building on the opposite side of the Fitchville Community College campus. It was a five-minute walk. This particular day she noticed that signs had been spray-painted: DO NOT ENTER at the truck-loading drive by the administration building had become DO NOT ENTER U.S. WARS; DEAD END had been cleverly transmogrified to read GRATEFUL DEAD HEAD ; one STOP sign now read STOP IN THE NAME OF LOVE ; another read simply STOP, YOU BITCH .
· · ·
“ ‘Thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead’? Who is this asshole?” Somebody else in the back, dressed all in orange burlap, frowned.
The teacher had already passed out the photocopies and given the assignment. “It’s God,” she said. “Would someone like to read this aloud for us?” She looked around the classroom. Twenty faces with the personalities of cheeses and dial tones. “Well, then,” she continued. “I’ll read it.” And she began, dangerously: “ ‘The Song of Songs, which is Solomon’s. O that you would kiss me with the kisses of your mouth / For your love is better than wine …’ ” The teacher raised her eyes slightly to note any squirming, any gasps. They looked inert, frozen as fish sticks.
It took a long time to read, though people did seem finally to be listening, silently reading along.
“ ‘Make haste, my beloved, and be like a gazelle or a young stag upon the mountains of spices.’ ” The bell rang on “stag.” “Okay,” she commanded, damp with perspiration. “Don’t forget:
Your
poems next time.” There was a clumping and galumphing, a sliding of chairs across the floor. The teacher looked down, shuffled papers. A black student named Darrel Erni paused by her side as everyone drifted past him.
“Ms. Carpenter?” he said.
The teacher looked up. The student was smiling. She had noticed him before, on Monday. He seemed older or wiser or was it merely that he was more battered and less worried about it. It was all the same, she guessed.
“I just wanted to say that I liked the poem very much. And I liked the way you read it.”
The teacher knew asskissers from way back. They lingered after the period was over, they separated themselves from the rest of the huge cryogenic experiment that was the class, they cooed, they beamed, they twinkled. They wanted you to make them yourassistant. Yet something was different here. He nodded. She liked nodders. His eyes were slightly pink, slightly shiny. Had he really been moved? Or was he on drugs like the rest of the class? “Well,” she said, all helpful teacherliness. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“It’s beautiful, you know, just beautiful.” He had an old fatigue jacket on and the anthology tucked up under one arm. He hunched up his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets, and sauntered backwards toward the door. He winked and gestured with his head. “This is a neat class.”
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” she said, something almost happy rushing to her face. She liked this Darrel Erni. But then he turned and was off down the hall with a quick padding and bounce of sneakers.
George and I send out for pizza. When it arrives, we eat in front of the TV, watching the news. “So what did you talk about in class today, George?” Cheese stretches like delicate tusks from bitten wedge to mouth.
She sighs. “We did reading groups—redsies and greensies. Then we talked about going to a dairy farm to see the cows.” George picks off the bits of green pepper and anchovies. “No cat food pizza for me,” she says. The commercial is Oil of Olay and everyone in it, though old, is happy and smooth.
“You should eat the peppers, George. They have vitamin A in them. They help you get A’s.”
She ignores me, continues vegetableless through her piece.
“I get it. You’re a redsie not a greensie, is that it?”
“Redsies are the dumb ones,” she says. “I’m a green for green light. That’s what Mrs. Turners said.”
“What’s the red?
· · ·
“ ‘Thy hair is as a flock of goats that appear from Mount Gilead’? Who is this asshole?” Somebody else in the back, dressed all in orange burlap, frowned.
The teacher had already passed out the photocopies and given the assignment. “It’s God,” she said. “Would someone like to read this aloud for us?” She looked around the classroom. Twenty faces with the personalities of cheeses and dial tones. “Well, then,” she continued. “I’ll read it.” And she began, dangerously: “ ‘The Song of Songs, which is Solomon’s. O that you would kiss me with the kisses of your mouth / For your love is better than wine …’ ” The teacher raised her eyes slightly to note any squirming, any gasps. They looked inert, frozen as fish sticks.
It took a long time to read, though people did seem finally to be listening, silently reading along.
“ ‘Make haste, my beloved, and be like a gazelle or a young stag upon the mountains of spices.’ ” The bell rang on “stag.” “Okay,” she commanded, damp with perspiration. “Don’t forget:
Your
poems next time.” There was a clumping and galumphing, a sliding of chairs across the floor. The teacher looked down, shuffled papers. A black student named Darrel Erni paused by her side as everyone drifted past him.
“Ms. Carpenter?” he said.
The teacher looked up. The student was smiling. She had noticed him before, on Monday. He seemed older or wiser or was it merely that he was more battered and less worried about it. It was all the same, she guessed.
“I just wanted to say that I liked the poem very much. And I liked the way you read it.”
The teacher knew asskissers from way back. They lingered after the period was over, they separated themselves from the rest of the huge cryogenic experiment that was the class, they cooed, they beamed, they twinkled. They wanted you to make them yourassistant. Yet something was different here. He nodded. She liked nodders. His eyes were slightly pink, slightly shiny. Had he really been moved? Or was he on drugs like the rest of the class? “Well,” she said, all helpful teacherliness. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“It’s beautiful, you know, just beautiful.” He had an old fatigue jacket on and the anthology tucked up under one arm. He hunched up his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets, and sauntered backwards toward the door. He winked and gestured with his head. “This is a neat class.”
“Glad you’re enjoying it,” she said, something almost happy rushing to her face. She liked this Darrel Erni. But then he turned and was off down the hall with a quick padding and bounce of sneakers.
George and I send out for pizza. When it arrives, we eat in front of the TV, watching the news. “So what did you talk about in class today, George?” Cheese stretches like delicate tusks from bitten wedge to mouth.
She sighs. “We did reading groups—redsies and greensies. Then we talked about going to a dairy farm to see the cows.” George picks off the bits of green pepper and anchovies. “No cat food pizza for me,” she says. The commercial is Oil of Olay and everyone in it, though old, is happy and smooth.
“You should eat the peppers, George. They have vitamin A in them. They help you get A’s.”
She ignores me, continues vegetableless through her piece.
“I get it. You’re a redsie not a greensie, is that it?”
“Redsies are the dumb ones,” she says. “I’m a green for green light. That’s what Mrs. Turners said.”
“What’s the red?
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