Thursday, May 31, 2012
Summer Begins
“Ella es una trollop.” She rolled her eyes.
“Usted no sabe su.” Her brother said lazily, eyes glued to his comic book. You could tell he was getting a bit annoyed.
Ham shifted in his seat. I saw him open one eye in my rearview mirror. “Importa? Ella no está con nosotros este verano.”
“Mantenerse fuera de este Hamilton.” She did her Popeye look.
“Él habla de la verdad,” Scooter muttered.
Scoompi noticed me watching them in the rearview. The missus was next to me, gently snoring. She shook her head.
“Hal tatakallam al-lughah al-'arabīyah?”, Scoompi turned to Ham.
“Na'am, qalīlan.” He pushed his glasses up his nose.
Scooter grunted.
In unison, they asked, “Are we there yet?”
Summer vacation.
Friday, March 2, 2012
The End
I awoke with a start.
“Haaaaaallllleeeeluiaaaaaaaaaaa…hallellulia…haa-laaaaay—looo-yaaaaaaa!”
The high pitched voice echoed throughout the house.
“Really?” I groaned.
“All children go through phases,” said the missus, snuggling under the covers.
“Lamb of Gaaaaaaawd! You take away the sins of the woooooooorld…have merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcy ooooooon us…”
There was a knock at our bedroom door.
“She’s interrupting my morning prayer,” muttered my son after I answered, “Come in!” He looked suspiciously sleepy for one who supposedly had been prostrate upon a rug, praying.
“The Loooooooooooooooooooord…be wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiith you!”
“It is…a bit…loud,” I admitted.
“I believe in religious freedom,” my son said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “This, however, is a bit much. We’re going on two weeks now. You two have to DO something.”
Mothers are civilized. Fathers are usually rather determined, wealthier versions of children. Not that much wealthier. Face it, though. Being a Dad is like being a big kid who has a bunch of responsibilities. Your logic, however, is still sometimes that of a kid.
Which is why I was thinking of a modern day crusades between my two offspring and giggling evilly.
“What,” my son said with a hint of malice, “is SO funny?”
“Haaaaaallllleeeeluiaaaaaaaaaaa…hallellulia…haa-laaaaay—looo-yaaaaaaa!” Scoompi shrieked, before I heard the bathroom door open. There was another knock at my door.
“Come in,” I said wearily.
My eight year old walked in, her head covered and a peaceful, beatific smile on her face.
“Is my wimple straight?” she asked innocently, doing a 360 so we could all get a view of the kerchief covering her head.
“I’m in favor of girls covering their head,” Scooter began, “but Allie, this early morning singing has GOTTA stop.”
Scoompi turned her face up towards her brother. “Jesus doesn’t like it when you say things like that. I was going through my early devotions.”
“Jesus,” Scooter exhaled, “was JUST a prophet. A GREAT prophet…but a prophet…he is dead. The government executed him after political pressure from his own people…he cannot hear you sing nor is he hating ANYONE…the Mosaic faiths…”
“Wait,” I said, putting up a hand and sitting up in my bed. How the missus could lie through all of this, snoring is beyond me. “Get ready for school. Both of you. I don’t want to hear any of this right now. Get out of here, Scooter, you get dressed, and Scoompi, you…go do…I dunno. Little nun things or something. Just get out of my room.”
Scooter left, shaking his head. Scoompi smiled and said gently, “And with your spirit,” and backed out.
“There are convents you can send her to NOW, y’know!” my son threw over his shoulder.
“Jesus loves you, Heathen,” Babygirl said sweetly.
Only in my house.
Three weeks prior, Scoompi had come home with yet another parent note, which meant yet another detention. She was accumulating quite a file in the office, but what worked in her favor was that every teacher in the building found her adorable.
Except one.
Tired of waging an uphill battle, of being referred to as “Big Booty” and having her credentials as a nun and an educator questioned, Sr. Mary Tamika went on the offensive. Straight up and down, black and white. If it was a broken rule, no matter how arcane, no matter how innate, Scoompi was written up for it. It was awful, because apparently, even other teachers were viewing all of this discipline as an unfair singling out of a little girl that, in their classrooms, was as sweet as pie. Sympathy didn’t help, however. Scoompi was running on a week straight of recess detention when she came home one day, that familiar glint in her eye, and told me, “Daddy, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. They better be careful, though. They may not want me as a member in their club.”
I was drafting a letter to the secretary of Indian affairs, so I grunted in assent, “Go get ‘em, Babygirl.”
Since then, Scoompi had been Super Catholic. It was amusing at first. Then it was a bit off putting.
It was now crazy.
My house constantly reverberated with prayers, off key hymns and Jesus talk. I understand that at school, my daughter had become a model student in religion class, praying louder than anyone, always raising her hand, and making it known that her goal in life was to become a nun. She had taken to holding prayer circles with friends and quizzing Sr. Mary Tamika regularly on vows, holy orders, and the like. It was like living with a zealot.
The Missus served catfish one night, only to be told, "JESUS kept KOSHER!"
My son’s interest in the faith of his grandparents grown exponentially since his sister’s conversion to Fanaticism. Something would have to quit. I felt like I was in the middle of some religious experience that may or may not have been rooted in something sincere.
After school that day, Ham came over wearing a hooded brown cloak over his play clothes. He had a rope tied around his waist in place of a belt.
“Hey, Ham!”
“H’lo, Sir.” He adjusted his glasses.
“Hmmm…what’s with the rope?”
“Scoompi says I have to wear it. I’m studying to be a father in a religious order.” He looked more like a Jedi knight in training.
Babygirl walked downstairs. “Not a father…a brother. Priests are in charge of nuns. We’re not ready for that yet. One of the things I have to work on. You will be Brother Hamilton. More equality that way.”
I shook my head. Ham shrugged and they went off to play outside.
When Ham’s mother picked him up, I stuck my head in her car window and patted her Afro.
“You are like a large three year old,” she laughed. “You and Ham always do that. Leave my hair alone!”
I patted again. Faith laughed and said, “Hey, you know I’m on the committee for the fun fair. I need volunteers Doc. Can I count on your help?”
I cringed. I didn’t mind writing tuition checks, and helping out around the church was fine too. The fun fair, however, was always a zoo. All of the school kids outside, on the last day, pretty much exempt from punishment, hopped up on sugar, live music, a dunk tank, baked goods, ice cream and the like.
Then again, with child number one finding himself in another faith, and child number two being the poster child for “Convents R Us”, this might be a good year to help out. I could then use that as leverage in the years to come when I need to beg my way out of helping.
“C’mon, Man,” Faith said, picking out her natural. She shot me a sly look.
“Your girlfriend agreed to be in the dunk tank this year. You know that means she’s gonna be in a swimsuit…”
Even if Sr. Mary Tamika wore one of those long sleeved, two piece numbers from the turn of the LAST century, the combination of her and water was too good to pass up. Plus, with Babygirl on her best behavior, what was the worry?
Faith went on. “Yeah, she just agreed to do it. Like, yesterday. I guess she had some misgivings but said she’d been recently blessed with having a situation right itself. So she said it would be great fun.”
A light went off in the back of my head, but I ignored it.
“Faith?”
“Yeah man?”
“What do you think about, um, this whole, nun thing?”
“I was JUST telling Hamilton the other day that there are people in his class he will be friends with for life, and that I’d LOVE to see where they were in thirty years. Alexandra is one. Your daughter is SO…”
I let Faith ramble. We were good friends, and she loved my kids like I did hers. There was, however, a conspiracy afoot regarding this whole religious conversion, and it surprised me that she didn’t see it.
When they left, I sat Babygirl down for a heart to heart.
“Hey, Pumpkin. Good to see you,” I started.
“And with your spirit,” she said sweetly.
“You know, I’ll never get used to those changes…anyway, Babe…tell me…how’s the nun thing going?”
She smiled sweetly.
“I mean, you’re walking around with your head covered. You have poor Ham facing a life of celibacy and wearing a rope for a belt for a LONG time…is it worth it?”
I thought I saw a crack.
“Jesus loves you,” she said.
“Scoompi, I’m a bit worried…I mean, it’s a good thing to have faith, Baby, but do you think you are going a bit far?”
She smiled sweetly and said, “I will pray for you.”
“Something’s wrong,” I told the missus.
“Why?”
“The baby…”
“She’s NOT a baby…her homework is getting done, she helps around the house, she is obedient…I haven’t had to pop her in weeks now. I LOVE it.”
“Our child thinks she’s a nun…”
“It’s a phase…she will grow out of it. For now, I am enjoying the peace…”
I went to my son.
“Scooter?”
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Your sister?”
He stretched. “It’s a bit overboard, but you know what? Spirituality is a good thing. She will grow out of it. She’s been a lot mellower. After school, instead of running into me screaming ‘I LOVE YOU!’ she just walked up and smiled and says she hopes the Lord granted me a good day. Freaks K.O out, but I like this kinder, gentler Allie…”
“She is NOT ALLIE, NOR Sister Mary Alexandra…Scooter, listen…that is STILL Scoompi…remember the talent show? Soccer? How about ‘Bad Friday’? The geese thing when she was four?”
“Dad, Dad,” he stood, almost my height. He put a hand on my shoulder. “She’s growing up. You worry too much. Some people DO change…I’m praying in a while. Wanna join me?”
I took a rain check.
When she left for school the next day, I searched her room before heading to the office. Some parents think that’s an invasion of privacy. They don’t live with my Babygirl. Truth be told, my kids could be protected by the type of privacy that requires a search warrant to breach…as soon as their address differed from mine.
I found nothing. Some religious tracts (“Discovering Your Inner Nun”, “God Still Wants You, Even If the World Don’t”) but nothing to reassure me some conspiracy was afoot.
On fun fair day, I did a perimeter check. The block long lot surrounded by the school, rectory and church was more or less in order. The statue at the far end of Jesus talking to children was still on its pedestal. The teenage band was singing its heart out, loud but appropriate. Kids were milling around, enjoying cotton candy and other way too sugary treats. I worked the concession stand for about an hour and saw my son walking around with a young lady who was almost his height. She had straight, long black hair and his mother’s coloring. He sauntered over towards us.
“Hey, Dad…two lemonades…”
I looked from him to her. Him. Her. Her. Him.
“Who’s paying for this, Scooter?”
He laughed this patronizing laugh while shooting me the eye of sudden death.
“Of course, I am. Did you think I’d make a lady pay?”
“No,” I sighed, “I thought you’d make ME pay. Here you go,” I handed over the lemonade and his change. I gave him a “Who’s this?” look.
“Oh, Dad, this is my friend Rachel. Rachel, this is my Dad, Dr….”
Before I could say, “Nice to meet you,” I spied Ham, in a brown hooded robe, sunglasses on, walking towards a group of other 8 year olds similarly attired.
How did I miss this?
“Oh, hi Rachel. That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Scooter always talks about you. He says you are doing research on Native Americans?”
“Uh, yeah, as a hobby.”
“We should talk sometime. I’d love to see what you’ve learned. I hear you’re a really well respected scholar…”
Well, the young lady had taste.
“Sure. Have Scoot bring you by anytime…Love to meet your parents…oops, kids, I got a line. I’ll see ya’ll around.” I reached in my pocket and found a bill. When I gave it to Scooter, I was disappointed to see it was a ten. I THOUGHT I had some singles…
“Have a good time kids!”
As they walked off, I heard her say, “I think that’s SO cute he still calls you ‘Scooter’…”
“Don’t humor him…”
The robed kids had disappeared. Father Mike drifted by and ordered lemonade.
“Hey, Doc,” he said. “Nice day.”
Just the man I needed to see.
“Padre,” I said, “look…this nun thing…Scoompi…”
He held up his hand. “I was going to talk to you about that. I know it may seem a bit much, but God speaks and works in strange ways. While her calling is early, I think, if it is a phase, she will grow out of it. I will say, this, though…I had a talk with Alexandra earlier today, and told her to really spend this summer thinking about whether she really wanted to devote her life to this duty so early, or if she wanted to work on being an 8 year old kid. I mean,” he spread his hands, “she has her WHOLE life ahead of her. I told her today to just be herself. God loves her just the way she is.”
I felt something sink inside of me. “Really? Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Been a priest for a while,” he said. “Seen a lot. Believe me, Doc, Scoompi? She’s a Godsend. But as the little girl who falls asleep in mass when my homilies or too long, or someone who questions why celebrate Jesus’ death, as opposed to his life, teachings and our salvation. Or who keeps certain clergy on their feet. Nope,” he drained his lemonade, “God made us all differently and uses us in different ways. I told her she’s a way better Scoompi than a clone of Sr. Mary Tamika ANY day…”
I wondered if he’d be saying that if he’d had the dream I did some months back, where she bombed the school.
“She’s gonna pull something,” I muttered.
“Shoot,” the tall priest grinned. “Me and Smith got a bet on just what it will be. Be seeing you around, Doc. Thanks for helping out!”
I completed my stint at the stand and walked around the lot. Temptation finally won out, and I sidled over to the dunk tank, where a smiling Sr. Mary Tamika sat in a black one piece swimsuit. Dry as a bone. Apparently, no one had dunked her.
She waved me over.
“Hey, Sister,” I said, trying not to stare. “Nice suit…”
“Haven’t worn anything like this in years,” she laughed her throaty laugh. “Doesn’t look bad, does it?”
My throat was tight. “Nope.”
She twisted on the little platform the suspended her above the water. “I don’t look fat, do I? I mean, shoot…I DO have a lot of, ah, junk in my…”
“You look great, Sister,” I squeaked. “You’re kinda…dry…” I hated the way that came out.
“I know,” she laughed. “Most of the kids have lousy aims. The mothers, too, though they try harder. The fathers who come by don’t even try. One just stopped by, looked and put his money in the box, saying he got what he paid for.”
We both laughed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bunch of robes converge on the band. Then I heard an electrified version of “Halleluiah” and I was torn between leaving Sr. Mary Tamika vulnerable and rushing the stage.
“She’s baaaaaack!” the nun hummed happily.
“Hey ya’ll,” piped up a familiar voice.
There was a roar from the crowd.
“It’s OK,” Sr. Mary Tamika said softly. I’ll never know whether it was planned or just a child’s changing of her mind. It was quiet for a while, though…”
“…I guess that I just gotta be meeee!” she sang.
“Yeah,” I said.
The bass began pounding out a familiar tune. The guitars were wailing.
“Aaaaah…shot the sister…but ah didn’t shoot the priest you see…oh, no no!”
I saw Mr. Smith hand Fr. Mike some money.
“All around, in my school town…they trying, to track me down…they say dey wanna bring me in guiltee…for da soaking of Sistah Mary Teee…for da soaking, of Sistah Mary Tee…and ah say…” she was singing and doing her dance on the platform with the statue. Somewhere Bob Marley was laughing in revolutionary camaraderie.
While Sr. Mary Tamika and I shared a laugh, we failed to notice the group of young people in brown robes were setting up a tripod a few feet from the dunk tank. As the guitarist went into a solo on “I Shot the Sheriff”, Babygirl ran through the crowd, slapping hands and doing her dance as kids chanted, “Scoompi…Scoompi…”
She stopped in front of the tank and I saw Alex and another boy hoist a large tube onto the tripod.
“Shit,” I said.
‘What?” the nun said.
“She’s sighting!” I dove for the ground just as the bean bag shot from the gun and hit the paddle. Sr. Mary Tamika, a smile and a look of surprise on her face, was above the water one minute and in it the next. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Smith hold out his hand happily as father Mike returned the bills he’d just been handed. As the paddle reset itself, and the nun, dripping wet, tried to haul herself on it, another bean bag fired and she sank into the water again. Mothers in the crowd cheered.
Scoompi sprinted back to the microphone, “I want to close this year out, by thanking all of ya’ll that helped make this a good year. Fr. Mike, Mr. Smith, my big brother Scooter, his best friend K.O, ALL the football and baseball team, and put some folk on notice: that tramp my brother now likes and most of all, Big Booty herself, Sr. Mary Tamika! I got ya’ll! I WILL be back!”
Ham ran up to the tank.
“Sir,” he said, “do you think we can convince Mr. Smith to give us just one more chance? Next year is a NEW year, after all!” He adjusted his glasses and ran off as one of the mothers, sighting down the tube, let another bean bag fly. Sr. Mary Tamika hit the water again. Other mothers lined up, twenties in hand.
“Haaaaaallllleeeeluiaaaaaaaaaaa…hallellulia…haa-laaaaay—looo-yaaaaaaa!”
The high pitched voice echoed throughout the house.
“Really?” I groaned.
“All children go through phases,” said the missus, snuggling under the covers.
“Lamb of Gaaaaaaawd! You take away the sins of the woooooooorld…have merrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcy ooooooon us…”
There was a knock at our bedroom door.
“She’s interrupting my morning prayer,” muttered my son after I answered, “Come in!” He looked suspiciously sleepy for one who supposedly had been prostrate upon a rug, praying.
“The Loooooooooooooooooooord…be wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiith you!”
“It is…a bit…loud,” I admitted.
“I believe in religious freedom,” my son said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “This, however, is a bit much. We’re going on two weeks now. You two have to DO something.”
Mothers are civilized. Fathers are usually rather determined, wealthier versions of children. Not that much wealthier. Face it, though. Being a Dad is like being a big kid who has a bunch of responsibilities. Your logic, however, is still sometimes that of a kid.
Which is why I was thinking of a modern day crusades between my two offspring and giggling evilly.
“What,” my son said with a hint of malice, “is SO funny?”
“Haaaaaallllleeeeluiaaaaaaaaaaa…hallellulia…haa-laaaaay—looo-yaaaaaaa!” Scoompi shrieked, before I heard the bathroom door open. There was another knock at my door.
“Come in,” I said wearily.
My eight year old walked in, her head covered and a peaceful, beatific smile on her face.
“Is my wimple straight?” she asked innocently, doing a 360 so we could all get a view of the kerchief covering her head.
“I’m in favor of girls covering their head,” Scooter began, “but Allie, this early morning singing has GOTTA stop.”
Scoompi turned her face up towards her brother. “Jesus doesn’t like it when you say things like that. I was going through my early devotions.”
“Jesus,” Scooter exhaled, “was JUST a prophet. A GREAT prophet…but a prophet…he is dead. The government executed him after political pressure from his own people…he cannot hear you sing nor is he hating ANYONE…the Mosaic faiths…”
“Wait,” I said, putting up a hand and sitting up in my bed. How the missus could lie through all of this, snoring is beyond me. “Get ready for school. Both of you. I don’t want to hear any of this right now. Get out of here, Scooter, you get dressed, and Scoompi, you…go do…I dunno. Little nun things or something. Just get out of my room.”
Scooter left, shaking his head. Scoompi smiled and said gently, “And with your spirit,” and backed out.
“There are convents you can send her to NOW, y’know!” my son threw over his shoulder.
“Jesus loves you, Heathen,” Babygirl said sweetly.
Only in my house.
Three weeks prior, Scoompi had come home with yet another parent note, which meant yet another detention. She was accumulating quite a file in the office, but what worked in her favor was that every teacher in the building found her adorable.
Except one.
Tired of waging an uphill battle, of being referred to as “Big Booty” and having her credentials as a nun and an educator questioned, Sr. Mary Tamika went on the offensive. Straight up and down, black and white. If it was a broken rule, no matter how arcane, no matter how innate, Scoompi was written up for it. It was awful, because apparently, even other teachers were viewing all of this discipline as an unfair singling out of a little girl that, in their classrooms, was as sweet as pie. Sympathy didn’t help, however. Scoompi was running on a week straight of recess detention when she came home one day, that familiar glint in her eye, and told me, “Daddy, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. They better be careful, though. They may not want me as a member in their club.”
I was drafting a letter to the secretary of Indian affairs, so I grunted in assent, “Go get ‘em, Babygirl.”
Since then, Scoompi had been Super Catholic. It was amusing at first. Then it was a bit off putting.
It was now crazy.
My house constantly reverberated with prayers, off key hymns and Jesus talk. I understand that at school, my daughter had become a model student in religion class, praying louder than anyone, always raising her hand, and making it known that her goal in life was to become a nun. She had taken to holding prayer circles with friends and quizzing Sr. Mary Tamika regularly on vows, holy orders, and the like. It was like living with a zealot.
The Missus served catfish one night, only to be told, "JESUS kept KOSHER!"
My son’s interest in the faith of his grandparents grown exponentially since his sister’s conversion to Fanaticism. Something would have to quit. I felt like I was in the middle of some religious experience that may or may not have been rooted in something sincere.
After school that day, Ham came over wearing a hooded brown cloak over his play clothes. He had a rope tied around his waist in place of a belt.
“Hey, Ham!”
“H’lo, Sir.” He adjusted his glasses.
“Hmmm…what’s with the rope?”
“Scoompi says I have to wear it. I’m studying to be a father in a religious order.” He looked more like a Jedi knight in training.
Babygirl walked downstairs. “Not a father…a brother. Priests are in charge of nuns. We’re not ready for that yet. One of the things I have to work on. You will be Brother Hamilton. More equality that way.”
I shook my head. Ham shrugged and they went off to play outside.
When Ham’s mother picked him up, I stuck my head in her car window and patted her Afro.
“You are like a large three year old,” she laughed. “You and Ham always do that. Leave my hair alone!”
I patted again. Faith laughed and said, “Hey, you know I’m on the committee for the fun fair. I need volunteers Doc. Can I count on your help?”
I cringed. I didn’t mind writing tuition checks, and helping out around the church was fine too. The fun fair, however, was always a zoo. All of the school kids outside, on the last day, pretty much exempt from punishment, hopped up on sugar, live music, a dunk tank, baked goods, ice cream and the like.
Then again, with child number one finding himself in another faith, and child number two being the poster child for “Convents R Us”, this might be a good year to help out. I could then use that as leverage in the years to come when I need to beg my way out of helping.
“C’mon, Man,” Faith said, picking out her natural. She shot me a sly look.
“Your girlfriend agreed to be in the dunk tank this year. You know that means she’s gonna be in a swimsuit…”
Even if Sr. Mary Tamika wore one of those long sleeved, two piece numbers from the turn of the LAST century, the combination of her and water was too good to pass up. Plus, with Babygirl on her best behavior, what was the worry?
Faith went on. “Yeah, she just agreed to do it. Like, yesterday. I guess she had some misgivings but said she’d been recently blessed with having a situation right itself. So she said it would be great fun.”
A light went off in the back of my head, but I ignored it.
“Faith?”
“Yeah man?”
“What do you think about, um, this whole, nun thing?”
“I was JUST telling Hamilton the other day that there are people in his class he will be friends with for life, and that I’d LOVE to see where they were in thirty years. Alexandra is one. Your daughter is SO…”
I let Faith ramble. We were good friends, and she loved my kids like I did hers. There was, however, a conspiracy afoot regarding this whole religious conversion, and it surprised me that she didn’t see it.
When they left, I sat Babygirl down for a heart to heart.
“Hey, Pumpkin. Good to see you,” I started.
“And with your spirit,” she said sweetly.
“You know, I’ll never get used to those changes…anyway, Babe…tell me…how’s the nun thing going?”
She smiled sweetly.
“I mean, you’re walking around with your head covered. You have poor Ham facing a life of celibacy and wearing a rope for a belt for a LONG time…is it worth it?”
I thought I saw a crack.
“Jesus loves you,” she said.
“Scoompi, I’m a bit worried…I mean, it’s a good thing to have faith, Baby, but do you think you are going a bit far?”
She smiled sweetly and said, “I will pray for you.”
“Something’s wrong,” I told the missus.
“Why?”
“The baby…”
“She’s NOT a baby…her homework is getting done, she helps around the house, she is obedient…I haven’t had to pop her in weeks now. I LOVE it.”
“Our child thinks she’s a nun…”
“It’s a phase…she will grow out of it. For now, I am enjoying the peace…”
I went to my son.
“Scooter?”
“Hey, Daddy.”
“Your sister?”
He stretched. “It’s a bit overboard, but you know what? Spirituality is a good thing. She will grow out of it. She’s been a lot mellower. After school, instead of running into me screaming ‘I LOVE YOU!’ she just walked up and smiled and says she hopes the Lord granted me a good day. Freaks K.O out, but I like this kinder, gentler Allie…”
“She is NOT ALLIE, NOR Sister Mary Alexandra…Scooter, listen…that is STILL Scoompi…remember the talent show? Soccer? How about ‘Bad Friday’? The geese thing when she was four?”
“Dad, Dad,” he stood, almost my height. He put a hand on my shoulder. “She’s growing up. You worry too much. Some people DO change…I’m praying in a while. Wanna join me?”
I took a rain check.
When she left for school the next day, I searched her room before heading to the office. Some parents think that’s an invasion of privacy. They don’t live with my Babygirl. Truth be told, my kids could be protected by the type of privacy that requires a search warrant to breach…as soon as their address differed from mine.
I found nothing. Some religious tracts (“Discovering Your Inner Nun”, “God Still Wants You, Even If the World Don’t”) but nothing to reassure me some conspiracy was afoot.
On fun fair day, I did a perimeter check. The block long lot surrounded by the school, rectory and church was more or less in order. The statue at the far end of Jesus talking to children was still on its pedestal. The teenage band was singing its heart out, loud but appropriate. Kids were milling around, enjoying cotton candy and other way too sugary treats. I worked the concession stand for about an hour and saw my son walking around with a young lady who was almost his height. She had straight, long black hair and his mother’s coloring. He sauntered over towards us.
“Hey, Dad…two lemonades…”
I looked from him to her. Him. Her. Her. Him.
“Who’s paying for this, Scooter?”
He laughed this patronizing laugh while shooting me the eye of sudden death.
“Of course, I am. Did you think I’d make a lady pay?”
“No,” I sighed, “I thought you’d make ME pay. Here you go,” I handed over the lemonade and his change. I gave him a “Who’s this?” look.
“Oh, Dad, this is my friend Rachel. Rachel, this is my Dad, Dr….”
Before I could say, “Nice to meet you,” I spied Ham, in a brown hooded robe, sunglasses on, walking towards a group of other 8 year olds similarly attired.
How did I miss this?
“Oh, hi Rachel. That’s a pretty name.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Scooter always talks about you. He says you are doing research on Native Americans?”
“Uh, yeah, as a hobby.”
“We should talk sometime. I’d love to see what you’ve learned. I hear you’re a really well respected scholar…”
Well, the young lady had taste.
“Sure. Have Scoot bring you by anytime…Love to meet your parents…oops, kids, I got a line. I’ll see ya’ll around.” I reached in my pocket and found a bill. When I gave it to Scooter, I was disappointed to see it was a ten. I THOUGHT I had some singles…
“Have a good time kids!”
As they walked off, I heard her say, “I think that’s SO cute he still calls you ‘Scooter’…”
“Don’t humor him…”
The robed kids had disappeared. Father Mike drifted by and ordered lemonade.
“Hey, Doc,” he said. “Nice day.”
Just the man I needed to see.
“Padre,” I said, “look…this nun thing…Scoompi…”
He held up his hand. “I was going to talk to you about that. I know it may seem a bit much, but God speaks and works in strange ways. While her calling is early, I think, if it is a phase, she will grow out of it. I will say, this, though…I had a talk with Alexandra earlier today, and told her to really spend this summer thinking about whether she really wanted to devote her life to this duty so early, or if she wanted to work on being an 8 year old kid. I mean,” he spread his hands, “she has her WHOLE life ahead of her. I told her today to just be herself. God loves her just the way she is.”
I felt something sink inside of me. “Really? Do you know what you’ve done?”
“Been a priest for a while,” he said. “Seen a lot. Believe me, Doc, Scoompi? She’s a Godsend. But as the little girl who falls asleep in mass when my homilies or too long, or someone who questions why celebrate Jesus’ death, as opposed to his life, teachings and our salvation. Or who keeps certain clergy on their feet. Nope,” he drained his lemonade, “God made us all differently and uses us in different ways. I told her she’s a way better Scoompi than a clone of Sr. Mary Tamika ANY day…”
I wondered if he’d be saying that if he’d had the dream I did some months back, where she bombed the school.
“She’s gonna pull something,” I muttered.
“Shoot,” the tall priest grinned. “Me and Smith got a bet on just what it will be. Be seeing you around, Doc. Thanks for helping out!”
I completed my stint at the stand and walked around the lot. Temptation finally won out, and I sidled over to the dunk tank, where a smiling Sr. Mary Tamika sat in a black one piece swimsuit. Dry as a bone. Apparently, no one had dunked her.
She waved me over.
“Hey, Sister,” I said, trying not to stare. “Nice suit…”
“Haven’t worn anything like this in years,” she laughed her throaty laugh. “Doesn’t look bad, does it?”
My throat was tight. “Nope.”
She twisted on the little platform the suspended her above the water. “I don’t look fat, do I? I mean, shoot…I DO have a lot of, ah, junk in my…”
“You look great, Sister,” I squeaked. “You’re kinda…dry…” I hated the way that came out.
“I know,” she laughed. “Most of the kids have lousy aims. The mothers, too, though they try harder. The fathers who come by don’t even try. One just stopped by, looked and put his money in the box, saying he got what he paid for.”
We both laughed.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bunch of robes converge on the band. Then I heard an electrified version of “Halleluiah” and I was torn between leaving Sr. Mary Tamika vulnerable and rushing the stage.
“She’s baaaaaack!” the nun hummed happily.
“Hey ya’ll,” piped up a familiar voice.
There was a roar from the crowd.
“It’s OK,” Sr. Mary Tamika said softly. I’ll never know whether it was planned or just a child’s changing of her mind. It was quiet for a while, though…”
“…I guess that I just gotta be meeee!” she sang.
“Yeah,” I said.
The bass began pounding out a familiar tune. The guitars were wailing.
“Aaaaah…shot the sister…but ah didn’t shoot the priest you see…oh, no no!”
I saw Mr. Smith hand Fr. Mike some money.
“All around, in my school town…they trying, to track me down…they say dey wanna bring me in guiltee…for da soaking of Sistah Mary Teee…for da soaking, of Sistah Mary Tee…and ah say…” she was singing and doing her dance on the platform with the statue. Somewhere Bob Marley was laughing in revolutionary camaraderie.
While Sr. Mary Tamika and I shared a laugh, we failed to notice the group of young people in brown robes were setting up a tripod a few feet from the dunk tank. As the guitarist went into a solo on “I Shot the Sheriff”, Babygirl ran through the crowd, slapping hands and doing her dance as kids chanted, “Scoompi…Scoompi…”
She stopped in front of the tank and I saw Alex and another boy hoist a large tube onto the tripod.
“Shit,” I said.
‘What?” the nun said.
“She’s sighting!” I dove for the ground just as the bean bag shot from the gun and hit the paddle. Sr. Mary Tamika, a smile and a look of surprise on her face, was above the water one minute and in it the next. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Smith hold out his hand happily as father Mike returned the bills he’d just been handed. As the paddle reset itself, and the nun, dripping wet, tried to haul herself on it, another bean bag fired and she sank into the water again. Mothers in the crowd cheered.
Scoompi sprinted back to the microphone, “I want to close this year out, by thanking all of ya’ll that helped make this a good year. Fr. Mike, Mr. Smith, my big brother Scooter, his best friend K.O, ALL the football and baseball team, and put some folk on notice: that tramp my brother now likes and most of all, Big Booty herself, Sr. Mary Tamika! I got ya’ll! I WILL be back!”
Ham ran up to the tank.
“Sir,” he said, “do you think we can convince Mr. Smith to give us just one more chance? Next year is a NEW year, after all!” He adjusted his glasses and ran off as one of the mothers, sighting down the tube, let another bean bag fly. Sr. Mary Tamika hit the water again. Other mothers lined up, twenties in hand.
Friday, February 17, 2012
First Day Back
“Hey! You gotta go back, back, back to school again.
You won't see me 'til the clock strikes three;
you’re gonna be there 'til then...
You gotta go back, back, back to school again.
Oh, no! You gotta go…back to schooooool….again!”
“Please don’t sing,” the missus said, throwing her head under the covers.
I jumped out of bed.
“Temptations Babe! From the Grease 2 soundtrack!”
“Did anyone outside of your family see that movie?”
“Dunno. Anyone who had OnTV when it came out…I don’t care…”
I opened our bedroom door, grabbing a metal pot and wooden spoon I’d brought upstairs just for this purpose, and sang my chorus over and over as I walked through the hallway, poking my head in my children’s doors. My son mimicked him mother, throwing his covers over his head.
I got through two verses and a chorus in Babygirl’s room before she acknowledged me, rolling over, glaring at me with one eye open.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”she muttered, rolling over and sitting up.
“You gotta go back…”
“DADDY! Please stop singing that stupid song! Why are you so happy? You are a teacher. You have to go back too!”
“University doesn’t open for another week! You gotta go back, back, back to school agaaaaaain! Oh, no, YOU gotta go…back to schoooool….” My banging was so on point, Lenny Kravitz would hire me any day now.
She groaned again and flopped back on her bed.
“I’ma go warm up the car. Baby, you should be happy to go to school,” I said. “Wait! No car! Take the bus today! Travel with the plebes to get an education. Take advantage of what the school and board are offering you.”
From under a pillow, I heard a high pitched voice pipe up, “In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.”
I stopped banging my pot. “That’s pretty good. Hannah Montana?”
She groaned again. “Twain. Someone should sue your department for misappropriation of tuition…It’s the first day back…can we stay home? Half of the kids will be out…none of us are learning today…” I began banging on my pot again.
I saw Scooter in the hallway, headed to their bathroom. “Cheer up!”
“Oh, I’m good,” he said. “Between English Masters’ camp, football camp and basketball practice, I’ve seen school for the last two weeks. No shock for me.”
“Killjoy,” I muttered as he padded to the shower.
During breakfast I kept singing and smiling as they worked their way through their sugar less oatmeal, prepared by Moi. The missus wanted to get up and make them breakfast to celebrate the first day back, but I begged her to enjoy her rest and won her over by promising to make a nice, hot breakfast.
“This oatmeal is LUMPY!” my babygirl wailed. I grinned with pleasure.
“And cold,” my firstborn muttered.
“You be OK,” I said, still whistling my tune. “Hurry now, I want rooms clean and beds made before you leave. Perhaps we will have you fold some laundry…”
She glared at me. “Did you ever think about what happens if you push people too far?”
I watched them board the bus and settled in to read our local magazine’s annual list of the most powerful. Again, I wasn’t on it. More humorous was the list of most powerful ex-natives were almost all located in the nation’s capital, and all of them were people of color. I decided to once again write the magazine and threaten to cancel my decade long subscription. Surely I had more clout than a wide receiver. And the president of the teachers union? When teachers were failing the basic skills exam numerous times? The same test I aced hung over? I had more juice than her. Right?
I relaxed for a while and realized the kids had a half day. The missus was still knocked out, so I punched the volume down when I put on the late morning news.
“…south suburban parochial school, where students have begun revolting, naming their movement “The Students’ Winter” and taking matters into their own hands…cut to live footage of the 50 year old institution being stormed…”
I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I reached for my keys and floored it up the road.
Police barricades forced me to park a block away, but I saw the smoke. I ran towards it, bumping into a solid figure wearing a ski mask with eyeglasses over it. In each hand, the fireplug held bottles filled with clear liquid, ignited cloth rags coming from their neck…
“Sorry Sir!”
“Ham? Is that you?”
“No! “came the hollered response as he hurled each bottle with all of his might at the school. They impacted and exploded, sending towers of flames with a loud “Whoosh!” I groaned.
I heard young voices chanting, saw the signs. As I got to the front door, it flew open with a bang as Mr. Smith, supporting a dazed looking Father Mike, stumbled out. The priest mumbled, “I never believed it could happen here,” and passed out.
Where were my kids?
I made my way in the building, flinching as trash cans came through the window. I went to the main staircase and stopped when I heard two voices.
“I can’t follow you on this…”
“I’m not asking for your help. Just have my back.” The quiet voice was all too familiar.
“I won’t help you hurt anyone. I’m not…”
“Just don’t let anyone hurt me.”
“Why?”
“The movement must survive.”
I stepped out of the shadows and saw my kids. Scooter had on his football uniform, as did KO and a few other friends.
My daughter was in her fatigues, sunglasses, and had a samurai sword in her little hand.
“Go now,” she said. “I have a date with destiny…Mourn not for me. I can sense her. She is here. Big Booty’s time is done... I might not get there with you, but we will see the promised land.”
“Kiddo, you are SO on punishment,” I said sternly.
“Daddy you will deny me before afternoon drive time radio starts today…” To Scooter, “Remove him as you save the teachers. I don’t want them hurt. GO. I must face her…alone. Power to the people!”
“I am SO not getting a new Xbox game after this,” Scooter muttered as he clipped orders to his men. Scoompi shook her head.
She then bounded up the steps. KO and two offensive tackles grabbed me and moved me outside. More Molotov cocktails were being hurled at the school, and I overheard a news reporter say into his microphone, “…it is confirmed the rebels are destroying the school and have taken over the rectory as their base of operations…the plan was to notify parents but the operations began with the bombing of the school office, so all records have been destroyed…police are unsure as to how to handle the crowd of violent youth, for obvious reasons. The fact that that this is an integrated student body makes the threat of the use of force one, frankly, without any teeth...This leaflet with this photo has been distributed…apparently, it is the leader of the uprising…as you can see, it is a very small woman, experts says she is about twenty, in fatigues, dark glasses and sunglasses, sitting in a rattan chair with a spear in one hand and a rifle in the other…Her name, they say, is…wait…this apparently is Libyan…my translation is coming through…Scump-Eye, which, in Farsi, means “All Seeing and Knowing Though My Hair is Not Done”…It should be noted, the church has not been touched, and all teachers are being evacuated by students…Look!”
On the roof of the school, clear as high definition television, were two figures engaged in vicious combat. One was small and bright, the other tall, solid and dark, her head covered in nun’s headgear, otherwise clad only in a black camisole and high heels. The smaller one spun, kicked, parried…the larger one blocked, threw and flipped. The battled raged as the horde of kids began chanting and swaying. I saw footballers help the last of the teachers down the steps and heard a rocket “whoosh” by.
The figures of the roof stumbled at the blast, but otherwise continued their battle. Now they had swords, light glinting off the blased. Another rocket flew by, and then, in formation, lines of kids twenty abreast marched in like the invasion of the Jedi temple…
“Him!” I heard a woman shout. “He was with them! He knows them!”
I said, “Excuse me?” as policemen, finally happy to have someone they could confront, pulled billy clubs from their belts and advanced on me with sick smiles. One wound up like he was throwingout the first White Sox pitch of the season.
“What the hell? I don’t even know…” Another rocket whooshed by, this one coming from inside of the building. The distraction was all I needed. I ran.
As I looked over my shoulder, I saw the little figure on the roof take a final swipe at the taller one. The black camisole fell. The smaller one stamped on it, then jumped from the roof to the ground, with legions of kids yelling, “Scoom-Pee! Scoom-Pee!”
“Isn’t that her father?” I heard a woman say.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about!” I shouted as I ran for my car.
Just as I got the door open, KO’s mom ran up. “What did your little girl touch off now? Although I’m proud of her. Black women can lead revolutions too…Too bad she’s got men involved…I mean, the bombing of a school is OK if a female does it…proves we’re strong, and can do more than just gripe…but why have males involved?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about…” I yelled as I started my car. I punched the radio.
“This is the Governor of talk Radio and it’s 3’o clock. This afternoon we have an interview with a little lady that we think is just great…She is going to turn her recently bombed school into a Native American casino…Hello, Scoompi, my dear…”
I wept.
“Hoi…I just want to say...I have control of all the guns and all of the money...I can withstand confrontation from within and without...is that clear, Comrades?”
I hit a wall.
“Honey? Honey?”
I rolled over.
“Hmm?”
“It’s the kids first day back…Can you get them up?”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Oh, hell no.” I buried my head under the covers. “It’s the first day back. Just let them…I dunno. Stay home or something. It’s the first day. Nobody’s gonna learn anything.”
I heard a high pitched voice yell through the walls, “Thank You Daddy! The Revolution loves you!”
You won't see me 'til the clock strikes three;
you’re gonna be there 'til then...
You gotta go back, back, back to school again.
Oh, no! You gotta go…back to schooooool….again!”
“Please don’t sing,” the missus said, throwing her head under the covers.
I jumped out of bed.
“Temptations Babe! From the Grease 2 soundtrack!”
“Did anyone outside of your family see that movie?”
“Dunno. Anyone who had OnTV when it came out…I don’t care…”
I opened our bedroom door, grabbing a metal pot and wooden spoon I’d brought upstairs just for this purpose, and sang my chorus over and over as I walked through the hallway, poking my head in my children’s doors. My son mimicked him mother, throwing his covers over his head.
I got through two verses and a chorus in Babygirl’s room before she acknowledged me, rolling over, glaring at me with one eye open.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…”she muttered, rolling over and sitting up.
“You gotta go back…”
“DADDY! Please stop singing that stupid song! Why are you so happy? You are a teacher. You have to go back too!”
“University doesn’t open for another week! You gotta go back, back, back to school agaaaaaain! Oh, no, YOU gotta go…back to schoooool….” My banging was so on point, Lenny Kravitz would hire me any day now.
She groaned again and flopped back on her bed.
“I’ma go warm up the car. Baby, you should be happy to go to school,” I said. “Wait! No car! Take the bus today! Travel with the plebes to get an education. Take advantage of what the school and board are offering you.”
From under a pillow, I heard a high pitched voice pipe up, “In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.”
I stopped banging my pot. “That’s pretty good. Hannah Montana?”
She groaned again. “Twain. Someone should sue your department for misappropriation of tuition…It’s the first day back…can we stay home? Half of the kids will be out…none of us are learning today…” I began banging on my pot again.
I saw Scooter in the hallway, headed to their bathroom. “Cheer up!”
“Oh, I’m good,” he said. “Between English Masters’ camp, football camp and basketball practice, I’ve seen school for the last two weeks. No shock for me.”
“Killjoy,” I muttered as he padded to the shower.
During breakfast I kept singing and smiling as they worked their way through their sugar less oatmeal, prepared by Moi. The missus wanted to get up and make them breakfast to celebrate the first day back, but I begged her to enjoy her rest and won her over by promising to make a nice, hot breakfast.
“This oatmeal is LUMPY!” my babygirl wailed. I grinned with pleasure.
“And cold,” my firstborn muttered.
“You be OK,” I said, still whistling my tune. “Hurry now, I want rooms clean and beds made before you leave. Perhaps we will have you fold some laundry…”
She glared at me. “Did you ever think about what happens if you push people too far?”
I watched them board the bus and settled in to read our local magazine’s annual list of the most powerful. Again, I wasn’t on it. More humorous was the list of most powerful ex-natives were almost all located in the nation’s capital, and all of them were people of color. I decided to once again write the magazine and threaten to cancel my decade long subscription. Surely I had more clout than a wide receiver. And the president of the teachers union? When teachers were failing the basic skills exam numerous times? The same test I aced hung over? I had more juice than her. Right?
I relaxed for a while and realized the kids had a half day. The missus was still knocked out, so I punched the volume down when I put on the late morning news.
“…south suburban parochial school, where students have begun revolting, naming their movement “The Students’ Winter” and taking matters into their own hands…cut to live footage of the 50 year old institution being stormed…”
I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I reached for my keys and floored it up the road.
Police barricades forced me to park a block away, but I saw the smoke. I ran towards it, bumping into a solid figure wearing a ski mask with eyeglasses over it. In each hand, the fireplug held bottles filled with clear liquid, ignited cloth rags coming from their neck…
“Sorry Sir!”
“Ham? Is that you?”
“No! “came the hollered response as he hurled each bottle with all of his might at the school. They impacted and exploded, sending towers of flames with a loud “Whoosh!” I groaned.
I heard young voices chanting, saw the signs. As I got to the front door, it flew open with a bang as Mr. Smith, supporting a dazed looking Father Mike, stumbled out. The priest mumbled, “I never believed it could happen here,” and passed out.
Where were my kids?
I made my way in the building, flinching as trash cans came through the window. I went to the main staircase and stopped when I heard two voices.
“I can’t follow you on this…”
“I’m not asking for your help. Just have my back.” The quiet voice was all too familiar.
“I won’t help you hurt anyone. I’m not…”
“Just don’t let anyone hurt me.”
“Why?”
“The movement must survive.”
I stepped out of the shadows and saw my kids. Scooter had on his football uniform, as did KO and a few other friends.
My daughter was in her fatigues, sunglasses, and had a samurai sword in her little hand.
“Go now,” she said. “I have a date with destiny…Mourn not for me. I can sense her. She is here. Big Booty’s time is done... I might not get there with you, but we will see the promised land.”
“Kiddo, you are SO on punishment,” I said sternly.
“Daddy you will deny me before afternoon drive time radio starts today…” To Scooter, “Remove him as you save the teachers. I don’t want them hurt. GO. I must face her…alone. Power to the people!”
“I am SO not getting a new Xbox game after this,” Scooter muttered as he clipped orders to his men. Scoompi shook her head.
She then bounded up the steps. KO and two offensive tackles grabbed me and moved me outside. More Molotov cocktails were being hurled at the school, and I overheard a news reporter say into his microphone, “…it is confirmed the rebels are destroying the school and have taken over the rectory as their base of operations…the plan was to notify parents but the operations began with the bombing of the school office, so all records have been destroyed…police are unsure as to how to handle the crowd of violent youth, for obvious reasons. The fact that that this is an integrated student body makes the threat of the use of force one, frankly, without any teeth...This leaflet with this photo has been distributed…apparently, it is the leader of the uprising…as you can see, it is a very small woman, experts says she is about twenty, in fatigues, dark glasses and sunglasses, sitting in a rattan chair with a spear in one hand and a rifle in the other…Her name, they say, is…wait…this apparently is Libyan…my translation is coming through…Scump-Eye, which, in Farsi, means “All Seeing and Knowing Though My Hair is Not Done”…It should be noted, the church has not been touched, and all teachers are being evacuated by students…Look!”
On the roof of the school, clear as high definition television, were two figures engaged in vicious combat. One was small and bright, the other tall, solid and dark, her head covered in nun’s headgear, otherwise clad only in a black camisole and high heels. The smaller one spun, kicked, parried…the larger one blocked, threw and flipped. The battled raged as the horde of kids began chanting and swaying. I saw footballers help the last of the teachers down the steps and heard a rocket “whoosh” by.
The figures of the roof stumbled at the blast, but otherwise continued their battle. Now they had swords, light glinting off the blased. Another rocket flew by, and then, in formation, lines of kids twenty abreast marched in like the invasion of the Jedi temple…
“Him!” I heard a woman shout. “He was with them! He knows them!”
I said, “Excuse me?” as policemen, finally happy to have someone they could confront, pulled billy clubs from their belts and advanced on me with sick smiles. One wound up like he was throwingout the first White Sox pitch of the season.
“What the hell? I don’t even know…” Another rocket whooshed by, this one coming from inside of the building. The distraction was all I needed. I ran.
As I looked over my shoulder, I saw the little figure on the roof take a final swipe at the taller one. The black camisole fell. The smaller one stamped on it, then jumped from the roof to the ground, with legions of kids yelling, “Scoom-Pee! Scoom-Pee!”
“Isn’t that her father?” I heard a woman say.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about!” I shouted as I ran for my car.
Just as I got the door open, KO’s mom ran up. “What did your little girl touch off now? Although I’m proud of her. Black women can lead revolutions too…Too bad she’s got men involved…I mean, the bombing of a school is OK if a female does it…proves we’re strong, and can do more than just gripe…but why have males involved?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about…” I yelled as I started my car. I punched the radio.
“This is the Governor of talk Radio and it’s 3’o clock. This afternoon we have an interview with a little lady that we think is just great…She is going to turn her recently bombed school into a Native American casino…Hello, Scoompi, my dear…”
I wept.
“Hoi…I just want to say...I have control of all the guns and all of the money...I can withstand confrontation from within and without...is that clear, Comrades?”
I hit a wall.
“Honey? Honey?”
I rolled over.
“Hmm?”
“It’s the kids first day back…Can you get them up?”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“Oh, hell no.” I buried my head under the covers. “It’s the first day back. Just let them…I dunno. Stay home or something. It’s the first day. Nobody’s gonna learn anything.”
I heard a high pitched voice yell through the walls, “Thank You Daddy! The Revolution loves you!”
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Soccer
“I think we should put the baby in soccer,” was how it started.
I was in bed reading a Catholic newspaper. Father Soul was looking at being punished by the Archbishop if he did not accept his reassignment from his beloved Parish of St. Junebug. A group of Black Catholics was angry they were receiving less support from the archdiocese than similar sized parishes of other ethnicities whose collection numbers were not as strong. A priest was being sued for alienation of affection. Apparently, he ran off with a married woman who was the secretary of the school where he pastored the parish, and the soon to be ex-husband was not the happiest. I wondered if that still made him a priest. I wondered how alimony would work. It’d be hard enough to have to move out of a house I paid for so my wife could move in with her lover. It’d be worse if her lover had been under a vow of celibacy for a number of years prior. Wow.
So soccer was far from my mind.
“Does she even want to play?” It was a dumb question to ask. Kids get too many choices. I realized, however, that a choice like this would cost a couple hundred bucks and add more running around to our schedule. Scooter was in football, Scoompi was in an art class, and both were in church activities.
“It would be good for this new aggressiveness in her personality,” my wife said.
I folded my paper. Putting my pint sized daughter in a contact sport might not be the best idea. Scoompi’s strength was in attitude and force of personality. At eight, she was a whopping 35 pounds and stood at the front of the school picture composite line. I’d seen little girls play soccer. They could be mean, and some of them were gargantuan. A couple were only questionably female.
There was a knock on my bedroom door. I did a quick check to ensure the missus was dressed and called, “Come in?”
Scooter strode in, in his practice football uniform minus his shoulder pads and cleats.
“Hey ya’ll, I was reading Muslim Journal, and guess what? Grandpa is in there!”
“He’s always in there Honey,” his mother said.
“Oh. I have to be at practice in an hour.”
“OK,” I replied. “Go fix you and your sister some oatmeal for breakfast. I’ll run you over. I guess now is a good time to break it to her she’ll be playing soccer.”
Scooter looked from his mother to me.
“Really?” he asked slowly. He shook his head.
“Bad idea?” I asked.
“You’re the parents,” he shook his head ruefully. “Daddy, this is as dumb as you thinking we could pass for Native American and get a casino,” he left the room.
“I’m still working on that!” I shouted after him, but I heard him on his telephone. “Salaam Alaikum! Guess who I saw in the Journal? Yeah, you didn’t tell me they were covering you…”
“Why is it when it’s a bad idea, it has to be mine?” I asked my wife.
“Dunno.”
“More importantly, why is it when he thinks an idea is bad, and it’s yours, but he accuses me, why don’t you clarify?”
“Dunno. Don’t you have to get him to practice soon?”
“Yeah. I smell a rat.”
“Love you!”
Suddenly there was a wail, and rapid knocks on our door.
“Scooter hit me with a comb!”
Her wail was suspect. No tears. Her lip was trembling. I stared hard and she started giggling.
I yelled my son’s name. he came lumbering up the stairs, a smile on his face.
“You hit your sister with a comb?”
“Yup.”
“She probably hit him first,” the missus said mildly.
“I didn’t hit him,” Scoompi wailed, “I TRIED to hit him; he took the comb and whacked me with it instead!”
Scooter, her mother and I looked at Babygirl in awe.
“Don’t rob any banks any time soon, Kid,” Scooter muttered as he trudged downstairs. “If you want waffles, c’mon! I gotta go to practice.”
“Yummy! Waffles!”
“Wait Babygirl,” I said. I explained, hesitantly, the soccer proposition.
I broke the news to Babygirl, who was receptive. “Soccer looks fun!” she exclaimed. After we dropped her brother, we spent the afternoon buying her cleats and shin guards, and a regulation ball that appeared larger than her entire body.
Later that week, I gave the kids instructions before they left for school.
“OK, it’s your sister’s first day of practice. Scooter, the park where Scoompi practices is down the street from the school. When you get done with practice, you and K.O meet us there. Scoomp, Hamilton will join us at practice and his mom will pick him up from there. I’ll give K.O a ride home when all’s done.”
“OK!”
That afternoon, Ham and I watched on the sidelines while my daughter and her new teammates ran drills up and down the park. The coach was one of the girls’ dads. He seemed young, enthusiastic and full of hope, so this was probably his first year coaching. Most of the girls on my daughter’s team appeared to be normal little girls, in size and demeanor, which meant they could probably count on getting clobbered.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Ham?”
“Why are they all smiling?”
“They’ve never played before, Buddy. They have no idea how this is going to be.”
“Oh.”
Practice ended a little early. I shot the breeze with the kids until I saw Ham’s mom pull into the parking lot.
“OK, Scout, Dill…time to split this party up.”
She screwed up her little face. “Who? Scout and Dill? What are we? Horses? Pickles? I swear, Daddy, I don’t know how they let you teach college and you can’t even get people’s names right. Who are Scout and Dill?”
“Find out. Let’s get ready to go.”
Scooter and his best friend, K.O, arrived as planned, Ham’s mom left with him, and I drove the kids home.
“I’m so excited about our first game!”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Uh, Sis?’
“Yeah?” she was literally bouncing all over the car.
“Don’t hope for too much, OK?”
“Whatever! Yay! We’re gonna make little ponytails out of the back of our jerseys, and that’s gonna be our trademark. Even our name is cool.”
Dare I ask? “What did you girls choose?”
“Powder Puffs!”
Oh.
That Saturday, as my wife sat in her camp chair, iced tea in her cup holder, Scooter, Ham and I paced the sidelines, anxious as if awaiting an execution. My little girls’ team took the field, doing back flips, running in place, little tufts of t-shirt held by Scuncis at each of their backs. “Powder Puffs! Powder Puffs! Powder Puffs!” they chanted.
Ham had tears in his eyes. Scooter’s jaw had a hard set and his mouth was a firm line.
The ref, a thin African young man who looked like a graduate student, came forward, index card in hand...
“Today’s match is between the Powder Puffs,” he said, squinting at the card in his hand, “and the…oh, they’re playing again this year, eh? The Pterodactyls.”
I looked down at my wife. When I turned my head I heard Hamilton gasp. I swear I heard my son groan, “Zarba!”
I turned around. A group of girls in green and black uniforms came on the field in formation, dribbling the ball between them. They were making some kind of screeching noise. Fathers on the other side of the field roared. Not one of those girls smiled. They took their positions on the field. Their goalie stretched. She had a wingspan like Michael Jordan.
The game was over quickly. I’ll give it to the Pterodactyls, they demonstrated sportsmanship. Once they had a secure fifteen point lead, they didn’t focus on scoring anymore. They just calmly accepted shutting us out.
Scoompi was a glutton for punishment. “It was the first game of the season! They were just a bit luckier than us. Hey, we’ll get ‘em next time…”
The next few times were ugly. Opposing players pulling our team’s shirt ponytails. Opposing coaches offering to reduce the number of players they had on the field to two to make it even. Opposing parents varying between downright rudeness and pure sympathy.
Our coach didn’t understand. His team was falling apart. The girls on the sidelines had long stopped watching the game, cheering on their teammates. They merely huddled in fear, waiting for the inevitable when a teammate would be injured to the point where they were carried (few walked) off the field and another sacrificial lamb had to take her place.
Girls were bumped, jostled, stepped on, pushed and outright manhandled.
And the ones who were near the ball really caught hell.
All that stopped outright team fight was the appearance of several of our football players at each game, their sisters part of the neighborhood team. Truthfully, I thought the girls were passing around the number for the Department of Children and Family Services and planning a class action abuse call of some sort.
The opponents weren’t just rough, they were rude as hell. I swear one tried to spit on one of our girls and only caught herself when her father said, “Samantha! Heel!”
After our most recent lost, poor Babygirl flung herself into the car and bawled her eyes out all the way home. I think her brother shed a tear for her as well.
Both kids stalked upstairs when we got home. I sat down with my wife, who’d had class that morning and missed the latest bloodbath.
“I don’t think this was a good idea,” I started.
“It’ll be over soon. The season is half done.”
“Not if you count the playoffs.”
My wife shook her head. “I’m not. You shouldn’t either. We are in no danger of making it to the playoffs.”
“True.”
We sat in silence for a while. She was about to ask me something when I heard voices through my heating grill. I assumed my normal position.
“What are you doing?”
“Listening!”
“When are you going to respect their privacy?”
“Honey, the day they write a mortgage check, Daddy will give them all the privacy he thinks they should have in his house. Shhh!”
“…I need your help.”
“Not sure I can help, Sis. Hard work only accounts for so much in winning…And let's face it...ya'll stink on ice.”
“It’s not the losing that bothers me,” she said slowly. “It’s this getting punked every week. I can lose with no problem. Nobody said I’d go pro with this silliness. I won’t have a bunch of people bully me. I don’t like how my team isn’t getting their respect. I don’t want us to win…I just want us to not be treated so badly.”
“Really? Tell me the truth.”
“I want them to have to win harder. I want them…”
“I understand. You want to be like Saint Moses, The Black .” I could hear the pain in Scooter’s voice.
I shuddered. St. Moses the Black was a small school from a rough town in our area. Their athletic skills, from football to basketball to baseball, were nil. They had bad equipment and old, loud uniforms, and I swear half of their coaches resided in halfway houses.
The kids had heart, though. What they lacked in ability, they made up for in spirit. They regularly won a game or two by forfeit every season, but they were the most feared in the Catholic League.
St. Marcus the Black was the junior varsity equivalent of the 1989 Detroit Pistons. A team that even if you beat them, you came out so banged up you wondered if it was really a win. They didn’t take cheap shots. The team had too much honor for that. They just played hard, every game, every down, and literally took to heart the term “contact sport”. They got their respect as well. Our starters dreaded playing St. Moses, and with good reason. Your only indication of victory would be on the scoreboard. Those boys lost damn near every game but left the field each week with their heads held high.
“Done.”
“Yay! Thanks! Oh, it’s gonna be…”
“HARD. It’s gonna be hard. “
“How so?”
“There are some conditions.”
I could see her little eyebrow cock and her face contort.
“WHAT conditions?”
“For starters…you do what I say. I don’t care how stupid it sounds. I don’t care what your coach says. He wants to win. You want respect. You gotta get what I’m teaching before you can get what he wishes for.”
“OK.”
“And frankly, I’m tired of the name ‘Scoompi’…”
“Waiiit a minute…I don’t LIKE being called Aliwhosis…”
“I’ll call you something else…not your full name. But my sister is no Scoompi. Not to me. You want my help, you cease to be Scoompi or any derivation thereof to me…”
“Deal.”
“And you have to bury the hatchet with Sister Mary Tamika.”
“No.”
“You want my help?”
“Not that bad. I’ll suffer through the rest of the season.”
“Why?”
“Deal breaker, Big Brother. The other stuff, I’ll bite the bullet. Me and Big Booty? Got nothing to do with you.”
Pause.
“You hate her that much?”
“This isn’t about hate,” Scoompi said quietly. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have a nemesis. I need mine.”
More silence.
“Okay,” Scooter capitulated. “But agree to at least tone it down with her. This getting kicked out of religion class and whatnot? Time spent in detention will take away from time you need to work with me.”
“Fair enough. FOR THE SEASON ONLY. After that, Big Booty is mine.”
“We start now. Sr. Mary Tamika. Sister. Sister MT. No more Big Booty…”
“For the season…that’s all I promise.”
Groan. “Deal. A team is more than one person. You got teammates feel the way you do?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“When do we start?”
“Right now. My helmet and pads are in Daddy’s trunk. Bring them in.”
I heard her trundle downstairs and I scooted away from the grating.
“What they say?” my wife hissed.
I shrugged my shoulders.
The next week, Scooter’s little sister, her body tilted to the side, lugged his football equipment to and from the car for practice. Once home and done with homework, I didn’t see them for hours. I could hear them in the field in back of our house, and once or twice I spied some other little girls out there. I avoided that field like the plague. Some geese and I had had a run in there several years back.
Scoompi dragged in daily, but she never complained, just hauled herself upstairs to wash her grubby little self and down to supper. Before bed, she made sure his uniform was clean and ready for the next day. One day I caught her cleaning both of their cleats. He supervised. “What are you doing?” I asked.
Scooter all but ignored me. Scoompi glared and muttered, “Paying dues.”
I walked off, hearing my son say “Dirty equipment is useless equipment.”
They lost that weekend, but it was…different. For the first time, they played a team about their size and weight. They took their loss with stoic dignity, although the other team held off on the really insulting behavior. There was something different, though. Babygirl’s walk changed slightly as she walked off the field. I couldn’t place it at first, until I saw Scooter and the defense strut off field later that afternoon at his own game.
“Is he walking like his sister?” my wife asked with concern.
“No,” I corrected. “She’s trying to walk like him.”
“Oh.”
K.O and a couple of the other guys on our football squad hung around our place after school the next week. Once or twice I heard little girls yowl in pain from the field, but I kept to myself, and the kids said nothing to me save “Can I stay for dinner?” “Are you still buying this generic orange juice” or my favorite, “Any ice? No cup. A rag is fine.”
The night before the next game, Scoompi asked her brother, “You got an old jersey?”
“I do. Why?”
“I wanna wear it under mine at my game tomorrow.”
“Too big.”
“You got something I can wear? For luck?”
I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell by the way he said, “Shukran, Allie!” that he was touched. I heard him rummaging around in his room.
“Here are my football socks, I wore them in the last game,” he said.
“Geez, did Mommy wash them? I want respect. I don’t wanna knock ‘em out! Ow! My arms are sore from all those pushups! Don’t do that!”
“Wait…Allie?”
“Yep?”
“Gimme your soccer socks. I’ll wear them under my regulars in my cleats.”
“OK.”
I guess we were doing something right as parents, because I went to bed that night quite proud.
Scoompi came downstairs the next morning in her uniform. Scooters socks were way too big, covering her shin guards and doubled over they were still up to her thighs, under her shorts. She stood solemnly while her mom did her pony tail at the back of her shirt.
“Let’s go,” she said quietly.
This was a repeat team, the Cujos, one of the worst offenders when it came to insults and ponytail pulling.
Our coach didn’t look defeated, he looked spooked, like a deer in the headlights. His wife was rubbing his shoulders and pumping him with sports drinks and pep talks, still he looked as if he really wanted to cry. The Cujo coach was on the sideline, laughing with his girls and their parents.
More than half of our girls had this strange look on their faces. It wasn’t fear. It reminded me of looks you saw in newsreels and old video of soldiers in combat. I realized it was the eight year old equivalent of the thousand yard stare.
The coach came over, shaking like a leaf.
“Look, girls, I know we just want to play our best, play hard, but look…” he stammered, “if it looks rough out there, look, just lay down. I don’t want any more of you getting hurt. Just lay down,” he lay on the ground, “and curl yourself into a little ball.” He assumed the fetal position. “Like this,” his voice came out muffled.
Some girls giggled. The rest kept up with their stare.
“OK, girls, on three…one two three Powder Puffs!”
I swear, as they took the field, he was biting his nails. Scoompi settled into the goal area.
The game started innocently enough. Our skills were no match for theirs. But when they came downfield and made the final kick, Babygirl grabbed the ball. She didn’t roll it back out, however. She threw it with all of her might at the kicker’s head.
It was like a reenactment of the Zapruder film. A head snapped back, then forward, and a body hit the ground. The whistle blew and all of the girls on the field took a knee. It took a couple of minutes for her to come around, and she didn’t leave the field under her own steam.
The opposing coach got mad, but the ref refused to believe the Powder Puffs had intentionally hurt anyone. They’d been getting beat up all season. I noticed a couple of other girls had joined our thousand yard stare club.
We got the ball and as a Cujo defender stole it, she was body crushed between two flying third graders on our team. She didn’t go down, but the whistle blew and the girls took a knee again as she howled and was led off the field. The coach was angry again, but it just looked like a typical mix up on the soccer field.
So it continued. The Cujos scored a goal, only to have Scoompi again hurl the ball, this time at the head of the girl who was their defensive star. Not the scorer. She barely ducked but it took out their second best scorer. Later, there was a pileup of girls when they all went down, and I saw little elbows flying, but it would be hard to swear as to whose.
Soon, I realized that the girls spent more than half of the game taking a knee. The thousand yard stare was in full effect, with every girl on the team giving to the Cujos, player, coach and parents alike. The fact that our coach kept fretting like his pants were wet probably worked in our favor in terms of penalties called.
When the game ended, 1-0, Cujos, our girls were still staring. Our coach almost had a conniption. Cujo parents were taking an assortment of crying, bleeding and otherwise dazed little girls home. And Scoompi and her teammates held her head high. Parents looked like they wanted to say something, but we had as many fathers as they did, and our mothers, my wife included, turned a blind eye to whatever was happening.
“Girls! We need to practice! We’re losing the fundamentals! Girls?” Fathers on our team looked at him with disgust. The girls stared ahead.
The next weekend was the Squash cup, this multi game tournament held at the park. We were there by 8am for the first of three games. Luckily, we’d be done by noon. There was a Harper Lee conference at the university I wanted to attend.
The girls stalked on the field again, creepy thousand yard stares in full effect.
“Now girls,” said the coach, “we’re into sportsmanship…it’s not how we win or lose…”
They eyed him like he had two heads.
“We gotta go to work,” Scoompi said when he finished yammering.
The initial kick off was innocent enough. Again.
That was it.
The elbows, the body blows. I saw a log roll at one point.
There was no score. The other team left crying. Parents were glaring, and the Powder Puffs were pushing that steely glare.
The second game was against the Cyclones, the team that pulled out girls’ shirt ponytails in the past.
The Cyclones gave like they got, and by halftime we had a couple split lips and each team had a player carried off field in a stretcher. I bought a Gatorade and walked over to our side, where our coach was looking miffed and Scoompi was holding court.
“We got this,” she said. “We can take them. We are scoreless, but we got this. We are all in. Cmon, bring it in.”
It was like attending a séance. The coach was back to biting his fingernails. The whistle blew.
We dribbled up field, clustered as usual. The Cyclones attempted to pick us apart, but our girls remained bunched up, with the ball in the middle. The Cyclones tried to penetrate but got stiff armed. It was weird, but the biggest girl on our team broke out with the ball, chugged up field and kicked hard for the goal.
The Cyclone goalie grabbed the ball and launched it at our forward’s head. The impact knocked the spit out of her. She fell.
Then she got up, charged the goal and began pummeling the goalie with fists and feet. When she went down and one of her teammates tried to help her, my little girl flung herself at the other player. “Take a knee!” she hollered. Parents gasped. Fathers cheered. Scooter’s jaw dropped. Whistles blew. The teams took a knee, all eyes on my child.
“Yeah, this is really helping to calm that aggressive personality,” I said to my wife.
“Shut up.”
Our forward was ejected from the game. In the first display of emotion in three games, our girls cheered. Their goalie was replaced by a girl Scoompi’s size, who trembled from the moment she stood in the net.
We scored. The new goalie jumped out of the ball’s way like it was a charging rhino.
The game ended, and our girls again cheered. Then two men in jackets bearing the legend “Homewood Soccer League” came over, spoke to the refs, and then summoned each coach. When they were done, one held a megaphone to his lips.
“After reviewing the last two games today, league authorities have agreed to suspend the Powder Puffs for unsportsman like conduct from this Squash Cup. The victory still stands; however, the girls will forfeit the next game against the Pterodactyls. Get a grip on your kids people.” He glared at our side and stalked off.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” I said, happy to be leaving early. As my wife stood, I folded our camp chairs. Scooter was grinning ear to ear. Scoompi ran over to him.
“You did it Allie!”
“She did what?” my wife snapped. “Got disqualified?”
“They won, Mama,” Scooter said patiently. “They earned it. They went out there and played and did what it took to win.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said, scooping her up. She wriggled and I put her down.
“You’re proud of her? Because they won? Is that what it’s about? Winning at all costs? What are we teaching our kids?”
“MaaaMuh?”
“Yes, Alexandra?”
“I don’t care that we won. This wasn’t about that.” She looked up; her little face had a peaceful look, under all that grime.
“Then what, pray tell, was the big deal?”
One of the Pterodactyls walked up and fist bumped with Scoompi. “Sorry we didn’t get to play ya’ll. Maybe next year. Ya’ll got heart. Looking forward to it. Later, Scoomp…” she walked off.
“Nothing Mama. Just that I learned that nobody gives you anything. You gotta go out and get it. That is especially the case with respect.”
She hugged her mom’s leg and punched me. “C’mon, Atticus. Let’s go home. You too, Jem.”
She did her dance all the way to the car.
I was in bed reading a Catholic newspaper. Father Soul was looking at being punished by the Archbishop if he did not accept his reassignment from his beloved Parish of St. Junebug. A group of Black Catholics was angry they were receiving less support from the archdiocese than similar sized parishes of other ethnicities whose collection numbers were not as strong. A priest was being sued for alienation of affection. Apparently, he ran off with a married woman who was the secretary of the school where he pastored the parish, and the soon to be ex-husband was not the happiest. I wondered if that still made him a priest. I wondered how alimony would work. It’d be hard enough to have to move out of a house I paid for so my wife could move in with her lover. It’d be worse if her lover had been under a vow of celibacy for a number of years prior. Wow.
So soccer was far from my mind.
“Does she even want to play?” It was a dumb question to ask. Kids get too many choices. I realized, however, that a choice like this would cost a couple hundred bucks and add more running around to our schedule. Scooter was in football, Scoompi was in an art class, and both were in church activities.
“It would be good for this new aggressiveness in her personality,” my wife said.
I folded my paper. Putting my pint sized daughter in a contact sport might not be the best idea. Scoompi’s strength was in attitude and force of personality. At eight, she was a whopping 35 pounds and stood at the front of the school picture composite line. I’d seen little girls play soccer. They could be mean, and some of them were gargantuan. A couple were only questionably female.
There was a knock on my bedroom door. I did a quick check to ensure the missus was dressed and called, “Come in?”
Scooter strode in, in his practice football uniform minus his shoulder pads and cleats.
“Hey ya’ll, I was reading Muslim Journal, and guess what? Grandpa is in there!”
“He’s always in there Honey,” his mother said.
“Oh. I have to be at practice in an hour.”
“OK,” I replied. “Go fix you and your sister some oatmeal for breakfast. I’ll run you over. I guess now is a good time to break it to her she’ll be playing soccer.”
Scooter looked from his mother to me.
“Really?” he asked slowly. He shook his head.
“Bad idea?” I asked.
“You’re the parents,” he shook his head ruefully. “Daddy, this is as dumb as you thinking we could pass for Native American and get a casino,” he left the room.
“I’m still working on that!” I shouted after him, but I heard him on his telephone. “Salaam Alaikum! Guess who I saw in the Journal? Yeah, you didn’t tell me they were covering you…”
“Why is it when it’s a bad idea, it has to be mine?” I asked my wife.
“Dunno.”
“More importantly, why is it when he thinks an idea is bad, and it’s yours, but he accuses me, why don’t you clarify?”
“Dunno. Don’t you have to get him to practice soon?”
“Yeah. I smell a rat.”
“Love you!”
Suddenly there was a wail, and rapid knocks on our door.
“Scooter hit me with a comb!”
Her wail was suspect. No tears. Her lip was trembling. I stared hard and she started giggling.
I yelled my son’s name. he came lumbering up the stairs, a smile on his face.
“You hit your sister with a comb?”
“Yup.”
“She probably hit him first,” the missus said mildly.
“I didn’t hit him,” Scoompi wailed, “I TRIED to hit him; he took the comb and whacked me with it instead!”
Scooter, her mother and I looked at Babygirl in awe.
“Don’t rob any banks any time soon, Kid,” Scooter muttered as he trudged downstairs. “If you want waffles, c’mon! I gotta go to practice.”
“Yummy! Waffles!”
“Wait Babygirl,” I said. I explained, hesitantly, the soccer proposition.
I broke the news to Babygirl, who was receptive. “Soccer looks fun!” she exclaimed. After we dropped her brother, we spent the afternoon buying her cleats and shin guards, and a regulation ball that appeared larger than her entire body.
Later that week, I gave the kids instructions before they left for school.
“OK, it’s your sister’s first day of practice. Scooter, the park where Scoompi practices is down the street from the school. When you get done with practice, you and K.O meet us there. Scoomp, Hamilton will join us at practice and his mom will pick him up from there. I’ll give K.O a ride home when all’s done.”
“OK!”
That afternoon, Ham and I watched on the sidelines while my daughter and her new teammates ran drills up and down the park. The coach was one of the girls’ dads. He seemed young, enthusiastic and full of hope, so this was probably his first year coaching. Most of the girls on my daughter’s team appeared to be normal little girls, in size and demeanor, which meant they could probably count on getting clobbered.
“Sir?”
“Yes, Ham?”
“Why are they all smiling?”
“They’ve never played before, Buddy. They have no idea how this is going to be.”
“Oh.”
Practice ended a little early. I shot the breeze with the kids until I saw Ham’s mom pull into the parking lot.
“OK, Scout, Dill…time to split this party up.”
She screwed up her little face. “Who? Scout and Dill? What are we? Horses? Pickles? I swear, Daddy, I don’t know how they let you teach college and you can’t even get people’s names right. Who are Scout and Dill?”
“Find out. Let’s get ready to go.”
Scooter and his best friend, K.O, arrived as planned, Ham’s mom left with him, and I drove the kids home.
“I’m so excited about our first game!”
“Mmm hmm.”
“Uh, Sis?’
“Yeah?” she was literally bouncing all over the car.
“Don’t hope for too much, OK?”
“Whatever! Yay! We’re gonna make little ponytails out of the back of our jerseys, and that’s gonna be our trademark. Even our name is cool.”
Dare I ask? “What did you girls choose?”
“Powder Puffs!”
Oh.
That Saturday, as my wife sat in her camp chair, iced tea in her cup holder, Scooter, Ham and I paced the sidelines, anxious as if awaiting an execution. My little girls’ team took the field, doing back flips, running in place, little tufts of t-shirt held by Scuncis at each of their backs. “Powder Puffs! Powder Puffs! Powder Puffs!” they chanted.
Ham had tears in his eyes. Scooter’s jaw had a hard set and his mouth was a firm line.
The ref, a thin African young man who looked like a graduate student, came forward, index card in hand...
“Today’s match is between the Powder Puffs,” he said, squinting at the card in his hand, “and the…oh, they’re playing again this year, eh? The Pterodactyls.”
I looked down at my wife. When I turned my head I heard Hamilton gasp. I swear I heard my son groan, “Zarba!”
I turned around. A group of girls in green and black uniforms came on the field in formation, dribbling the ball between them. They were making some kind of screeching noise. Fathers on the other side of the field roared. Not one of those girls smiled. They took their positions on the field. Their goalie stretched. She had a wingspan like Michael Jordan.
The game was over quickly. I’ll give it to the Pterodactyls, they demonstrated sportsmanship. Once they had a secure fifteen point lead, they didn’t focus on scoring anymore. They just calmly accepted shutting us out.
Scoompi was a glutton for punishment. “It was the first game of the season! They were just a bit luckier than us. Hey, we’ll get ‘em next time…”
The next few times were ugly. Opposing players pulling our team’s shirt ponytails. Opposing coaches offering to reduce the number of players they had on the field to two to make it even. Opposing parents varying between downright rudeness and pure sympathy.
Our coach didn’t understand. His team was falling apart. The girls on the sidelines had long stopped watching the game, cheering on their teammates. They merely huddled in fear, waiting for the inevitable when a teammate would be injured to the point where they were carried (few walked) off the field and another sacrificial lamb had to take her place.
Girls were bumped, jostled, stepped on, pushed and outright manhandled.
And the ones who were near the ball really caught hell.
All that stopped outright team fight was the appearance of several of our football players at each game, their sisters part of the neighborhood team. Truthfully, I thought the girls were passing around the number for the Department of Children and Family Services and planning a class action abuse call of some sort.
The opponents weren’t just rough, they were rude as hell. I swear one tried to spit on one of our girls and only caught herself when her father said, “Samantha! Heel!”
After our most recent lost, poor Babygirl flung herself into the car and bawled her eyes out all the way home. I think her brother shed a tear for her as well.
Both kids stalked upstairs when we got home. I sat down with my wife, who’d had class that morning and missed the latest bloodbath.
“I don’t think this was a good idea,” I started.
“It’ll be over soon. The season is half done.”
“Not if you count the playoffs.”
My wife shook her head. “I’m not. You shouldn’t either. We are in no danger of making it to the playoffs.”
“True.”
We sat in silence for a while. She was about to ask me something when I heard voices through my heating grill. I assumed my normal position.
“What are you doing?”
“Listening!”
“When are you going to respect their privacy?”
“Honey, the day they write a mortgage check, Daddy will give them all the privacy he thinks they should have in his house. Shhh!”
“…I need your help.”
“Not sure I can help, Sis. Hard work only accounts for so much in winning…And let's face it...ya'll stink on ice.”
“It’s not the losing that bothers me,” she said slowly. “It’s this getting punked every week. I can lose with no problem. Nobody said I’d go pro with this silliness. I won’t have a bunch of people bully me. I don’t like how my team isn’t getting their respect. I don’t want us to win…I just want us to not be treated so badly.”
“Really? Tell me the truth.”
“I want them to have to win harder. I want them…”
“I understand. You want to be like Saint Moses, The Black .” I could hear the pain in Scooter’s voice.
I shuddered. St. Moses the Black was a small school from a rough town in our area. Their athletic skills, from football to basketball to baseball, were nil. They had bad equipment and old, loud uniforms, and I swear half of their coaches resided in halfway houses.
The kids had heart, though. What they lacked in ability, they made up for in spirit. They regularly won a game or two by forfeit every season, but they were the most feared in the Catholic League.
St. Marcus the Black was the junior varsity equivalent of the 1989 Detroit Pistons. A team that even if you beat them, you came out so banged up you wondered if it was really a win. They didn’t take cheap shots. The team had too much honor for that. They just played hard, every game, every down, and literally took to heart the term “contact sport”. They got their respect as well. Our starters dreaded playing St. Moses, and with good reason. Your only indication of victory would be on the scoreboard. Those boys lost damn near every game but left the field each week with their heads held high.
“Done.”
“Yay! Thanks! Oh, it’s gonna be…”
“HARD. It’s gonna be hard. “
“How so?”
“There are some conditions.”
I could see her little eyebrow cock and her face contort.
“WHAT conditions?”
“For starters…you do what I say. I don’t care how stupid it sounds. I don’t care what your coach says. He wants to win. You want respect. You gotta get what I’m teaching before you can get what he wishes for.”
“OK.”
“And frankly, I’m tired of the name ‘Scoompi’…”
“Waiiit a minute…I don’t LIKE being called Aliwhosis…”
“I’ll call you something else…not your full name. But my sister is no Scoompi. Not to me. You want my help, you cease to be Scoompi or any derivation thereof to me…”
“Deal.”
“And you have to bury the hatchet with Sister Mary Tamika.”
“No.”
“You want my help?”
“Not that bad. I’ll suffer through the rest of the season.”
“Why?”
“Deal breaker, Big Brother. The other stuff, I’ll bite the bullet. Me and Big Booty? Got nothing to do with you.”
Pause.
“You hate her that much?”
“This isn’t about hate,” Scoompi said quietly. “You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have a nemesis. I need mine.”
More silence.
“Okay,” Scooter capitulated. “But agree to at least tone it down with her. This getting kicked out of religion class and whatnot? Time spent in detention will take away from time you need to work with me.”
“Fair enough. FOR THE SEASON ONLY. After that, Big Booty is mine.”
“We start now. Sr. Mary Tamika. Sister. Sister MT. No more Big Booty…”
“For the season…that’s all I promise.”
Groan. “Deal. A team is more than one person. You got teammates feel the way you do?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“When do we start?”
“Right now. My helmet and pads are in Daddy’s trunk. Bring them in.”
I heard her trundle downstairs and I scooted away from the grating.
“What they say?” my wife hissed.
I shrugged my shoulders.
The next week, Scooter’s little sister, her body tilted to the side, lugged his football equipment to and from the car for practice. Once home and done with homework, I didn’t see them for hours. I could hear them in the field in back of our house, and once or twice I spied some other little girls out there. I avoided that field like the plague. Some geese and I had had a run in there several years back.
Scoompi dragged in daily, but she never complained, just hauled herself upstairs to wash her grubby little self and down to supper. Before bed, she made sure his uniform was clean and ready for the next day. One day I caught her cleaning both of their cleats. He supervised. “What are you doing?” I asked.
Scooter all but ignored me. Scoompi glared and muttered, “Paying dues.”
I walked off, hearing my son say “Dirty equipment is useless equipment.”
They lost that weekend, but it was…different. For the first time, they played a team about their size and weight. They took their loss with stoic dignity, although the other team held off on the really insulting behavior. There was something different, though. Babygirl’s walk changed slightly as she walked off the field. I couldn’t place it at first, until I saw Scooter and the defense strut off field later that afternoon at his own game.
“Is he walking like his sister?” my wife asked with concern.
“No,” I corrected. “She’s trying to walk like him.”
“Oh.”
K.O and a couple of the other guys on our football squad hung around our place after school the next week. Once or twice I heard little girls yowl in pain from the field, but I kept to myself, and the kids said nothing to me save “Can I stay for dinner?” “Are you still buying this generic orange juice” or my favorite, “Any ice? No cup. A rag is fine.”
The night before the next game, Scoompi asked her brother, “You got an old jersey?”
“I do. Why?”
“I wanna wear it under mine at my game tomorrow.”
“Too big.”
“You got something I can wear? For luck?”
I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell by the way he said, “Shukran, Allie!” that he was touched. I heard him rummaging around in his room.
“Here are my football socks, I wore them in the last game,” he said.
“Geez, did Mommy wash them? I want respect. I don’t wanna knock ‘em out! Ow! My arms are sore from all those pushups! Don’t do that!”
“Wait…Allie?”
“Yep?”
“Gimme your soccer socks. I’ll wear them under my regulars in my cleats.”
“OK.”
I guess we were doing something right as parents, because I went to bed that night quite proud.
Scoompi came downstairs the next morning in her uniform. Scooters socks were way too big, covering her shin guards and doubled over they were still up to her thighs, under her shorts. She stood solemnly while her mom did her pony tail at the back of her shirt.
“Let’s go,” she said quietly.
This was a repeat team, the Cujos, one of the worst offenders when it came to insults and ponytail pulling.
Our coach didn’t look defeated, he looked spooked, like a deer in the headlights. His wife was rubbing his shoulders and pumping him with sports drinks and pep talks, still he looked as if he really wanted to cry. The Cujo coach was on the sideline, laughing with his girls and their parents.
More than half of our girls had this strange look on their faces. It wasn’t fear. It reminded me of looks you saw in newsreels and old video of soldiers in combat. I realized it was the eight year old equivalent of the thousand yard stare.
The coach came over, shaking like a leaf.
“Look, girls, I know we just want to play our best, play hard, but look…” he stammered, “if it looks rough out there, look, just lay down. I don’t want any more of you getting hurt. Just lay down,” he lay on the ground, “and curl yourself into a little ball.” He assumed the fetal position. “Like this,” his voice came out muffled.
Some girls giggled. The rest kept up with their stare.
“OK, girls, on three…one two three Powder Puffs!”
I swear, as they took the field, he was biting his nails. Scoompi settled into the goal area.
The game started innocently enough. Our skills were no match for theirs. But when they came downfield and made the final kick, Babygirl grabbed the ball. She didn’t roll it back out, however. She threw it with all of her might at the kicker’s head.
It was like a reenactment of the Zapruder film. A head snapped back, then forward, and a body hit the ground. The whistle blew and all of the girls on the field took a knee. It took a couple of minutes for her to come around, and she didn’t leave the field under her own steam.
The opposing coach got mad, but the ref refused to believe the Powder Puffs had intentionally hurt anyone. They’d been getting beat up all season. I noticed a couple of other girls had joined our thousand yard stare club.
We got the ball and as a Cujo defender stole it, she was body crushed between two flying third graders on our team. She didn’t go down, but the whistle blew and the girls took a knee again as she howled and was led off the field. The coach was angry again, but it just looked like a typical mix up on the soccer field.
So it continued. The Cujos scored a goal, only to have Scoompi again hurl the ball, this time at the head of the girl who was their defensive star. Not the scorer. She barely ducked but it took out their second best scorer. Later, there was a pileup of girls when they all went down, and I saw little elbows flying, but it would be hard to swear as to whose.
Soon, I realized that the girls spent more than half of the game taking a knee. The thousand yard stare was in full effect, with every girl on the team giving to the Cujos, player, coach and parents alike. The fact that our coach kept fretting like his pants were wet probably worked in our favor in terms of penalties called.
When the game ended, 1-0, Cujos, our girls were still staring. Our coach almost had a conniption. Cujo parents were taking an assortment of crying, bleeding and otherwise dazed little girls home. And Scoompi and her teammates held her head high. Parents looked like they wanted to say something, but we had as many fathers as they did, and our mothers, my wife included, turned a blind eye to whatever was happening.
“Girls! We need to practice! We’re losing the fundamentals! Girls?” Fathers on our team looked at him with disgust. The girls stared ahead.
The next weekend was the Squash cup, this multi game tournament held at the park. We were there by 8am for the first of three games. Luckily, we’d be done by noon. There was a Harper Lee conference at the university I wanted to attend.
The girls stalked on the field again, creepy thousand yard stares in full effect.
“Now girls,” said the coach, “we’re into sportsmanship…it’s not how we win or lose…”
They eyed him like he had two heads.
“We gotta go to work,” Scoompi said when he finished yammering.
The initial kick off was innocent enough. Again.
That was it.
The elbows, the body blows. I saw a log roll at one point.
There was no score. The other team left crying. Parents were glaring, and the Powder Puffs were pushing that steely glare.
The second game was against the Cyclones, the team that pulled out girls’ shirt ponytails in the past.
The Cyclones gave like they got, and by halftime we had a couple split lips and each team had a player carried off field in a stretcher. I bought a Gatorade and walked over to our side, where our coach was looking miffed and Scoompi was holding court.
“We got this,” she said. “We can take them. We are scoreless, but we got this. We are all in. Cmon, bring it in.”
It was like attending a séance. The coach was back to biting his fingernails. The whistle blew.
We dribbled up field, clustered as usual. The Cyclones attempted to pick us apart, but our girls remained bunched up, with the ball in the middle. The Cyclones tried to penetrate but got stiff armed. It was weird, but the biggest girl on our team broke out with the ball, chugged up field and kicked hard for the goal.
The Cyclone goalie grabbed the ball and launched it at our forward’s head. The impact knocked the spit out of her. She fell.
Then she got up, charged the goal and began pummeling the goalie with fists and feet. When she went down and one of her teammates tried to help her, my little girl flung herself at the other player. “Take a knee!” she hollered. Parents gasped. Fathers cheered. Scooter’s jaw dropped. Whistles blew. The teams took a knee, all eyes on my child.
“Yeah, this is really helping to calm that aggressive personality,” I said to my wife.
“Shut up.”
Our forward was ejected from the game. In the first display of emotion in three games, our girls cheered. Their goalie was replaced by a girl Scoompi’s size, who trembled from the moment she stood in the net.
We scored. The new goalie jumped out of the ball’s way like it was a charging rhino.
The game ended, and our girls again cheered. Then two men in jackets bearing the legend “Homewood Soccer League” came over, spoke to the refs, and then summoned each coach. When they were done, one held a megaphone to his lips.
“After reviewing the last two games today, league authorities have agreed to suspend the Powder Puffs for unsportsman like conduct from this Squash Cup. The victory still stands; however, the girls will forfeit the next game against the Pterodactyls. Get a grip on your kids people.” He glared at our side and stalked off.
“Well, I guess that’s that,” I said, happy to be leaving early. As my wife stood, I folded our camp chairs. Scooter was grinning ear to ear. Scoompi ran over to him.
“You did it Allie!”
“She did what?” my wife snapped. “Got disqualified?”
“They won, Mama,” Scooter said patiently. “They earned it. They went out there and played and did what it took to win.”
“I’m proud of you,” I said, scooping her up. She wriggled and I put her down.
“You’re proud of her? Because they won? Is that what it’s about? Winning at all costs? What are we teaching our kids?”
“MaaaMuh?”
“Yes, Alexandra?”
“I don’t care that we won. This wasn’t about that.” She looked up; her little face had a peaceful look, under all that grime.
“Then what, pray tell, was the big deal?”
One of the Pterodactyls walked up and fist bumped with Scoompi. “Sorry we didn’t get to play ya’ll. Maybe next year. Ya’ll got heart. Looking forward to it. Later, Scoomp…” she walked off.
“Nothing Mama. Just that I learned that nobody gives you anything. You gotta go out and get it. That is especially the case with respect.”
She hugged her mom’s leg and punched me. “C’mon, Atticus. Let’s go home. You too, Jem.”
She did her dance all the way to the car.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
The Dozens
My baby’s after school routine was such where you could set your watch by it. The school bell rang, and as kids in their white shirts, khakis and red sweaters or sweatshirts poured from the school, a lone little figure would come dragging out, like a laborer finishing a hard day’s work. She would trudge, knapsack over one shoulder, lunch box in her opposite hand, to the sidewalk, look for my car, and wave. On really good days, she would do a little dance for the world to see.
Her brother would usually be holding court by the corner of the church, which was adjacent to the school’s parking lot. The whole structure took up the length of the block. I never saw Scooter exit the school, just looked up, every day, and saw him, on the corner by the church, a head above a bunch of other boys in hooded red sweatshirts, fall coats flung carelessly to the ground.
Most days, Scoompi finished her wave and/or dance, and launched herself at her brother, hooking her arms around his thigh (she would never reach his waist) and hollering, as loud as she could, “I LOVE YOU!”
She only did it because Scooter didn’t like it. Even his friends caught on and just knew to acknowledge Scoompi or get the same. Scooter flushed red every day but amidst the mothers and school staff present who always said, “Awwwww…” corporal deterrence could not be practiced on his little sister. Once he stopped squirming, she grabbed her knapsack and lunchbox, waited for the crossing guard, and after crossing the street, ran for my car like a marine humping his stuff to the last Huey leaving the rice paddy that afternoon.
The entire routine took less than five minutes.
She was in my backseat, little head poking between the front bucket seats, giving me a kiss on my cheek.
“Hi!” she screamed. I was already half deaf, and compared to what her brother got, I was let off easy.
“Hey, baby,” I said. “Wow, your face is cold.”
“Uh huh,” she said. “The seasons ARE changing. What? You flunk third grade twice?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, pushing my window button as my son strode up to the car.
“Going to the library, Daddy,” he looked at his friends milling around a few feet back.
“Hey fellas,” I shouted through the open window, then, just as loud, said, “Young man? You don’t TELL me where you’re going. Let’s try this again.”
Scooter looked furtively over his shoulder, and said, in a lower voice, “Hey, Daddy, can I go to the library for a while?”
“Be home by 5.30, Man.”
“Thanks, Daddy. You got any money…oof!”
I was pulling on the window button, and the rising glass almost caught his nose this time. Scoompi howled with laughter.
“I guess not,” I heard him say through the glass. “You coulda just said ‘No!’” He and his friends lumbered off. I had a feeling the library time would be spent in part at the park, which was midway between the school and the library. Just a thought.
“I gotta go get a haircut, Baby.”
“OK. Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Why does your barbershop smell like burning leaves?”
“Oh…you know, it’s Fall Baby. Leaves get burnt.”
“No, Daddy, it smells like someone is burning like, leaves and rope in there all the time…”
“Really?”
“And why does Randy, your barber, always have a Coca Cola bottle in a brown bag that he can’t put down for long while cutting hair?”
“Um…”
“Did you ever stop to tell him smoking is bad for him? He’s kinda fat already.”
“Grown man, Baby, he is entitled to his cigarettes, long as nobody else is working to pay for ‘em.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah Baby?”
“Those aren’t cigarettes.”
Oh.
“So,” I choked, “How was school?”
She stretched her little body across both back seats and groaned.
“Stupid. We had some dumb Indian come to our school, dressed in deerskin…”
“Buckskin, Baby…”
“Whatever. I mean, he shows up with the whole outfit and has NO weapons. I’m waiting for him to demonstrate just HOW they took out all those buffalo. He pulls out a doggone guitar and starts singing some dumb song. Didn’t white people invent Country music?” She shook her little head in disgust.
“So then, at question time, I ask, ‘Where is your bow and arrow? And your tomahawk?’ He says Native Americans don’t use them anymore. OK. Like Native Americans are walking around with deer skin pants on and wearing feathers in their hair, right?”
She had a good point.
“So he tried to act like I was stupid, and I asked him why chiefs and smart people in the tribe got a buncha feathers, but he only had one. Did that mean he was in special classes while in his tribe? Was this why they lost their land to palefaces? Because they put one feather dummies with no weapons on the front line when the cavalry came? He then tried to lose his temper and ask what I knew, so I told him my daddy was a professor researching Native Americans, but he was only researching the smart ones who got casinos, not dummies like him who got a quarter share in an oil change joint on Kedzie and had to pad their paycheck going to schools acting like Tonto’s retarded brother.”
Wow. “How much detention you get?”
“Big Booty…” I looked at her hard in the rearview.
“Sr. Mary Tamika was out today. The sub made me stay in at recess but didn’t write me up.”
“Good deal.”
“Kinda. I had to write something about being culturally sensitive and not making grown men cry.”
We pulled into the barbershop. Randy, my barber, was outside, exhaling smoke.
“Hey Doc, hey Scoompi,” Randy’s eyes were red.
“Hey yourself,” Scoompi said and trooped into the shop, sitting at the chess table.
“She know how to play?” Randy asked, stubbing out his smoking material.
“I didn’t teach her. She seems to know everything else,” I said.
I got my hair cut. Scoompi got up once or twice to critique Randy’s work and to remind him not to cut my moustache down too low. I was going to apologize when Randy said, “Forget it Doc. I got an 8 year old daughter, too.”
“She critique your barber?”
“Naw, the dude that sells me clothes.”
Two older men in the shop started going back and forth, loudly. Scoompi stopped paying watching Randy and focused on the old men with rapt attention.
“I don’t care what you say! How you know anything about good looks? You so ugly yo mama had to tie a poke chop round your neck so the dog would play with you!”
The grownups had heard it before.
“Ugly? Fool, please. Yo mama is so ugly that when she looks in the mirror, the reflection looks back and shakes its head.”
“Hold on now…you so ugly, after meeting you, I've decided I am in favor of abortion even in cases of incest.”
“Fool, Learn from your parents' mistakes - use birth control!”
“I heard yo’ ol lady got a weave made outta steel wool…now she think she got good hair…”
“Yo’ ol’ lady wasn’t always a lady…her name usedta be Frank…”
“You ever wonder what life would be like if you'd had enough oxygen at birth?”
Then came the old Redd Foxx favorite. “I could stick yo’ head in some dough, and make some gorilla cookies…”
That one sent my babygirl and the other kids in the shop into gales of laughter. The men stopped.
“Is there a little girl in here?” one asked.
They went back to murmuring to themselves.
The men went back to getting faded up. The little boys gave Scoompi the evil eye.
As I paid and tipped Randy, Scoompi went up to one of the men, who was adjusting the Stacy Addams brim that matched is fire engine red suit and fake alligator shoes. She pulled the hem of his six button suit coat.
“Yeah, Punkin’? “
“What was that you all were just doing? That was hilarious!”
“Baby girl…Doc? This one yours?”
“You know it.”
“Figgered. Honey, that’s just old men playing the dozens. Don’t pay us no neva mind. Doc, why you bring this chile to the shop? Baby, playing the dozens is for old men, ain’t got nothin’ but time on they hands. It takes years to get good. Don’t pay us no ‘tention. Would yo’ daddy over there talk like that?”
“It’s OK Mister. He says worse at home. I just knew he wasn’t creative enough to make up all that funny stuff by himself.”
The entire shop howled with laughter. The old man straightened his brim, chucked her under her chin, and grinned. “You play the dozens just fine, Baby. Be good. You stay in school!”
We were riding home in silence when she said, “Daddy, is it BAD to play the dozens?”
“Naw, Boo. It’s just not always…appropriate.”
“Propreeit?”
“It’s not always the right thing to do at certain times.”
“Oh.” She looked out the window.
“Is it ‘propriate to do it if someone picks on you?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What if someone picks on your friend?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s fine then.”
“When is it not fine to play the dozens?”
This was my chance to impart my daddy lesson of the day. “When you have a guest speaker trying to teach you about his heritage.”
“Really? Hmmm…I don’t do that. I just tell the truth.”
“Well, no matter what, if you play? I don’t want you swearing. Unladylike. You gotta find words that are funny that won’t get you sent to hell…”
“Like what? The swears are all the funny ones…”
“Start with words like ‘heffa’…”
“Huh?”
“Means big ol’ cow…”
“Oh….so, what if it hurts their feelings?”
“Baby, life is full of people who can dish it out, but not take it. Like President Truman said, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get outta the kitchen…”
The next few days were uneventful. By the weekend, Scoompi’s little friend Ham came over to play. Hamilton towered over Scoompi and hit like a grown man. The varsity football coaches, and even the school priest begged Ham’s mom to let him play. Hamilton was in Scoompi’s third grade class. Mom wisely said ‘no’, and several seventh and eighth grade players heaved a sigh of relief.
Ham was a gentle soul, however, and unaware of his strength. His spare time was spent reading and writing, and playing with Scoompi, who was never fazed when Ham ran into her, and who tackled him with a ferocity that made bigger boys question her sanity. Even Scooter didn’t wrestle with Hamilton. He was a great kid, a smart boy who athletic directors were already drooling over at his ripe old age of eight.
“Want to watch Sponge Bob?” Ham’s enunciation and diction could rival Bryant Gumbel’s. His mother was brilliant.
“No,” Scoompi replied. I want to ask you a question.”
“Kay, wanna go toss the football around?”
“No, Ham. I wanna know: why you let those girls in class say those mean things about you?
I could hear Ham rolling around on the floor, no quiet feat. “I dunno. Gee, Scoomp, I mean, who cares what they say?”
“I do. I’m your friend, and I don’t like it. That Ol’ stupid Sr. Mary Tamika should put a stop to it.”
Ham was quiet. Like all red blooded men, even miniature ones, Sr. Mary Tamika was not someone you argued about. Ham, at 8, was probably only six or seven years past nursing age. His attachment to the voluptuous nun would be even stronger than men four times his age. Not stronger by much, mind you. But stronger still.
“Oh, Scoomp…Sr. Mary Tamika is nice…”
“Whatever, man. She is trouble in a tight black dress and a headpiece. I’m only worried that I only got five more years to take her down before graduation…”
“Oh…well, the girls never talk bad about me in front of her…”
“I’m gonna handle this for you…I don’t like those girls anyway, they’re mean.”
“How? You too teeny to fight. I think we should just ignore them.”
I could only make out my daughter mumbling.
“What do kitchens and eggs have to do with any of this?”I heard Ham ask.
I would later find out.
I was in my office the following week when my phone rang.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” I recognized the mild voice of doom immediately. “This is Mr. Smith from…”
I sat up in my chair. “Afternoon, Principal Smith, what can I do for you? That boy of mine giving you trouble?”
A lighthearted chuckle. “Alexander is always a pleasure. A saint that one. What a good Catholic!”
You wouldn’t be saying that, I grimaced, if you knew he’s been studying the Koran with his maternal grandfather and picking apart our faith like a stack of so many Legos.
“…no, sir, I am afraid I am calling about young Alexandra…we tried your home, but we didn’t get an answer…”
Thank God for that.
“…some parents have phoned over the last few days…classmates, even some of their older siblings…well, apparently, the girls have had some problem with Alexandra…this stretches to the 8th grade, and one or two of the older boys as well…”
“Oh.” Whenever I had to deal with school administration regarding Scoompi, I treated them like the police. Say nothing until you have counsel.
“So, these parents would like to meet, and as a community, and you being such an active member, we would like to see if you or your wife can make it this afternoon, say 5pm?”
“In your office?”
“No, I’m sorry sir, there just isn’t room. We can do the cafeteria, however. It should accommodate us just fine. The gym is in use.”
What the heck?
That afternoon, my innocent child hopped in the car, kissed me on her cheek and sat back, quietly, as if all was wonderful in her realm.
“Scoomp?”
“Yes Daddy?”
“Mmmm…I had a call from Mr. Smith today.”
“Really?” The look on her face was…well. Lee Harvey Oswald had looked no more innocent.
“He wants us to get together with some parents…apparently…some kids have been having a hard time with you?”
She yawned. “Oh.”
“Baby, has someone been bothering you in school?”
Shaking of head. “No Daddy,” she grinned broadly, “School is just fine. Been better than ever, lately.”
I was curious. Usually, we were alerted to detentions through parent notes, which we were required to sign and have our child return. None of those. For the life of me, I couldn’t see what a bunch of other kids, especially older ones, would find threatening about my daughter. She was by far the smallest one in her class.
Luckily, my wife was in seminars all week, otherwise she would have taken the call and probably flown off the handle over nothing. In fact, I was getting a mite angry, the thought of these bad kids ganging up on my pumpkin. We all know mothers can put forth some righteous indignation. Well, Daddies aren’t any slouches, either, I thought. Especially when you mess with our baby girls…
The cafeteria wasn’t packed, but it was…well occupied. I walked in, Scoompi in tow, her head down.
Mr. Smith greeted us. “AH, you’re here. Let’s get started and see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
He smiled and gestured, “These parents are concerned…apparently their children have come home, upset, sometimes in tears, after verbal altercations with little Alexandra, here…”
One mother looked from Scoompi to her husky son, who were her spitting image. Son. Scoompi. Son, Scoompi.
“But she’s just a sweet lil ol girl!” the mother exclaimed. “What damage could she do you?”
Suddenly, the mom was dragging her son out of his chair, into the hallway, hollering at him, “She’s just a little kid! Why you lie? Got me comin’ up here, after work, tired, for this?” She was pushing him ahead of her, and at the doorway she reached inside her purse for a wicked looking strap. We listened until he heard the rhythmic “Whop, whop!” followed by heavy sighs, “Uuuh, uuuh…” then the inevitable sobs and screams. The fathers in the room bit their lips to keep from laughing. Several mothers of older kids stood up, frowned at their children and left out the other exit.
The girls that were left were a handful, all in Scoompi’s class but one, who was an older sister of one of my daughter’s classmates.
“Well, we don’t see her as a little kid,” one mother spat. “She has said some evil things to my child, and I don’t like it. I wanna know what kinda parenting you supposedly doing?”
“Well, now,” Mr. Smith said gently, “the girls in this room, except for Alexandra, are on record of having been accused of bullying some classmates, and teasing others mercilessly, as Alexandra is accused of doing…”
“Don’t tell me my child is bad!” Another mother shouted. “I pay good money for my child to go here! My child has been taught not to take disrespect from nobody! As long as she respect me, she got no problem!”
The other parents all looked at her, and there was an isolation that took place, although no one moved a muscle.
“If my child has done anything wrong,” I said, “she has a right to face her accusers. I love my child like you love yours. No one is going to accuse her and not have me defend her. Let’s speak up. It’s late and we all want to go home.”
One little girl said timidly, “Well, one afternoon, she said that I had no right talking about anyone, because I was so ugly she’d stick my face in some dough and make some gorilla cookies…”
Another stood and said, “I was talking to my friend about something and she told me I’d be a two faced heffa but if I had another face I sure wouldn’t be wearing this one…”
I saw Mr. Smith mouth the word “heffa?” to himself with a look of confusion behind his glasses.
“I told her my daddy would beat her up but she said my Daddy was too busy spending quality time with his special friend to pay me any attention,” one little girl pouted. “Daddy?” she turned around. “How does she know Maurice?”
The older sister said, “When I tried to take up for my little sister, she asked me why my teeth buck out and then said, ‘You know we know why, DON’T we?’” She collapsed in tears. “There were BOYS around, and they have all been calling my house ever since!”
Before I could say anything, Mr. Smith said, “Each of you said something interesting. Apparently, Alexandra said mean things to you in response to something you said…”
There was the sound of a throat clearing at the door.
She couldn’t have been more than five six, and the floor length black dress and habit on her head still left everything to the imagination. Her cheekbones were defined, but not prominent. Her lips were full, and her brown eyes flashed. Her skin was even and as dark as milk chocolate. Her teeth were good. She walked behind me and I could smell what was probably Ivory soap. I was hooked on it from that moment forward. She wore a rope around her waist that cinched her dress and accentuated the curves on either end. She didn’t walk. She didn’t glide. He just…took charge and moved.
“Oh, wonderful,” Mr. Smith said, and the smile on his face wasn’t just one of relief. She had him, too. “This is Sister Mary Tamika, most of the children’s teacher. Sister?”
Her voice was low and sultry, her diction good. She was strong without being forceful.
“I think we have a misunderstanding, but I am so happy I have you all in one place at the same time. The position…is not quite what we think it is, but we can make the most of it.”
Every word sounded like it was music. The fathers left in the room stared, then each gave their wives a look like, “Why you?”
“Your daughters, including your older daughter, Ma’am, have taken it upon themselves to tease a young man in my class almost daily.”
It fit. Ham.
“This young man is a brilliant student and has the potential to be a gifted athlete, but his size and overall friendliness often makes his the target of your daughters’…mean language….
“Alexandra is no angel, but what I have witnessed, after her having rather spirited conversations with your children, is this young man has had a week of peace. You, young lady,” she pointed at the older sister, “ought to be terribly ashamed of yourself, as you were usually the ringleader in picking on a young man several years your junior. I have no sympathy for you.”
“I am not certain what language Alexandra has used, but I can assure the rest of you that if you heard some of the things your children said to this other student, you would question your own parenting skills…”
“I ain’t gotta question nothing!” The lady who’s spoken earlier was on a roll again. “I pay my money…”
“We will happily refund you…”Sr. Mary Tamika said icily, affixing the woman with a stare that would stop a rabid goat. “This is not Wal Mart, but a school, a community…your money means only so much.” Mr. Smith didn’t look so sure of that one, but the nun continued. “Perhaps we don’t need your child here, since it is obvious she gets her poor example of behavior from home…”
Fathers glared at the lady. She shut up.
“I am so glad we had this time together,” Sr. Mary Tamika smiled. A paper clip dropped from her habit. She bent to pick it up. The mothers hustled their children into coats, stood, and filed out. Every father remained sitting. Me? I did my multiplication tables in my head.
“Well, thank you, Sr. Mary Tamika, and thank you folks for coming out…” Mr. Smith hurried from the room, hand in his right pocket.
“You should be proud of her,” the nun looked me in my eyes. “I don’t applaud her methods but so endorse her sentiments. “
“Uh huh,” was all I could croak. She put her hand on my arm. Then she turned to my baby girl, who was smirking.
“You got out of something really nasty, little girl,” she began sternly, “I want you to find other ways to resolve conflict. You hear me?”
Scoompi looked at her and locked into her eyes.
“I did nothing wrong,” she said firmly.
Sr. Mary Tamika smiled. “You remind me so much of a little girl I knew so well. Oooh, that attitude! She played the dozens for many, many years, until she met her match. A nun who taught at her school lit her up but good. That cured her. Yes,” she laughed, “that lil brown girl, she made some bad choices later, she did some very unholy thing, and she loved her some men…but she always remembered that nun. Became one herself. Never did get beat by anyone at the dozens except that Black sister so long ago.”
Scoompi gave her the evil eye. “SO? I took up for someone. Wrong is wrong. Even Jesus probably played the dozens when he chased the money changers out the temple. It's like the president said: If you can't stand the heat, get out the kitchen... You just like giving me a hard time, Big…”
The nun leaned forward, and it was a whisper, but I swear I heard it clear as day.
“Look Lil Heffa…You've never been outspoken; no one has ever been able to….but I tell you this: if I catch yo lil tail playin’ the dozens in my class again, or referring to me as ‘Big Booty’, I'm gonna put five of these where you sneeze….I’ma make you look like an extra on the Simpsons…”
She stood, gave me a sweet smile, and said, “We’re all through, Doctor. Good seeing you again as always…Sometimes? Things get a little outta whack. But if you hit it just right, everything is all better. Right Alexandra? I mean, right Scoompi?”
She shimmied out.
Scoompi glared at her.
“C’mon, Baby…let’s go home. Perhaps we need to keep this between us.”
We walked in to a warm house and aromas out this world. My wife came out of the oven with an apron on and an envelope in her hand.
One strong swat on her bottom and Babygirl was running up the stairs.
“What was that for?” I tried to feign incredulity.
“Why is it this child thinks it’s fun to belittle another nationality? This letter was forwarded by your girlfriend at the school, Sr. Mary Whosis, the big booty heffa always making eyes at you?”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, someone plays the dozens so hard around here this child thought it was fun to refer to a Native American guest speaker as “Tonto’s retarded half brother”, among other things…Now the man refuses to come back to the school. You need to talk to your daughter!”
Given what could have happened?
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Her brother would usually be holding court by the corner of the church, which was adjacent to the school’s parking lot. The whole structure took up the length of the block. I never saw Scooter exit the school, just looked up, every day, and saw him, on the corner by the church, a head above a bunch of other boys in hooded red sweatshirts, fall coats flung carelessly to the ground.
Most days, Scoompi finished her wave and/or dance, and launched herself at her brother, hooking her arms around his thigh (she would never reach his waist) and hollering, as loud as she could, “I LOVE YOU!”
She only did it because Scooter didn’t like it. Even his friends caught on and just knew to acknowledge Scoompi or get the same. Scooter flushed red every day but amidst the mothers and school staff present who always said, “Awwwww…” corporal deterrence could not be practiced on his little sister. Once he stopped squirming, she grabbed her knapsack and lunchbox, waited for the crossing guard, and after crossing the street, ran for my car like a marine humping his stuff to the last Huey leaving the rice paddy that afternoon.
The entire routine took less than five minutes.
She was in my backseat, little head poking between the front bucket seats, giving me a kiss on my cheek.
“Hi!” she screamed. I was already half deaf, and compared to what her brother got, I was let off easy.
“Hey, baby,” I said. “Wow, your face is cold.”
“Uh huh,” she said. “The seasons ARE changing. What? You flunk third grade twice?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said, pushing my window button as my son strode up to the car.
“Going to the library, Daddy,” he looked at his friends milling around a few feet back.
“Hey fellas,” I shouted through the open window, then, just as loud, said, “Young man? You don’t TELL me where you’re going. Let’s try this again.”
Scooter looked furtively over his shoulder, and said, in a lower voice, “Hey, Daddy, can I go to the library for a while?”
“Be home by 5.30, Man.”
“Thanks, Daddy. You got any money…oof!”
I was pulling on the window button, and the rising glass almost caught his nose this time. Scoompi howled with laughter.
“I guess not,” I heard him say through the glass. “You coulda just said ‘No!’” He and his friends lumbered off. I had a feeling the library time would be spent in part at the park, which was midway between the school and the library. Just a thought.
“I gotta go get a haircut, Baby.”
“OK. Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Why does your barbershop smell like burning leaves?”
“Oh…you know, it’s Fall Baby. Leaves get burnt.”
“No, Daddy, it smells like someone is burning like, leaves and rope in there all the time…”
“Really?”
“And why does Randy, your barber, always have a Coca Cola bottle in a brown bag that he can’t put down for long while cutting hair?”
“Um…”
“Did you ever stop to tell him smoking is bad for him? He’s kinda fat already.”
“Grown man, Baby, he is entitled to his cigarettes, long as nobody else is working to pay for ‘em.”
“Daddy?”
“Yeah Baby?”
“Those aren’t cigarettes.”
Oh.
“So,” I choked, “How was school?”
She stretched her little body across both back seats and groaned.
“Stupid. We had some dumb Indian come to our school, dressed in deerskin…”
“Buckskin, Baby…”
“Whatever. I mean, he shows up with the whole outfit and has NO weapons. I’m waiting for him to demonstrate just HOW they took out all those buffalo. He pulls out a doggone guitar and starts singing some dumb song. Didn’t white people invent Country music?” She shook her little head in disgust.
“So then, at question time, I ask, ‘Where is your bow and arrow? And your tomahawk?’ He says Native Americans don’t use them anymore. OK. Like Native Americans are walking around with deer skin pants on and wearing feathers in their hair, right?”
She had a good point.
“So he tried to act like I was stupid, and I asked him why chiefs and smart people in the tribe got a buncha feathers, but he only had one. Did that mean he was in special classes while in his tribe? Was this why they lost their land to palefaces? Because they put one feather dummies with no weapons on the front line when the cavalry came? He then tried to lose his temper and ask what I knew, so I told him my daddy was a professor researching Native Americans, but he was only researching the smart ones who got casinos, not dummies like him who got a quarter share in an oil change joint on Kedzie and had to pad their paycheck going to schools acting like Tonto’s retarded brother.”
Wow. “How much detention you get?”
“Big Booty…” I looked at her hard in the rearview.
“Sr. Mary Tamika was out today. The sub made me stay in at recess but didn’t write me up.”
“Good deal.”
“Kinda. I had to write something about being culturally sensitive and not making grown men cry.”
We pulled into the barbershop. Randy, my barber, was outside, exhaling smoke.
“Hey Doc, hey Scoompi,” Randy’s eyes were red.
“Hey yourself,” Scoompi said and trooped into the shop, sitting at the chess table.
“She know how to play?” Randy asked, stubbing out his smoking material.
“I didn’t teach her. She seems to know everything else,” I said.
I got my hair cut. Scoompi got up once or twice to critique Randy’s work and to remind him not to cut my moustache down too low. I was going to apologize when Randy said, “Forget it Doc. I got an 8 year old daughter, too.”
“She critique your barber?”
“Naw, the dude that sells me clothes.”
Two older men in the shop started going back and forth, loudly. Scoompi stopped paying watching Randy and focused on the old men with rapt attention.
“I don’t care what you say! How you know anything about good looks? You so ugly yo mama had to tie a poke chop round your neck so the dog would play with you!”
The grownups had heard it before.
“Ugly? Fool, please. Yo mama is so ugly that when she looks in the mirror, the reflection looks back and shakes its head.”
“Hold on now…you so ugly, after meeting you, I've decided I am in favor of abortion even in cases of incest.”
“Fool, Learn from your parents' mistakes - use birth control!”
“I heard yo’ ol lady got a weave made outta steel wool…now she think she got good hair…”
“Yo’ ol’ lady wasn’t always a lady…her name usedta be Frank…”
“You ever wonder what life would be like if you'd had enough oxygen at birth?”
Then came the old Redd Foxx favorite. “I could stick yo’ head in some dough, and make some gorilla cookies…”
That one sent my babygirl and the other kids in the shop into gales of laughter. The men stopped.
“Is there a little girl in here?” one asked.
They went back to murmuring to themselves.
The men went back to getting faded up. The little boys gave Scoompi the evil eye.
As I paid and tipped Randy, Scoompi went up to one of the men, who was adjusting the Stacy Addams brim that matched is fire engine red suit and fake alligator shoes. She pulled the hem of his six button suit coat.
“Yeah, Punkin’? “
“What was that you all were just doing? That was hilarious!”
“Baby girl…Doc? This one yours?”
“You know it.”
“Figgered. Honey, that’s just old men playing the dozens. Don’t pay us no neva mind. Doc, why you bring this chile to the shop? Baby, playing the dozens is for old men, ain’t got nothin’ but time on they hands. It takes years to get good. Don’t pay us no ‘tention. Would yo’ daddy over there talk like that?”
“It’s OK Mister. He says worse at home. I just knew he wasn’t creative enough to make up all that funny stuff by himself.”
The entire shop howled with laughter. The old man straightened his brim, chucked her under her chin, and grinned. “You play the dozens just fine, Baby. Be good. You stay in school!”
We were riding home in silence when she said, “Daddy, is it BAD to play the dozens?”
“Naw, Boo. It’s just not always…appropriate.”
“Propreeit?”
“It’s not always the right thing to do at certain times.”
“Oh.” She looked out the window.
“Is it ‘propriate to do it if someone picks on you?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What if someone picks on your friend?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s fine then.”
“When is it not fine to play the dozens?”
This was my chance to impart my daddy lesson of the day. “When you have a guest speaker trying to teach you about his heritage.”
“Really? Hmmm…I don’t do that. I just tell the truth.”
“Well, no matter what, if you play? I don’t want you swearing. Unladylike. You gotta find words that are funny that won’t get you sent to hell…”
“Like what? The swears are all the funny ones…”
“Start with words like ‘heffa’…”
“Huh?”
“Means big ol’ cow…”
“Oh….so, what if it hurts their feelings?”
“Baby, life is full of people who can dish it out, but not take it. Like President Truman said, ‘If you can’t stand the heat, get outta the kitchen…”
The next few days were uneventful. By the weekend, Scoompi’s little friend Ham came over to play. Hamilton towered over Scoompi and hit like a grown man. The varsity football coaches, and even the school priest begged Ham’s mom to let him play. Hamilton was in Scoompi’s third grade class. Mom wisely said ‘no’, and several seventh and eighth grade players heaved a sigh of relief.
Ham was a gentle soul, however, and unaware of his strength. His spare time was spent reading and writing, and playing with Scoompi, who was never fazed when Ham ran into her, and who tackled him with a ferocity that made bigger boys question her sanity. Even Scooter didn’t wrestle with Hamilton. He was a great kid, a smart boy who athletic directors were already drooling over at his ripe old age of eight.
“Want to watch Sponge Bob?” Ham’s enunciation and diction could rival Bryant Gumbel’s. His mother was brilliant.
“No,” Scoompi replied. I want to ask you a question.”
“Kay, wanna go toss the football around?”
“No, Ham. I wanna know: why you let those girls in class say those mean things about you?
I could hear Ham rolling around on the floor, no quiet feat. “I dunno. Gee, Scoomp, I mean, who cares what they say?”
“I do. I’m your friend, and I don’t like it. That Ol’ stupid Sr. Mary Tamika should put a stop to it.”
Ham was quiet. Like all red blooded men, even miniature ones, Sr. Mary Tamika was not someone you argued about. Ham, at 8, was probably only six or seven years past nursing age. His attachment to the voluptuous nun would be even stronger than men four times his age. Not stronger by much, mind you. But stronger still.
“Oh, Scoomp…Sr. Mary Tamika is nice…”
“Whatever, man. She is trouble in a tight black dress and a headpiece. I’m only worried that I only got five more years to take her down before graduation…”
“Oh…well, the girls never talk bad about me in front of her…”
“I’m gonna handle this for you…I don’t like those girls anyway, they’re mean.”
“How? You too teeny to fight. I think we should just ignore them.”
I could only make out my daughter mumbling.
“What do kitchens and eggs have to do with any of this?”I heard Ham ask.
I would later find out.
I was in my office the following week when my phone rang.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” I recognized the mild voice of doom immediately. “This is Mr. Smith from…”
I sat up in my chair. “Afternoon, Principal Smith, what can I do for you? That boy of mine giving you trouble?”
A lighthearted chuckle. “Alexander is always a pleasure. A saint that one. What a good Catholic!”
You wouldn’t be saying that, I grimaced, if you knew he’s been studying the Koran with his maternal grandfather and picking apart our faith like a stack of so many Legos.
“…no, sir, I am afraid I am calling about young Alexandra…we tried your home, but we didn’t get an answer…”
Thank God for that.
“…some parents have phoned over the last few days…classmates, even some of their older siblings…well, apparently, the girls have had some problem with Alexandra…this stretches to the 8th grade, and one or two of the older boys as well…”
“Oh.” Whenever I had to deal with school administration regarding Scoompi, I treated them like the police. Say nothing until you have counsel.
“So, these parents would like to meet, and as a community, and you being such an active member, we would like to see if you or your wife can make it this afternoon, say 5pm?”
“In your office?”
“No, I’m sorry sir, there just isn’t room. We can do the cafeteria, however. It should accommodate us just fine. The gym is in use.”
What the heck?
That afternoon, my innocent child hopped in the car, kissed me on her cheek and sat back, quietly, as if all was wonderful in her realm.
“Scoomp?”
“Yes Daddy?”
“Mmmm…I had a call from Mr. Smith today.”
“Really?” The look on her face was…well. Lee Harvey Oswald had looked no more innocent.
“He wants us to get together with some parents…apparently…some kids have been having a hard time with you?”
She yawned. “Oh.”
“Baby, has someone been bothering you in school?”
Shaking of head. “No Daddy,” she grinned broadly, “School is just fine. Been better than ever, lately.”
I was curious. Usually, we were alerted to detentions through parent notes, which we were required to sign and have our child return. None of those. For the life of me, I couldn’t see what a bunch of other kids, especially older ones, would find threatening about my daughter. She was by far the smallest one in her class.
Luckily, my wife was in seminars all week, otherwise she would have taken the call and probably flown off the handle over nothing. In fact, I was getting a mite angry, the thought of these bad kids ganging up on my pumpkin. We all know mothers can put forth some righteous indignation. Well, Daddies aren’t any slouches, either, I thought. Especially when you mess with our baby girls…
The cafeteria wasn’t packed, but it was…well occupied. I walked in, Scoompi in tow, her head down.
Mr. Smith greeted us. “AH, you’re here. Let’s get started and see if we can get to the bottom of this.”
He smiled and gestured, “These parents are concerned…apparently their children have come home, upset, sometimes in tears, after verbal altercations with little Alexandra, here…”
One mother looked from Scoompi to her husky son, who were her spitting image. Son. Scoompi. Son, Scoompi.
“But she’s just a sweet lil ol girl!” the mother exclaimed. “What damage could she do you?”
Suddenly, the mom was dragging her son out of his chair, into the hallway, hollering at him, “She’s just a little kid! Why you lie? Got me comin’ up here, after work, tired, for this?” She was pushing him ahead of her, and at the doorway she reached inside her purse for a wicked looking strap. We listened until he heard the rhythmic “Whop, whop!” followed by heavy sighs, “Uuuh, uuuh…” then the inevitable sobs and screams. The fathers in the room bit their lips to keep from laughing. Several mothers of older kids stood up, frowned at their children and left out the other exit.
The girls that were left were a handful, all in Scoompi’s class but one, who was an older sister of one of my daughter’s classmates.
“Well, we don’t see her as a little kid,” one mother spat. “She has said some evil things to my child, and I don’t like it. I wanna know what kinda parenting you supposedly doing?”
“Well, now,” Mr. Smith said gently, “the girls in this room, except for Alexandra, are on record of having been accused of bullying some classmates, and teasing others mercilessly, as Alexandra is accused of doing…”
“Don’t tell me my child is bad!” Another mother shouted. “I pay good money for my child to go here! My child has been taught not to take disrespect from nobody! As long as she respect me, she got no problem!”
The other parents all looked at her, and there was an isolation that took place, although no one moved a muscle.
“If my child has done anything wrong,” I said, “she has a right to face her accusers. I love my child like you love yours. No one is going to accuse her and not have me defend her. Let’s speak up. It’s late and we all want to go home.”
One little girl said timidly, “Well, one afternoon, she said that I had no right talking about anyone, because I was so ugly she’d stick my face in some dough and make some gorilla cookies…”
Another stood and said, “I was talking to my friend about something and she told me I’d be a two faced heffa but if I had another face I sure wouldn’t be wearing this one…”
I saw Mr. Smith mouth the word “heffa?” to himself with a look of confusion behind his glasses.
“I told her my daddy would beat her up but she said my Daddy was too busy spending quality time with his special friend to pay me any attention,” one little girl pouted. “Daddy?” she turned around. “How does she know Maurice?”
The older sister said, “When I tried to take up for my little sister, she asked me why my teeth buck out and then said, ‘You know we know why, DON’T we?’” She collapsed in tears. “There were BOYS around, and they have all been calling my house ever since!”
Before I could say anything, Mr. Smith said, “Each of you said something interesting. Apparently, Alexandra said mean things to you in response to something you said…”
There was the sound of a throat clearing at the door.
She couldn’t have been more than five six, and the floor length black dress and habit on her head still left everything to the imagination. Her cheekbones were defined, but not prominent. Her lips were full, and her brown eyes flashed. Her skin was even and as dark as milk chocolate. Her teeth were good. She walked behind me and I could smell what was probably Ivory soap. I was hooked on it from that moment forward. She wore a rope around her waist that cinched her dress and accentuated the curves on either end. She didn’t walk. She didn’t glide. He just…took charge and moved.
“Oh, wonderful,” Mr. Smith said, and the smile on his face wasn’t just one of relief. She had him, too. “This is Sister Mary Tamika, most of the children’s teacher. Sister?”
Her voice was low and sultry, her diction good. She was strong without being forceful.
“I think we have a misunderstanding, but I am so happy I have you all in one place at the same time. The position…is not quite what we think it is, but we can make the most of it.”
Every word sounded like it was music. The fathers left in the room stared, then each gave their wives a look like, “Why you?”
“Your daughters, including your older daughter, Ma’am, have taken it upon themselves to tease a young man in my class almost daily.”
It fit. Ham.
“This young man is a brilliant student and has the potential to be a gifted athlete, but his size and overall friendliness often makes his the target of your daughters’…mean language….
“Alexandra is no angel, but what I have witnessed, after her having rather spirited conversations with your children, is this young man has had a week of peace. You, young lady,” she pointed at the older sister, “ought to be terribly ashamed of yourself, as you were usually the ringleader in picking on a young man several years your junior. I have no sympathy for you.”
“I am not certain what language Alexandra has used, but I can assure the rest of you that if you heard some of the things your children said to this other student, you would question your own parenting skills…”
“I ain’t gotta question nothing!” The lady who’s spoken earlier was on a roll again. “I pay my money…”
“We will happily refund you…”Sr. Mary Tamika said icily, affixing the woman with a stare that would stop a rabid goat. “This is not Wal Mart, but a school, a community…your money means only so much.” Mr. Smith didn’t look so sure of that one, but the nun continued. “Perhaps we don’t need your child here, since it is obvious she gets her poor example of behavior from home…”
Fathers glared at the lady. She shut up.
“I am so glad we had this time together,” Sr. Mary Tamika smiled. A paper clip dropped from her habit. She bent to pick it up. The mothers hustled their children into coats, stood, and filed out. Every father remained sitting. Me? I did my multiplication tables in my head.
“Well, thank you, Sr. Mary Tamika, and thank you folks for coming out…” Mr. Smith hurried from the room, hand in his right pocket.
“You should be proud of her,” the nun looked me in my eyes. “I don’t applaud her methods but so endorse her sentiments. “
“Uh huh,” was all I could croak. She put her hand on my arm. Then she turned to my baby girl, who was smirking.
“You got out of something really nasty, little girl,” she began sternly, “I want you to find other ways to resolve conflict. You hear me?”
Scoompi looked at her and locked into her eyes.
“I did nothing wrong,” she said firmly.
Sr. Mary Tamika smiled. “You remind me so much of a little girl I knew so well. Oooh, that attitude! She played the dozens for many, many years, until she met her match. A nun who taught at her school lit her up but good. That cured her. Yes,” she laughed, “that lil brown girl, she made some bad choices later, she did some very unholy thing, and she loved her some men…but she always remembered that nun. Became one herself. Never did get beat by anyone at the dozens except that Black sister so long ago.”
Scoompi gave her the evil eye. “SO? I took up for someone. Wrong is wrong. Even Jesus probably played the dozens when he chased the money changers out the temple. It's like the president said: If you can't stand the heat, get out the kitchen... You just like giving me a hard time, Big…”
The nun leaned forward, and it was a whisper, but I swear I heard it clear as day.
“Look Lil Heffa…You've never been outspoken; no one has ever been able to….but I tell you this: if I catch yo lil tail playin’ the dozens in my class again, or referring to me as ‘Big Booty’, I'm gonna put five of these where you sneeze….I’ma make you look like an extra on the Simpsons…”
She stood, gave me a sweet smile, and said, “We’re all through, Doctor. Good seeing you again as always…Sometimes? Things get a little outta whack. But if you hit it just right, everything is all better. Right Alexandra? I mean, right Scoompi?”
She shimmied out.
Scoompi glared at her.
“C’mon, Baby…let’s go home. Perhaps we need to keep this between us.”
We walked in to a warm house and aromas out this world. My wife came out of the oven with an apron on and an envelope in her hand.
One strong swat on her bottom and Babygirl was running up the stairs.
“What was that for?” I tried to feign incredulity.
“Why is it this child thinks it’s fun to belittle another nationality? This letter was forwarded by your girlfriend at the school, Sr. Mary Whosis, the big booty heffa always making eyes at you?”
“Oh?”
“Apparently, someone plays the dozens so hard around here this child thought it was fun to refer to a Native American guest speaker as “Tonto’s retarded half brother”, among other things…Now the man refuses to come back to the school. You need to talk to your daughter!”
Given what could have happened?
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The Talent Show
“Daddy?”
“Yes Pumpkin?”
“Did you know Robert Marlon?”
I sat up. “Who?”
She gave me the Popeye look she’d given Sr. Mary Tamika recently. “Robert Marlon. The guy who sang ‘I Shot the Sheriff?’”
It took a moment to register. “Oh! You mean Bob Marley, Baby. Yes. I have a lot of his music. Why do you call him Robert?”
“I hate nicknames. His mother named him Robert, Robert sounds more grown up than ‘Bob’.”
“Hmmm…coming from someone who responds daily to ‘Scoompi’…”
She waved her hands at the air. “If you have a stupid name like ‘Alexandra’, you take whatever comes your way. But if you are named ‘Robert’, ‘Bob’ sounds stupid.”
“Mmm hmmm…we’re just getting all into world music today, aren’t we Hon?”
She ignored me. “Anyway, Robert Marlon…”
“Marley, Baby…”
“Robert Whosis sang about people that were kicked around by the people in charge…”
“And made himself very rich in the process, thus becoming one of the people in charge…So much easier to do the kicking when you can afford expensive boots…”
“No, he was a sufferah…”
“Hard to suffer with a big house a BMW and a lot of women.”
“What do women have anything to do with it? Anyway, I learned that people can use music to make people act fair.”
That was a warning sign, but I completely ignored it. When your child arrives at logical point “B” from logical point “A”, as a parent, you are too overwhelmed with pride to catch a conspiracy in the making. Well, fathers are too overwhelmed. Mothers tend to see through the smoke and ask, “What’s burning?”
“The school talent show is coming up,” she said slowly.
“OK.” I was ready to get back to my research. Providing for a family meant a man had to constantly explore new sources of revenue. This casino thing was looking better than selling newspapers out of the back of my car. Academia had its benefits, but a seven figure income was not one of them. As someone saving for my own kids’ education, I was sure the money universities charged for tuition versus what it paid professors was the result of some kind of fuzzy math.
“I think I want to be in it…”
“Um hmmm…”
“So I have your permission?”
“What’s that Baby? Oh, yeah. Hey, bring Daddy a glass of Ice tea. No sugar.”
When she returned, there was a paper in her hand.
“Here is the talent show permission slip. Sign here.”
I mumbled, “Thanks,” took the tea, and scribbled my autograph.
“Hey, Baby?” She was headed back up the stairs.
“Yuh huh?”
“What did I just sign?”
“Something for school, Daddy.”
I grew alert. “Was it your report card?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Oh, OK. Carry on Love.”
Office hours were wrapping up the next day when the department secretary buzzed me. “Your wife on line one, Doc.”
“Hey!” I liked talking to my wife. Except when I was in trouble. I’d been pretty good lately.
“Hey, Honey, um, did you sign the baby up for the school talent show?”
Did I?
“Um, yeah, I think so.”
“So, you read the form?”
Trick question? Like the time I bought a car and was asked later, “Honey, did you ASK what the payment was?” I really liked that car.
When confronted, play dead. I saw that in a movie once.
“Honey?”
Tar baby sit an’ don’t say nuthin’…
Cough a bit so they know the line is still open.
“You are aware you gave permission for your eight year old daughter to sing a song encouraging the students to revolt against, let me see, “their religious oppressors”, which is, surprisingly, spelled correctly…I digress. You agreed to let your child sign a song advocating the overthrow of the school administration?”
“Damn,” I said in a clear, strong voice. “That school sure is teaching those kids how to speak up for themselves.”
“Your girlfriend, Sr. Mary Tamika, called me, and sweetly suggested, after assuring me our darling child had a nice, extended time out and was writing ‘I will not dupe my brilliant father’ a number of times, this young lady read a poetry selection at the show. I agree.”
“Yeah, grilled chicken for supper sounds lovely.”
“You will be working on this with her in the evenings, I take it?”
“I’m not sure it is fair to make her participate in an optional activity, Hon, if we are going to tell her what she has to say and do. That isn’t stoking her creative spirit at all.”
“I’ll let you read the lyrics to the song she wrote when you get in. Love you.”
I was at home, my child standing in front of me, as I recited words from a piece of paper I held in my right hand.
“…our principal, he’s no prince and he’s no pal, if he’s unhappy, oh well…we don’t have to deal with them being snooty, just fire the nun with the real big booty…and if Fr. Mike don’t take our side, well, he can join Sr. Mary Tamika on a long ride…now you see the light…kids, stand up for your rights…Get up, Stand Up…Stand up for your rights…get up stand up…kids get up and fight…”
“Well?” My wife’s foot was tapping.
“Well, there are definitely some plagiarism issues…”
“Artistic license,” Scoompi piped up. “I’m redoing a famous song.”
“Um…”
“Young lady, that is downright disrespectful,” the missus started. I tuned out. I’d heard this litany before. I waited until I saw Scoompi grab her behind like it was on fire and run upstairs.
So when it was said and done, Scoompi wound up practicing some poem about phenomenal women by some famous poet I think I heard of. Both Sr. Mary Tamika and my wife thought it was proper and fitting, a first in itself. The fact those two agreed on something, that is. I had to listen to her recite it every night. It made me sleepy.
As the competition neared, I noticed my baby girl was spending more time in her room, playing with the karaoke machine she received for her past birthday. Never in my life did I tire of hearing Bob Marley more than that last week. The weekend before the show, Scooter had K.O and some of his crew in for a sleepover. Usually Scoompi avoided them after destroying them at video games. I was dozing on the couch when I heard her demand an audience with her brother and his friends.
Nosy parenting is good parenting. I made myself an iced tea and listened at the ventilator grill.
“You bums OWE me!”
“Scoompi, we’ll get expelled…”
“They can’t expel who they don’t see…I’ll take the heat…I just need you pantywaists to do the background…”
“Talent shows are dumb anyway…just forget it…”
“It’s me or her, K.O. What about taking a stand? Look,” I heard menace in my voice, “I got enough dirt on everyone in this room…”
“I won’t be able to sit for a week if I get in trouble at school…”
Oh, they must be discussing recess or something. I went back to the sofa and started my nap again.
“Daddy?”
“Yes Hon?”
“Robert Marley. Did he ever really stand up?”
“Once that I know of. Some goons tried to kill him. He survived and performed a concert afterwards, to show they didn’t affect him. He did his song and acted out, in dance, everything that happened, including him triumphing in the end.”
“Hmmm…”
School talent shows are funny things. It amazes me how many parents force their no talent kids to embarrass themselves in front of a room full of people. The parents think the kids have ability, and as a result of its display, they will look like enlightened, hardworking guardians. In reality, they paint themselves as modern day Genghis Khans, ready to sacrifice all for their own aggrandizement. Nero was a better protector fiddling while Rome burned than most elementary school parents who abuse their children by letting, or forcing, them to participate in school talent shows. Reunions talent shows are worse. I have left such events wanting to punch in the mouth parents (mothers, too) who harped over their kids’ ability, or lack thereof, like they had something golden on their hands.
The fun part of talent shows are the kids who know they have no talent, and try to make a go of it before getting yanked by staff. I was cracking up after a sixth grader opened his mouth and bellowed, “Way DOWN in the JUNGLE deep…” and proceeded to deliver half of Dolomite’s famous rhyme before a nun hustled him offstage to raucous laughter.
Scoompi stepped onstage, wearing the fatigue pants, black turtleneck and black beret I agreed to as a consolation for having to recite poetry. She as introduced and took a deep breath. One of the bourgeois moms next to us gasped at her appearance. I balled up my fist.
“Hey, Squirt, you too little to be onstage,” a kid heckled.
Scoompi leaned into the microphone and said, “Shut up. Didn’t you flunk sixth grade twice already? Don’t you have kids at home?”
Parents started tittering. Students laughed.
“You shut up Pipsqueak…”
“When was the last time I pulled your mom off the corner to keep her from getting into all those strange men’s cars? Keep quiet. Let me do my job.”
A murmur went over the crowd. I saw a nun heading towards the stage when Scoompi yelled, “Get HIM! He started it!” Parents began murmuring again, in assent. The students roared in approval. The nun started for the large sixth grader.
Scoompi read the first three lines of her poem before balling the paper up, throwing it down, and stepping on the wadded up mess.
“I didn’t come here to read off a paper,” she started. Some parents clapped. I felt my heart drop to my stomach. “I didn’t come to argue with three time sixth graders whose parents keep buying their way back into the school…” That got some laughter, and not just from kids.
“And I didn’t come hear to read no doggone poem. My name is Scoompi,” she sucked her bottom lip under her teeth, and pointed both thumbs at herself. “And I came to sing.”
Boys all over the gym began hooting. I heard the instrumental to “Get Up, Stand Up” start, and felt a jab in my arm. “You let her watch El Cantante?” my wife hissed.
“That’s the least of our problems here,” I muttered in response.
By the time the nuns made it to the stage, she was already on her second chorus, and had taken to pretending she was standing in time out, writing lines on a blackboard, and then walked around with her little rear poked out, wagging her finger like she was lecturing students. I recognized the walk. Everyone did. As she was pulled off the stage, she threw her beret into the crowd and screamed, “Get up! Stand up! Don’t give up the fight! The big booty’s coming to get me, ya’ll! Keep up the fight!” She poked her rear out again and strutted around the stage, wagging her finger. I noticed Sr. Mary Tamika leading her off the stage,walking the walk my daughter had just mimicked almost perfectly. My wife looked like she wanted to drag Scoompi home by her forehead.
The kids went wild. They were standing on their feet, stomping and whistling. A couple of mothers fainted. The fathers were rolling in the aisles.
I thanked God for the millionth time I had paid a year’s tuition in advance. It is so much harder for your child to get expelled when you do that.
Offstage, I heard my little girl screaming, apparently a nun, “You never were loyal, Puchi!”
I thought there was an unwritten rule the principal’s office was closed on the weekends. Yet there we sat, me, the missus, Scooter and K.O., on that Saturday night, waiting to pick up my baby girl.
The principal, a tall, lanky man who wore wire framed glasses, walked in, holding Scoompi by the hand. She was wearing shades and the principal was singing, “He’s no prince and he’s no pal…” softly. My wife punched me. Scooter and K.O. looked like they wanted to burst.
“Well, I’m sure it’s just been a misunderstanding, Doc,” he said affably. “Why, little Alexandra’s song caused so much excitement that we sold out of concessions! Of course, some corrective consequences are in order, but there’s no reason you can’t take our little revolutionary home tonight and we will talk with her teacher on Monday.”
Scoompi stood stoically. “Ise just a sufferah,” she said simply. Scooter groaned.
“Did you learn anything from this, Alexandra?” The principal must have been high that night. There was no way we saw the same show.
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“Before doing anything that might be popular, even for the revolution, get it copyrighted so you can get royalties.The revolution must be marketed, but for now, I jus’ suffah de consequences.”
Scooter and K.O. excused themselves.
“Yes Pumpkin?”
“Did you know Robert Marlon?”
I sat up. “Who?”
She gave me the Popeye look she’d given Sr. Mary Tamika recently. “Robert Marlon. The guy who sang ‘I Shot the Sheriff?’”
It took a moment to register. “Oh! You mean Bob Marley, Baby. Yes. I have a lot of his music. Why do you call him Robert?”
“I hate nicknames. His mother named him Robert, Robert sounds more grown up than ‘Bob’.”
“Hmmm…coming from someone who responds daily to ‘Scoompi’…”
She waved her hands at the air. “If you have a stupid name like ‘Alexandra’, you take whatever comes your way. But if you are named ‘Robert’, ‘Bob’ sounds stupid.”
“Mmm hmmm…we’re just getting all into world music today, aren’t we Hon?”
She ignored me. “Anyway, Robert Marlon…”
“Marley, Baby…”
“Robert Whosis sang about people that were kicked around by the people in charge…”
“And made himself very rich in the process, thus becoming one of the people in charge…So much easier to do the kicking when you can afford expensive boots…”
“No, he was a sufferah…”
“Hard to suffer with a big house a BMW and a lot of women.”
“What do women have anything to do with it? Anyway, I learned that people can use music to make people act fair.”
That was a warning sign, but I completely ignored it. When your child arrives at logical point “B” from logical point “A”, as a parent, you are too overwhelmed with pride to catch a conspiracy in the making. Well, fathers are too overwhelmed. Mothers tend to see through the smoke and ask, “What’s burning?”
“The school talent show is coming up,” she said slowly.
“OK.” I was ready to get back to my research. Providing for a family meant a man had to constantly explore new sources of revenue. This casino thing was looking better than selling newspapers out of the back of my car. Academia had its benefits, but a seven figure income was not one of them. As someone saving for my own kids’ education, I was sure the money universities charged for tuition versus what it paid professors was the result of some kind of fuzzy math.
“I think I want to be in it…”
“Um hmmm…”
“So I have your permission?”
“What’s that Baby? Oh, yeah. Hey, bring Daddy a glass of Ice tea. No sugar.”
When she returned, there was a paper in her hand.
“Here is the talent show permission slip. Sign here.”
I mumbled, “Thanks,” took the tea, and scribbled my autograph.
“Hey, Baby?” She was headed back up the stairs.
“Yuh huh?”
“What did I just sign?”
“Something for school, Daddy.”
I grew alert. “Was it your report card?”
“No, Daddy.”
“Oh, OK. Carry on Love.”
Office hours were wrapping up the next day when the department secretary buzzed me. “Your wife on line one, Doc.”
“Hey!” I liked talking to my wife. Except when I was in trouble. I’d been pretty good lately.
“Hey, Honey, um, did you sign the baby up for the school talent show?”
Did I?
“Um, yeah, I think so.”
“So, you read the form?”
Trick question? Like the time I bought a car and was asked later, “Honey, did you ASK what the payment was?” I really liked that car.
When confronted, play dead. I saw that in a movie once.
“Honey?”
Tar baby sit an’ don’t say nuthin’…
Cough a bit so they know the line is still open.
“You are aware you gave permission for your eight year old daughter to sing a song encouraging the students to revolt against, let me see, “their religious oppressors”, which is, surprisingly, spelled correctly…I digress. You agreed to let your child sign a song advocating the overthrow of the school administration?”
“Damn,” I said in a clear, strong voice. “That school sure is teaching those kids how to speak up for themselves.”
“Your girlfriend, Sr. Mary Tamika, called me, and sweetly suggested, after assuring me our darling child had a nice, extended time out and was writing ‘I will not dupe my brilliant father’ a number of times, this young lady read a poetry selection at the show. I agree.”
“Yeah, grilled chicken for supper sounds lovely.”
“You will be working on this with her in the evenings, I take it?”
“I’m not sure it is fair to make her participate in an optional activity, Hon, if we are going to tell her what she has to say and do. That isn’t stoking her creative spirit at all.”
“I’ll let you read the lyrics to the song she wrote when you get in. Love you.”
I was at home, my child standing in front of me, as I recited words from a piece of paper I held in my right hand.
“…our principal, he’s no prince and he’s no pal, if he’s unhappy, oh well…we don’t have to deal with them being snooty, just fire the nun with the real big booty…and if Fr. Mike don’t take our side, well, he can join Sr. Mary Tamika on a long ride…now you see the light…kids, stand up for your rights…Get up, Stand Up…Stand up for your rights…get up stand up…kids get up and fight…”
“Well?” My wife’s foot was tapping.
“Well, there are definitely some plagiarism issues…”
“Artistic license,” Scoompi piped up. “I’m redoing a famous song.”
“Um…”
“Young lady, that is downright disrespectful,” the missus started. I tuned out. I’d heard this litany before. I waited until I saw Scoompi grab her behind like it was on fire and run upstairs.
So when it was said and done, Scoompi wound up practicing some poem about phenomenal women by some famous poet I think I heard of. Both Sr. Mary Tamika and my wife thought it was proper and fitting, a first in itself. The fact those two agreed on something, that is. I had to listen to her recite it every night. It made me sleepy.
As the competition neared, I noticed my baby girl was spending more time in her room, playing with the karaoke machine she received for her past birthday. Never in my life did I tire of hearing Bob Marley more than that last week. The weekend before the show, Scooter had K.O and some of his crew in for a sleepover. Usually Scoompi avoided them after destroying them at video games. I was dozing on the couch when I heard her demand an audience with her brother and his friends.
Nosy parenting is good parenting. I made myself an iced tea and listened at the ventilator grill.
“You bums OWE me!”
“Scoompi, we’ll get expelled…”
“They can’t expel who they don’t see…I’ll take the heat…I just need you pantywaists to do the background…”
“Talent shows are dumb anyway…just forget it…”
“It’s me or her, K.O. What about taking a stand? Look,” I heard menace in my voice, “I got enough dirt on everyone in this room…”
“I won’t be able to sit for a week if I get in trouble at school…”
Oh, they must be discussing recess or something. I went back to the sofa and started my nap again.
“Daddy?”
“Yes Hon?”
“Robert Marley. Did he ever really stand up?”
“Once that I know of. Some goons tried to kill him. He survived and performed a concert afterwards, to show they didn’t affect him. He did his song and acted out, in dance, everything that happened, including him triumphing in the end.”
“Hmmm…”
School talent shows are funny things. It amazes me how many parents force their no talent kids to embarrass themselves in front of a room full of people. The parents think the kids have ability, and as a result of its display, they will look like enlightened, hardworking guardians. In reality, they paint themselves as modern day Genghis Khans, ready to sacrifice all for their own aggrandizement. Nero was a better protector fiddling while Rome burned than most elementary school parents who abuse their children by letting, or forcing, them to participate in school talent shows. Reunions talent shows are worse. I have left such events wanting to punch in the mouth parents (mothers, too) who harped over their kids’ ability, or lack thereof, like they had something golden on their hands.
The fun part of talent shows are the kids who know they have no talent, and try to make a go of it before getting yanked by staff. I was cracking up after a sixth grader opened his mouth and bellowed, “Way DOWN in the JUNGLE deep…” and proceeded to deliver half of Dolomite’s famous rhyme before a nun hustled him offstage to raucous laughter.
Scoompi stepped onstage, wearing the fatigue pants, black turtleneck and black beret I agreed to as a consolation for having to recite poetry. She as introduced and took a deep breath. One of the bourgeois moms next to us gasped at her appearance. I balled up my fist.
“Hey, Squirt, you too little to be onstage,” a kid heckled.
Scoompi leaned into the microphone and said, “Shut up. Didn’t you flunk sixth grade twice already? Don’t you have kids at home?”
Parents started tittering. Students laughed.
“You shut up Pipsqueak…”
“When was the last time I pulled your mom off the corner to keep her from getting into all those strange men’s cars? Keep quiet. Let me do my job.”
A murmur went over the crowd. I saw a nun heading towards the stage when Scoompi yelled, “Get HIM! He started it!” Parents began murmuring again, in assent. The students roared in approval. The nun started for the large sixth grader.
Scoompi read the first three lines of her poem before balling the paper up, throwing it down, and stepping on the wadded up mess.
“I didn’t come here to read off a paper,” she started. Some parents clapped. I felt my heart drop to my stomach. “I didn’t come to argue with three time sixth graders whose parents keep buying their way back into the school…” That got some laughter, and not just from kids.
“And I didn’t come hear to read no doggone poem. My name is Scoompi,” she sucked her bottom lip under her teeth, and pointed both thumbs at herself. “And I came to sing.”
Boys all over the gym began hooting. I heard the instrumental to “Get Up, Stand Up” start, and felt a jab in my arm. “You let her watch El Cantante?” my wife hissed.
“That’s the least of our problems here,” I muttered in response.
By the time the nuns made it to the stage, she was already on her second chorus, and had taken to pretending she was standing in time out, writing lines on a blackboard, and then walked around with her little rear poked out, wagging her finger like she was lecturing students. I recognized the walk. Everyone did. As she was pulled off the stage, she threw her beret into the crowd and screamed, “Get up! Stand up! Don’t give up the fight! The big booty’s coming to get me, ya’ll! Keep up the fight!” She poked her rear out again and strutted around the stage, wagging her finger. I noticed Sr. Mary Tamika leading her off the stage,walking the walk my daughter had just mimicked almost perfectly. My wife looked like she wanted to drag Scoompi home by her forehead.
The kids went wild. They were standing on their feet, stomping and whistling. A couple of mothers fainted. The fathers were rolling in the aisles.
I thanked God for the millionth time I had paid a year’s tuition in advance. It is so much harder for your child to get expelled when you do that.
Offstage, I heard my little girl screaming, apparently a nun, “You never were loyal, Puchi!”
I thought there was an unwritten rule the principal’s office was closed on the weekends. Yet there we sat, me, the missus, Scooter and K.O., on that Saturday night, waiting to pick up my baby girl.
The principal, a tall, lanky man who wore wire framed glasses, walked in, holding Scoompi by the hand. She was wearing shades and the principal was singing, “He’s no prince and he’s no pal…” softly. My wife punched me. Scooter and K.O. looked like they wanted to burst.
“Well, I’m sure it’s just been a misunderstanding, Doc,” he said affably. “Why, little Alexandra’s song caused so much excitement that we sold out of concessions! Of course, some corrective consequences are in order, but there’s no reason you can’t take our little revolutionary home tonight and we will talk with her teacher on Monday.”
Scoompi stood stoically. “Ise just a sufferah,” she said simply. Scooter groaned.
“Did you learn anything from this, Alexandra?” The principal must have been high that night. There was no way we saw the same show.
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“Before doing anything that might be popular, even for the revolution, get it copyrighted so you can get royalties.The revolution must be marketed, but for now, I jus’ suffah de consequences.”
Scooter and K.O. excused themselves.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Baseball Mom & Religion
It was Saturday, which meant that Scooter had a baseball game. The misconception is spring has nothing but lazy weekends as the school year winds down. Nothing is further from the truth. My weekends were spend at the ball field, and then in the office. My research on casinos would have to wait, although I was sure part ownership of one would help me devote most of my time to family stuff.
Scooter was pretty quiet this morning. His bronco team was playing the Cubs, a collection of preteen mediocrities of the lowest level save one: their star pitcher was a kid named Arnold. Arnold was six feet even in sixth grade and threw heat like Satan aiming at his former homies left in heaven. This kid could throw. As a result, no one on Scooter’s team could hit him. So they usually lost. Sadly, Arnold was not only a good pitcher, but a decent kid and a good sport. He seemed genuine when, at the post game lineup, he slapped hands with everyone on Scooter’s team and said, “Good game!”
Scooter had been catching since tee ball, and had a good bat, but hitting Arnold was just something he could not manage. No shame in it. The rest of his team couldn’t manage it, either. Made for a pretty sad afternoon, though.
“Look,” I overheard Scoompi say, “Let’s pray on this. All of this religion has got to be good for something. Let’s give it a try.”
Most parents would welcome their little ones taking the initiative when it came to religion.
I know my kids.
“Dear God,” Scoompi started.
“You mean Jesus?” Big brothers know all.
“I mean God. I don’t do middlemen. I go straight to the top. God SENT Jesus. That mean’s God is in charge. This is a God prayer. When we need for Little Timmy Rawlins to get a hit against a team you usually beat, we’ll call on Jesus. If you wanna beat Arnold, you need God…
“Dear God, Scooter and his team should really win this game today. You’ve already blessed Arnold with a for sure major league career, while my brother and his friends are stuck with limited talent that will assure them futures as accountants, eye doctors, or worse, teachers. Let them have this one win, because life for them in baseball is going to end soon and disappointingly enough. Amen.”
“I’m not saying Amen to that!”
I could almost hear her shrug. “Fine. Then lose.”
“Fine. Amen. Next time we pray to Jesus. And tone it down some. You don’t know none of us are going pro…”
“I know none of you can hit Arnold, and he’s gonna stay in the minors a while…”
“What was that crack about teachers? Daddy’s a teacher.”
“First, Daddy is a professor, and second, Daddy thinks he’s a doggone Indian. Teaching must do bad things to you.”
We walked to the park, the three of us. The missus was going to meet us there. I set up the camp chairs and bought Scoompi a snack. She took up her usual spot, in front of the fence, next to Scooter’s dugout. The boys all greeted her, loudest of all K.O, Scooter’s best friend.
“What’s UP, Scoomp!”
“Sup K.O.”
“We gonna lose.”
“Not today. I prayed for ya’ll.”
“Didn’t Sister Mary Tamika kick you out of religion class? Man, don’t pray for me.”
Scoompi ignored K.O. She had a little girl’s crush on him but had long ago mastered the grown woman’s art of ignoring what men think is logic.
The game started. Arnold came out and whipped three up, three down. Scooter’s team held their own, though. We were scoreless in the sixth when K.O struck out, again. Little Timmy Rawlins stepped to the plate. Timmy was Lilliputian, and I guess it clicked in his head that if he didn’t swing, Arnold’s heat would miss his strike zone. Four pitches later, Timmy was on first, grinning.
“C’mon, God,” I heard Scoompi mutter, “I really never ask for much.”
Little Timmy took off like a bullet for second and made it with time to spare before the Cubs’ lousy pitcher got the ball there. “Bout time,” Scoompi muttered, before looking heavenward and saying, “OK, thanks. But let’s not let them down.” She turned to the dugout and screamed, “Cheer him on you bums! None of ya have even SEEN base this game.”
One of the team mothers leaned over and said, “It’s so precious how passionate she is…”
It was something, but I wasn’t sure just what. My wife came over and sat down.
“Cubs? How bad we losing?”
“We’re tied, actually,” I said.
“Oh, goody! How’s my boy doing?”
“Actually, Timmy Rawlins is on…wow!”
Timmy took third. The Cubs’ third baseman was watching the ball fly over his head when the littlest guy on our team stole home, putting us up by one.
The boys in the dugout were cheering like Timmy was David taking down Goliath. Even Arnold waved and smiled from the mound.
Our next batter struck out, but we held them, and when it was over, our guys were grinning like they’d invented fire on a cold November night. Arnold stopped and gave Timmy a hug. Both sets of coaches were speechless.
Over the din, I heard a high pitched, “Yaaaaaaay! God!”
“What on earth could she mean? You have got to speak to her,” my wife said, but she too was happy with the win.
On the way to the car, the missus said, “Since we are so close, maybe we should do Saturday mass.”
Scoompi spoke up first. “Wuffo?”
“Well, aren’t we thankful the boys won?”
“Very. I gave God his props. Back there, where everyone could hear me, Mama.”
Scooter wanted to go to church like Frosty wanted a Bermuda vacation. I wasn’t dying to go either, but I realized Saturday afternoon mass meant sleeping in Sunday morning. Maybe even a nice cholesterol laden breakfast that I was usually forbidden.
“C’mon, Kids, Mommy has spoken,” I laughed. Scooter didn’t care. He was fresh off the win. Scoompi looked betrayed.
Saturday mass is more lighthearted, and goes by quickly. Scoompi refused to sing and flopped when she knelt and sat, but a couple of evil eyes from her mother stopped that. After mass, Scoompi walked right up to the visiting priest who officiated and pulled his stole.
“Hello, Cutie!”
“Do you talk to God Father?”
“We ALL talk to God, Honey. What’s wrong?”
“Well, because he lets you say mass for him, you probably have a quicker line to him than I do. Tell him Saturday mass was a dirty trick. I would have come tomorrow. I cheered him in public.”
“Public acknowledgement of God’s goodness to us is honorable, Dear. He is proud of you.”
That mollified her a bit, but not her anger stricken mother. I thanked the padre for his homily and walked forward, bumping into someone.
“Well, isn’t this delightful?” a deep female voice said.
Sr. Mary Tamika looked like, to many Caucasians, any other chocolate nun in a habit, one who maybe took her vows and orders a few years prior. To me, she looked like Ebony Ayes. I’d seen her once in street clothes, out of her habit but still in her coif and wimple, at the library. Different things make different people turn to religion. I had to beg for forgiveness after speaking and then asking, “Is your real name Phyllis?” She thought me a riot. My wife thought her a bit too friendly to be a woman of God. My logic? You give up so much to be a nun, why not have some laughs and a great attitude? I’d known nuns who were rumored to be drunks when I was in elementary school. A flirt, in my opinion, was a fair exchange.
Especially when you looked like Ebony Ayes.
“H’lo, sister,” I said, smiling. I caught my wife’s daggers in my back.
"Peace be unto you ALL," Sr. Mary Tamika hummed.
"As salaam alaikum," Scoompi spat.
The nun ignored her. “Doctor, Scooter, young lady,” her voice had a rhythm to it, like she was raised in the islands. “Or,” she said playfully, “shall I call you ‘Scoompi’, my dear?”
My baby drew herself up, squinted like Popeye as she looked upwards, and said, “Naw. Just call me by my government.”
I heard Scooter take in a breath. I saw my daughter’s hands fly to her behind as she shifted her glare from Sr. Mary Tamika to her mother, who was poised to strike again.
“What I do?”
My kids and I had an unwritten agreement. Should discipline be required, verbal or physical, I would wait until we were at home, in private. The exchange there was they then had to deal with whatever levels my wrath had swollen to, but it saved them embarrassment. As I got mad at them about once a year (less with the baby), this was a swell agreement.
One their mother did not honor.
“You were disrespectful, and I’ve had enough of it!”
“I just asked the sister to address me by the name YOU make them call me here, Alexandra Whosis…” she rubbed her bottom. Sr. Mary Tamika bit her lip.
“Apologize,” my wife growled.
“Sorry, Sister,” Scoompi said, still glaring at her mother.
“That’s OK, Scoompi,” Sr. Mary Tamika said.
Now, I caught that, but no one else did but my baby girl. She went from glare to glower.
We chatted briefly, the sister said she’d make an appointment for us regarding the Bad Friday nonsense, and she waved before moving on.
As we headed back to the car, my wife grumbled, “You know she didn’t speak to me.”
Innocently, I asked, “Really?”
“No. And she kept making eyes at you.”
“Thought she was looking at the baby.”
“You know what?”
“Honey,” I whispered. “Don’t get mad at me. You wanted to come to Saturday mass. I backed you up. Let’s go home and celebrate Scooter’s win. And next time, could you try to NOT break my child’s behind?”
“Hush. And drive.”
Scoompi glared at her mother’s back all the way home. Scooter was a happy camper. I tried to remember Ebony Ayes films from my college days. Religion is a good thing.
Scooter was pretty quiet this morning. His bronco team was playing the Cubs, a collection of preteen mediocrities of the lowest level save one: their star pitcher was a kid named Arnold. Arnold was six feet even in sixth grade and threw heat like Satan aiming at his former homies left in heaven. This kid could throw. As a result, no one on Scooter’s team could hit him. So they usually lost. Sadly, Arnold was not only a good pitcher, but a decent kid and a good sport. He seemed genuine when, at the post game lineup, he slapped hands with everyone on Scooter’s team and said, “Good game!”
Scooter had been catching since tee ball, and had a good bat, but hitting Arnold was just something he could not manage. No shame in it. The rest of his team couldn’t manage it, either. Made for a pretty sad afternoon, though.
“Look,” I overheard Scoompi say, “Let’s pray on this. All of this religion has got to be good for something. Let’s give it a try.”
Most parents would welcome their little ones taking the initiative when it came to religion.
I know my kids.
“Dear God,” Scoompi started.
“You mean Jesus?” Big brothers know all.
“I mean God. I don’t do middlemen. I go straight to the top. God SENT Jesus. That mean’s God is in charge. This is a God prayer. When we need for Little Timmy Rawlins to get a hit against a team you usually beat, we’ll call on Jesus. If you wanna beat Arnold, you need God…
“Dear God, Scooter and his team should really win this game today. You’ve already blessed Arnold with a for sure major league career, while my brother and his friends are stuck with limited talent that will assure them futures as accountants, eye doctors, or worse, teachers. Let them have this one win, because life for them in baseball is going to end soon and disappointingly enough. Amen.”
“I’m not saying Amen to that!”
I could almost hear her shrug. “Fine. Then lose.”
“Fine. Amen. Next time we pray to Jesus. And tone it down some. You don’t know none of us are going pro…”
“I know none of you can hit Arnold, and he’s gonna stay in the minors a while…”
“What was that crack about teachers? Daddy’s a teacher.”
“First, Daddy is a professor, and second, Daddy thinks he’s a doggone Indian. Teaching must do bad things to you.”
We walked to the park, the three of us. The missus was going to meet us there. I set up the camp chairs and bought Scoompi a snack. She took up her usual spot, in front of the fence, next to Scooter’s dugout. The boys all greeted her, loudest of all K.O, Scooter’s best friend.
“What’s UP, Scoomp!”
“Sup K.O.”
“We gonna lose.”
“Not today. I prayed for ya’ll.”
“Didn’t Sister Mary Tamika kick you out of religion class? Man, don’t pray for me.”
Scoompi ignored K.O. She had a little girl’s crush on him but had long ago mastered the grown woman’s art of ignoring what men think is logic.
The game started. Arnold came out and whipped three up, three down. Scooter’s team held their own, though. We were scoreless in the sixth when K.O struck out, again. Little Timmy Rawlins stepped to the plate. Timmy was Lilliputian, and I guess it clicked in his head that if he didn’t swing, Arnold’s heat would miss his strike zone. Four pitches later, Timmy was on first, grinning.
“C’mon, God,” I heard Scoompi mutter, “I really never ask for much.”
Little Timmy took off like a bullet for second and made it with time to spare before the Cubs’ lousy pitcher got the ball there. “Bout time,” Scoompi muttered, before looking heavenward and saying, “OK, thanks. But let’s not let them down.” She turned to the dugout and screamed, “Cheer him on you bums! None of ya have even SEEN base this game.”
One of the team mothers leaned over and said, “It’s so precious how passionate she is…”
It was something, but I wasn’t sure just what. My wife came over and sat down.
“Cubs? How bad we losing?”
“We’re tied, actually,” I said.
“Oh, goody! How’s my boy doing?”
“Actually, Timmy Rawlins is on…wow!”
Timmy took third. The Cubs’ third baseman was watching the ball fly over his head when the littlest guy on our team stole home, putting us up by one.
The boys in the dugout were cheering like Timmy was David taking down Goliath. Even Arnold waved and smiled from the mound.
Our next batter struck out, but we held them, and when it was over, our guys were grinning like they’d invented fire on a cold November night. Arnold stopped and gave Timmy a hug. Both sets of coaches were speechless.
Over the din, I heard a high pitched, “Yaaaaaaay! God!”
“What on earth could she mean? You have got to speak to her,” my wife said, but she too was happy with the win.
On the way to the car, the missus said, “Since we are so close, maybe we should do Saturday mass.”
Scoompi spoke up first. “Wuffo?”
“Well, aren’t we thankful the boys won?”
“Very. I gave God his props. Back there, where everyone could hear me, Mama.”
Scooter wanted to go to church like Frosty wanted a Bermuda vacation. I wasn’t dying to go either, but I realized Saturday afternoon mass meant sleeping in Sunday morning. Maybe even a nice cholesterol laden breakfast that I was usually forbidden.
“C’mon, Kids, Mommy has spoken,” I laughed. Scooter didn’t care. He was fresh off the win. Scoompi looked betrayed.
Saturday mass is more lighthearted, and goes by quickly. Scoompi refused to sing and flopped when she knelt and sat, but a couple of evil eyes from her mother stopped that. After mass, Scoompi walked right up to the visiting priest who officiated and pulled his stole.
“Hello, Cutie!”
“Do you talk to God Father?”
“We ALL talk to God, Honey. What’s wrong?”
“Well, because he lets you say mass for him, you probably have a quicker line to him than I do. Tell him Saturday mass was a dirty trick. I would have come tomorrow. I cheered him in public.”
“Public acknowledgement of God’s goodness to us is honorable, Dear. He is proud of you.”
That mollified her a bit, but not her anger stricken mother. I thanked the padre for his homily and walked forward, bumping into someone.
“Well, isn’t this delightful?” a deep female voice said.
Sr. Mary Tamika looked like, to many Caucasians, any other chocolate nun in a habit, one who maybe took her vows and orders a few years prior. To me, she looked like Ebony Ayes. I’d seen her once in street clothes, out of her habit but still in her coif and wimple, at the library. Different things make different people turn to religion. I had to beg for forgiveness after speaking and then asking, “Is your real name Phyllis?” She thought me a riot. My wife thought her a bit too friendly to be a woman of God. My logic? You give up so much to be a nun, why not have some laughs and a great attitude? I’d known nuns who were rumored to be drunks when I was in elementary school. A flirt, in my opinion, was a fair exchange.
Especially when you looked like Ebony Ayes.
“H’lo, sister,” I said, smiling. I caught my wife’s daggers in my back.
"Peace be unto you ALL," Sr. Mary Tamika hummed.
"As salaam alaikum," Scoompi spat.
The nun ignored her. “Doctor, Scooter, young lady,” her voice had a rhythm to it, like she was raised in the islands. “Or,” she said playfully, “shall I call you ‘Scoompi’, my dear?”
My baby drew herself up, squinted like Popeye as she looked upwards, and said, “Naw. Just call me by my government.”
I heard Scooter take in a breath. I saw my daughter’s hands fly to her behind as she shifted her glare from Sr. Mary Tamika to her mother, who was poised to strike again.
“What I do?”
My kids and I had an unwritten agreement. Should discipline be required, verbal or physical, I would wait until we were at home, in private. The exchange there was they then had to deal with whatever levels my wrath had swollen to, but it saved them embarrassment. As I got mad at them about once a year (less with the baby), this was a swell agreement.
One their mother did not honor.
“You were disrespectful, and I’ve had enough of it!”
“I just asked the sister to address me by the name YOU make them call me here, Alexandra Whosis…” she rubbed her bottom. Sr. Mary Tamika bit her lip.
“Apologize,” my wife growled.
“Sorry, Sister,” Scoompi said, still glaring at her mother.
“That’s OK, Scoompi,” Sr. Mary Tamika said.
Now, I caught that, but no one else did but my baby girl. She went from glare to glower.
We chatted briefly, the sister said she’d make an appointment for us regarding the Bad Friday nonsense, and she waved before moving on.
As we headed back to the car, my wife grumbled, “You know she didn’t speak to me.”
Innocently, I asked, “Really?”
“No. And she kept making eyes at you.”
“Thought she was looking at the baby.”
“You know what?”
“Honey,” I whispered. “Don’t get mad at me. You wanted to come to Saturday mass. I backed you up. Let’s go home and celebrate Scooter’s win. And next time, could you try to NOT break my child’s behind?”
“Hush. And drive.”
Scoompi glared at her mother’s back all the way home. Scooter was a happy camper. I tried to remember Ebony Ayes films from my college days. Religion is a good thing.
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