Angry Management by Chris Crutcher
Again Maxwell reaches for the mike, and again Montana holds it out of his reach. He grabs her shoulder.
“What are you going to do, Daddy, hit me? Go ahead. I’m not giving you this mike. If you have something to say, speak up.”
The crowd remains silent, staring. Maxwell stares back.
“Speak up, Daddy. Tell them why you’re willing to let people suffer just so you can look good.”
“You listen here, you ungrateful little…Don’t you try to get these people thinking I’m some kind of monster because you can’t get your way with me or because you can’t get that foolish article published. And don’t try to pretend that you don’t look for things to write about that you know will offend decent people. You look for trouble, and you get trouble. That’s what this is really about. You find a teacher to back you—always one that thinks it’s more important to be your friend than your guide—then you try to make those of us holding a moral standard for our school and our community look like monsters.” Maxwell’s face is flushed, and he begins to stammer.
Take a look, John and Jane Public, Montana thinks. This is what Maxwell West looks like when he can’t have control.
She goes for the kill, again referencing the article that will never see the light of day, but which will be talked about around town for a long time after this night.
“I don’t have to try to make you look like monsters,” she says. “You’re worse than monsters. You don’t even believe in the freedom you preach. Did you hear yourself a minute ago? You said, ‘If you’re under eighteen in this country, you don’t have any rights.’ My research says that’s not exactly correct, but it also says you can probably get away with whatever you want if you’re not challenged. But I don’t get it. Why do you want us to live in an environment that isn’t real? Every kid in this room will be an adult in four years or sooner. Every time you tell us we can’t express ourselves after that, we can tell you to go to hell. Well, fine, Daddy. You win tonight. But you don’t win the intellectual argument; you win a control-freak argument. You guys are all scared, and I know how scared you are by how red your face is and how much you wish you could hit me right now. Look at you; you’re ready to explode. So like I said, you win, but I can still say it. Go to hell.”
Maxwell West’s eyes narrow. In a voice that is barely picked up by the microphone, he says, “We took you when nobody would take you, you little snot. We raised you as decently as we knew how. We gave you all of what you needed and most of what you wanted. We took you to church every week. And how do you repay us? You talk like a whore and you dress like a witch. A tramp witch. By God, understand this. I’m glad I had the good sense to get rid of Tara before she had a chance to grow up and ruin my household the way you did. I’m glad she’s gone and I’m glad you’re gone. I know how to return decency to my household and I know how to keep decency in the school. I took care of the former a month ago, and I’m taking care of the latter right now.” He looks up at more than a hundred sets of eyes on him, seems disoriented a moment, then sets his jaw.
Montana turns to the still-silent crowd. “There you have it, folks. There’s the real guy you elected to your school board. On behalf of the student body of Bear Creek High, I’d like to say thanks a lot!”
The Bear Creek Barb
Op-Ed/Obituary
Thursday, April 7
Mari Chase died yesterday of cancer. She is survived by her grandson, Trey Chase, as well as Montana West, who considered Mari her guardian angel. Mari was only sixty-two years old. Foulmouthed, funny, and wise, she admittedly did a horrible job raising her own daughter, Asia. When Asia fell into a world of drug and alcohol abuse and domestic violence, Mari took her only son and tried to right the wrongs she had committed with Asia all those years ago; tried to stop the awful flood of dysfunction roaring down through her generations. She’s gone now, but she did it. Trey Chase finished the year as the leading rusher on the state champion Bear Creek High School football team and has enrolled at Eastern Washington State University on a full football scholarship. He is quoted as saying he wants to play football, sleep with a lot of girls, and maintain his C- average through to graduation. His girlfriend, the above-mentioned Montana West and the author of this piece, is quoted as saying the C- average is a generous exaggeration, but if he wants to sleep with a lot of girls, he better get a lot tougher than he is because she’s going to Eastern on a full academic scholarship and has promised to print the name of every girl he sleeps with in the Easterner, Eastern’s soon-to-be highly touted newspaper.
Mari Chase was denied the legal use of medical marijuana to ease the constant pain of her disease for the last year and a half of her courageous life. But Mari was resourceful, and her grandson, who she fondly referred to as Dr. Chase when he presented her with her “filled prescription” at the beginning of each week, had an incredibly green thumb for a football player. “I’ve given up my license to practice,” he said when confronted by this reporter with the random drug testing he will face at the university.
Several months ago, at a school board hearing on censorship for the Bear Creek High School newspaper, the president of the Bear Creek school board said, “If you’re under eighteen in this culture, you have no rights.” That statement was the basis for censoring an op-ed piece supporting the use of medical marijuana. What the president should have said is, “If you’re a student at Bear Creek High School, you have no rights.”
As the existence of this column, indeed this newspaper, makes evident, he was wrong.
Next Week: Read the first in Montana West’s three-part investigative series on medical marijuana. And watch for her subsequent series on the overwhelmed child protection and foster care system and the children who fall victim to that system.
Remember, the money you spend for the Bear Creek Barb adds to the college fund of the person who sells it. When you close your eyes each night in the warmth of your down comforter, remember that, though she has a college scholarship, the person who handed you this paper will get no help from her family with incidentals needed for a proper higher education. Heavy tipping is appreciated!
Nak’s Notes
First Impressions
Transcribed directly from digital recorder
NAME: Matt Miller
AGE: 17
REASONS TO BE PISSED: Well, hell, he’s a teenager. That does it right there.
SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERISTICS: Plenty of self-esteem, articulate, intelligent, athletic, good-looking kid. What the hell is he doing here?
COPING SKILLS: Seems to have about all he needs.
PROGNOSIS: Gotta like his chances.
NAME: Marcus James
AGE: 17
REASONS TO BE PISSED: A gay black kid in the inland Northwest. Shoot me.
SIGNIFICANT CHARACTERISTICS: Gay black kid in the inland Northwest. Gay black kid in the inland Northwest who’s still standing. Big-time IQ. Helluva granddad. IQ. Lots of ambition. In your face.
COPING SKILLS: Sense of humor, ability to come right back at ya, Ivy League smart, on a good day knows to keep his head down.
PROGNOSIS: who knows? if I was him I’d make tracks soon as I graduated.
Meet Me at the Gates, Marcus James
Marcus
I walk into Mr. S’s class after first lunch, late as usual, and slip into my seat in the back row.
“Mr. James. Nice of you to join us.” Mr. S talks like that; says “Nice of you to join us” when he means “You’re late again, Marcus.”
“I’m in great demand,” I tell him. “Got to spread myself thin sometimes.”
“Well, spread yourself thicker,” he says. “When you get to Stanford, your professors may not recognize your well-concealed brilliance the way I do. What is that around your neck?”
“That would be a noose, sir.” I bring the knot from the back to the front and hold it up. “Nicely tied. Like it?”
“I don’t like it and don’t call me sir unless you mean it. Would you mind telling me why
“It was hanging on my locker,” I tell him. “Whoever put it there must’a wanted me to wear it. It’s one of the best I’ve seen, sir, and I’ve seen a few; I did a research paper. Thirteen wraps. Nice and tight. Plus, it’s pink. That’s two birds with one rope. A lot of work went into this.”
Mr. S gets all serious right quick. “That was hanging on your locker?”
“Yes, sir.”
He is instantly jack-jawed; surveys the room. Like that? I said “surveys.” This boy was perfect on his SAT verbals. “Who knows anything about this?”
I see Marshall and Strickland shoot each other a quick look across the room; everyone else stays turned at their desks, staring at me. I smile and nod.
Mr. S says, “This is a hate crime. You all know that, right?”
Marilyn Steelman says, “That’s awful. That’s just awful.”
Marshall leans over to Ray Stone and whispers, “Oooooo. It’s awful.”
Mr. S walks to Marshall, who sits two desks over from me. “Did you have something to do with this, Roger?”
“No, sir. It’s a hate crime.” They lock eyes, and a whole bunch of air goes out of the room. Mr. S is one of the few teachers who doesn’t cut Marshall some slack ’cause he’s a stud ballplayer, and Marshall doesn’t appreciate that. He’d bail on this class if it wasn’t U.S. Government, which is required for him to graduate to his waiting career as a psycho-murderer and serial rapist.
“Stone?”
“No, sir. It’s a hate crime.”
Mr. S nods slowly and walks to Strickland’s desk. “Aaron? You keepin’ to the code like your buddies?”
“No code, sir. It’s a hate crime.”
It’s pretty sure these guys did it, but it’s possible not because they’d want you to think it even if it were somebody else’s primo idea. You can tell Mr. S doesn’t think we need to look further, but, innocent till proven you fucked up, you know; and this is U.S. Government, where supposedly that’s not just an empty platitude. “Keep it civil till I get the library aide to come down and watch you hoodlums,” he says to the class. “Come with me, Marcus.”
“Man,” I say. “They hang a noose on my locker and I go to the office. A gay black dude can’t get a break in this town.”
“A little less talk, a little more do, Marcus. Follow me.” In the hall he says, “We’re gonna get to the bottom of this.”
“No bottom to get,” I say. “If Marshall didn’t do it, he threatened to take the life of the guy he made do it for him. No point goin’ to see The Bean. Conference championship game in three weeks if they stay undefeated. Shee. Marshall could rape The Bean’s daughter and he’d get one day in-home suspension. And that day would be a Sunday.”
Mr. S says, “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”
We continue down the hall. “Man, if I’d known you were going to take me to The Bean, I might have put the brakes on my civil disobedience.”
“I’ve got your back on this one, Marcus. We’re going to be sure Mr. Bean knows the seriousness. Of course you know he’ll make you take it off, right? Now that you’ve made your point.”
Mr. S knows me, knows I like to make my point and then maybe make it again and maybe again after that to be sure everybody got it. When you are the single man or woman of color in a school of nine hundred and your sexual preference matches one out of ten, you figure ways to hold your own. One person of color went here before me, but he graduated a couple of years before my time. He didn’t have Roger Marshall to deal with; he had his uncle, also a stud football player and also a man who liked to make other folks’ lives risky.
When I don’t answer, Mr. S says it again. “Uh, your point. You’ve made it, right Marcus?”
“You think?”
“You don’t?”
“Let’s see what The Bean thinks.”
Mr. S shakes his head. “This isn’t going the way I’d like. Do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call him The Bean to his face.”
“A noose.”
“Yes sir. An’ this here’s a noose of a different color. Pink.”
“On your locker.”
“On my locker.”
“Was there a note?” The Bean wants to know.
“It’s a noose.”
Mr. S closes his eyes and smiles.
“Tell you what, Mr. James, why don’t you hand that over and we’ll see what we can do about discovering who put it there.”
Mr. S sports a grimace.
“Nah, I’ll keep it,” I tell him. “I wouldn’t want it gettin’ lost in the evidence room.”
The Bean stiffens. “I’m not about to let you wear it outside this office, Mr. James.”
“It was a gift, sir. It would be impolite not to wear it. Should you need it down the road, it’ll be right here.”
The Bean sucks big air and looks toward the ceiling. The Bean is known, on occasion, to explode. It is said he’s learning to increase the interval between explosions; they can be embarrassing. I know how he wants this to go, and it ain’t goin’ that way. I walk around this school in somebody’s crosshairs most of the time, and in this instance I think it’s best to publicize the buildup to the possible crime against my person, in order to make the crime itself not happen. Expose the bad guys so if something happens to you, all eyes turn on them. My man MLK Jr. used to do that and…oops, maybe not the best example. I don’t like how he never reached forty. But you get the point.
“You are not wearing that out of this office. Period.”
“We got a dress code?”
“Mr. Simet, would you like to explain to Mr. James why he isn’t wearing that noose around my school?”
“My next success explaining something to Mr. James will be my first,” Mr. S says. “Go right ahead.”
“So you’re going to side with him? The one thing you’ve never understood as a teacher—”
We may be closing in on that exploding bean. CHS is awash with rumors about the War Between Mr. S and The Bean.
“Maybe you’d like Marcus to wait in the outer office while we discuss this,” Mr. S says.
Mr. S
Boy, some kids come and go, and some get into your gut. Not much you can do about it but hang with them and try to walk them through. Take Marcus James. The boy’s got an IQ through the roof. But he’s black in a school where that makes him a minority of one, and he’s openly gay—in the sense that he doesn’t deny it—which puts him in even rarer air, and he’s in your face. He’s extremely well-read for a high schooler, and vocal about what he reads, which doesn’t make him a favorite with some of his teachers, particularly those who are not extremely well-read. If those aren’t enough identifying characteristics, he swims open water in the lake to “keep his head on right.” A gay, black, open-water-swimming Einstein. Tell me the universe doesn’t have a sense of humor.
Now somebody’s hung a noose on his locker, and I’m face-to-face with Principal Andrew Bean, considering whether or not I should make a case for letting him wear it.
“I need your backing on this, John,” Andy says. “Don’t let this be an issue you fight me on. You won’t win.”
“Can’t let this one be about you and me,” I say, raising my hands in mock surrender. “What do you plan to do about it?”
“I’m going to confiscate and destroy it,” Andy says. “Then we’re going to keep our ears open to see if we can discover who perpetrated this…act, and see that they’re duly punished.”
If you play your cards right, you can get through to Andy. He and I have had some famous rifts, and I’m as opinionated as he is, but middle ground exists. He wants to do right by the kids, but he’ll protect the reputation of the school above all else. One parent challenges a book over in the English department, and Andy is there immediately, leafing through every book by that author in an attempt to discover ahea
It won’t be an easy sell; he wants it to disappear. “And after the noose is destroyed, who do you think is going to whisper the names of the culprits into our eager ears?” I ask him. “Sorry, Andy, this has ‘gridiron heroes’ written all over it.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. We can’t come out pointing fingers.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t have to bring you up to date on nooses in this country’s history, right? This will bring bad publicity if we don’t handle it right.”
“I’m not an idiot, Simet.”
That remains to be seen. “You remember the Jena Six.”
“You’re not going to compare this with that. This is completely different.”
“Let’s see,” I say, “some racist kid or kids hang a noose on a black kid’s locker here. In Jena, they hung three nooses from a tree. Here they made the noose pink to make sure they covered all their bases. If I were an English teacher, which I once was, I might see a theme of bigotry and hatred.”
“The larger point,” Andy says right back through slightly gritted teeth, “is that Jena is in the heart of Louisiana, where racism has a long and colorful history, if you’ll pardon the pun. The tension there goes back pre-Civil War. We live, if you haven’t noticed, in the Northwest. Our school has one African-American student, who also happens to be gay and a little on the loud side, and who doesn’t have the good sense to keep below the radar; he flaunts his intellect at every turn. I know this place is more conservative than you’d like, Simet, but it is not the Deep South and we are not going to have a racial ‘incident.’ It’s a jock culture, and while I agree jocks can be pretty single-minded, that’s not all bad. Now I don’t agree with someone hanging a noose on an African-American kid’s locker, but this is going to be over.”