spoke a regional dialect of Spanish – a bastardized mix of indigenous mountain dialects. I had to move from a jungle drop to the coast and set up a communications array. Simple, routine, I worked at night. The probability of having to speak to anyone was null but yet still prepared for. I was crossing a field when it happened. I startled a local boy, like I said he was probably older than me but his actions defined him as a boy – where I, the Navy Seal in training, was categorized as a man. It seemed that way at least.
He jumped, he saw me and seeing me could jeopardize the “mission,” the objective would be breached, I would be the impetus for the failure of the mission. And everything we were trained for was to protect the mission. Being already seen I did what I thought was best: be reasonable, try to reason with him – but how do you reason with someone who is scared for their life? Protecting a loved one? Fearful of tyranny and coercion? I was just going through an exercise after all. So I approached, my finger to my lips “Shh. Guarda silencio, por favor.” He started to yell “¡Ayudame! ¡Ayudame!” Then he started to run. I had no alternative I had to shut him up so I ran after, I tackled him, my hand slipping over his mouth. “¡Silencio!” But this was not a drill this was not a “mission” to the boy. He fought, he kicked, he thrashed. I wrapped my legs around him, “¡Callate cabron! ¡Callate!” I squeezed my body like a vise my training coming to the forefront. He moved less, struggled less, “Shh!”
I listened to the background noises: crickets, frogs, wind in the grasses, leaves blowing in the wind, the concert of our breathing: wet, sticky and deliberate. Had his yelling called attention to us? Did we go unnoticed? Every snap in the air seemed a betrayal. Voices seemed to generate out of the breeze. The stars became a cyclone of angry alarms. The night was alive, an entity weighing, pressing down, suffocating. I was breathless with fear. Was the mission blown? Silence. Was this how I would end? A failure. I sensed the quiet the unperturbed, I believed we had gone unnoticed. The voices my own imagination battling my conscience. The sky lifting and I made the mistake of slightly releasing my tensed muscles, the slightest relaxation, imperceptible to most – unless you were fighting for your life.
His struggles renewed, he tossed and pivoted his head, again screams for help escaping his lips. I moved my right hand to my sheath and pulled out my knife. This should be threat enough I thought. I hissed “¡basta, ya, cabron!” We struggled my hand over his mouth trying to silence him, trying to stop the yells, the shouts. I moved my knife to his throat hoping this would be an incentive to stop struggling. The funny thing is when posed with a life and death situation most people fight so I am trying to get him to be quiet, “¡Callate, ya!” and subdued; he chooses to fight.
Elbows are flying into my side, legs are kicking at my shins and we are doing this macabre modern ballet: me struggling to hold on – keep up – subdue. And he bites me my fingers slipping from across his mouth and he seizes the opportunity and bites down on my fingers. The pain is incredible and surprising, too surprising, I jolt my thumb under his jaw to force him to open his mouth like I had been taught, like I had trained for – but I had never trained for this – the sound.
It was unremarkable, but still I hear it now clear as an alarm, just this soft hiss more like a slight fart escaping with a soft pfft. That is how I remember the last throes of life from this boy: farting from his throat. When he bit I had somehow pushed my knife into his throat, not slicing the carotid artery like I was trained, like I had practiced no this was a slop shot, my knife through the neck stabbing the tongue and air from his breathing escaping out of the slushy hole my knife made. Pfft. Pause. Pfft. My fingers were free but now useless with this hole in his throat. I could hold his mouth shut but he could breathe through this makeshift tracheotomy. Now I could not even suffocate him into submission.
Momentarily stunned he began to struggle again, and I merely held on my knife pivoting and swiveling back and forth in his throat as he tried to get away and I tried to hold on. “Mierda.” Sloppily hacking away a brutal butchery. “Mierda, mierda, mierda. Lo siento.” He ceased to struggle, noises like cries and shouts gurgling from his wound. “Lo siento.” We laid on the ground his body slowing down the thrashing less and less. He died slowly, painfully, choking, blood filling his lungs – he died despite my best efforts to kill him.
I laid with him a long while unaware of time traveling around me, I could not cry I willed tears to come but they would not. I mourned: saddened for the loss of his life and the sorry state of mine. I was selfish: I plotted and planned: I could leave his body, it could point to a random murder, drug deal gone bad, an attack by the Sandinistas, a lover’s quarrel, a stupid fight… anything but me and the mission. I had saved the mission, the training exercise was no longer in jeopardy. I had won the fight.
The mission continued I set up the communications array, but I was late. I was chastised for my time delay – my tardiness had put my team in jeopardy. The reprimands rained down on me like the tears I could not produce. I used the castigation to wash out. I would not be a Seal. I walked away from my dressing down, being reminded of what a piece of shit I was, how I was weak and weak minded, how I could not be trusted to be a warrior, how I would have to serve out my duty in the service industry feeding and picking up after the real warriors. I was spit upon by my team members, ridiculed, punched, kicked, sworn at with levels of depravity reserved for the penultimate failure. I shrugged, that night out in the field when I could not cry for the boy I had just murdered, how I had found refuge in the fact that the mission would continue, that I was alive… I vowed I would fight again no more.
And now knowing this, knowing a piece of my 40 year struggle of hearing your pithy insults, the bumping in the hallway, the punches and kicks in the back, the throwing of obscenities and other objects, the disrespect… the question you need to ask yourself is do you really want me to relapse from my vow of non-violence? Or do you want to be reasonable and get me that cup of coffee?”
