Little Fire Eating TroubleMaker

III

“When you get home, you need to talk to your child.”

I never asked which child. Scooter seldom got in trouble, and the only time I was encouraged to talk to my children was when they had problems. Apparently, my regular conversations with them prompted one to have a bleak outlook on life and the other to get her little mouth washed out with soap.

“What’s Scoompi done?”

“I’ll let you talk to her. It’s about school. I think perhaps your outlook on things has gone a bit far.”

Uh oh.

I took my time getting home, because when Scoompi got in trouble, usually, I was in trouble too.

I walked in, spoke to everyone, and pulled Scoompi to the side. My wife joined us. This was not going to be good. Scooter pretended to rummage around for a Gatorade in the fridge.

“What happened, Baby?”

“No,” my wife started. “That’s part of the problem. You’re already on her side. You don’t start a punitive conversation with ‘Baby’!”

“Oh,” I said, calmly, having already picked Scoompi up like a puppy. She giggled. “No ‘Baby’ mental note. I’ll remember that. Gotta put you down, Scoomp.”

“It’s OK,” she said.

My wife shook her head. Scooter was rummaging much slower.

“Read this to him,” my wife handed a carbon to her. Scoompi’s eyes set hard.

“Student’s name: Alexandra McCarthy. Grade: Three. Date,” she read the date. “Infra…infrared…interact…”

“Infraction,” my wife snapped.

“Yeah, that,” her little voice had an edge to it.

“Be easy, Baby,” I said sternly. “That’s your momma.”

“But I’m trying to read, she interrupting me!”

“Just read it, Scoomp…I mean Alexandra…”

“My name is Scoompi,” she said defiantly. “SHE named me Alexandra.” Little girls and their mothers. “Infraction,” she glared at her mother. “Blasphemy and defiantly pursuing an argument with religious authority.”

“You read all that but missed ‘infraction’?” I was impressed.

“Sister Mary Tamika repeated it several times,” Scoompi explained.

“Oh.”

“This is serious,” my better half started. “Tell him what you said.”

Her little face went hard. “We were supposed to point out a holiday that interested us.”

“OK.”

“I chose Good Friday. Christmas is about gifts. Easter is boring. The other religious holidays are just excuses to make us go to mass.”

Scooter had stopped rummaging.

“We send you to a Catholic school,” the missus said, “so you can learn about religion as well as learn your lessons.”

“I know it’s just…” her eyes watered.

“What is it Scoompi?” Ever understanding Daddy.

“This is all so…fake.”

“No religion is fake, young lady!”

“No,” I countered, “some are just more self serving than others. Did you tell Sister Mary Tamika something was fake?”

Her little head bobbed. “Yes. Good Friday is a fake.”

“The concept of Christianity is the idea that Jesus died on the cross for your sins young lady. Then he rose from the dead.”

“Your parents don’t believe that,” Scoompi said, “they believe he was a prophet.”

“But we, Alexandra, believe he is the son of God.”

“Whoa, ladies,” I interrupted. “Baby, let the baby finish.”

“She’s not a baby, part of the problem…”

“Scoompi?”

“Good Friday is a joke. It is a fake.”

“OK, Baby, you denying he dies on the cross that day?”

“No,” she said, face all scrunched up. “He died. But the Church is lying to us. It was NOT Good Friday. It was BAD Friday. They assassinated him! His own people sold him out and the government KILLED him! That’s as bad as what happened to the Indians! He was nice and tried to help people and they killed him. Then they try to sell it to us that it was a GOOD Friday? ‘Hey, you’re gonna die later today.’ ‘In my sleep?” “Naw, fool. We’re gonna nail you to a tree and let you hang there, and then poke you with a spear. Oh, by the way, it’s Good Friday.’ ‘Maybe for you. You probably getting paid today. Me? I gotta die on a tree. That’s pretty bad on the list of things that I’ve done. Water to wine? Good. Walk on water? Good. Help blind people see? Good. Oh. Nailed to a tree on a hot day and left to die? BAD.’”

Scoompi was animated as all get out. My wife was glaring at me. Scooter had closed the refrigerator door and was making huffing sounds.

I was trying really hard not to laugh.

“She’s got a point,” I said weakly.

“All I said,” Scoompi had calmed down now, “was that people have been oppressed forever…”

“You said ‘oppressed’?”

“Yes, Daddy, please don’t interrupt…”

“It was a BAD day for Jesus. And I got wrote up for that. Lookit, I could’ve been like little Ade Olafatoke and just said I like Christmas for gifts. I did my best on the assignment, and I got in trouble.” She shook her head. “Always trying to keep a Black girl down.”

“Baby, Sister Mary Tamika is Black…”

“She’s outta touch. Confused nun.”

Wow. I was in so much trouble.

“Honey? How much of this has to do with the casino thing?”

“I dunno,” she studied her fingertips. “I told Sister Mary Tamika yesterday that if we had to study American history, why come we can’t really talk about how the Pilgrims did the Indians dirt? I keep you from starving, you steal my house?”

Uh oh.

“We’ll go talk to Sister Mary Tamika,” I said. “I’ll sign your form here but leave her a note saying that I want to meet on this. Go wash up for dinner.”

“Kah. But Daddy?”

“Yeah, Baby?”

“Bring Mommy. Because Sister Mary Tamika likes you, which she shouldn’t her being a nun and all? She always makes goo goo eyes at you when you talk to my class, and won’t shut up about you when you leave. Plus, she got a weave under that head thing.”

“Wash Scoomp.”

“Kah.”

She ran upstairs. I pretended to study the mail.

“C’mon out, Scooter,” I said.

He emerged from the kitchen, Gatorade in his hand. Gotta hand it to him. Kid dotted his “I”s and crossed his “t”s.

“What do you think?”

“She shouldn’t have been written up,” he said slowly. “That was her opinion. She did the assignment. Teachers have too much power.”

“Go wash up honey,” my wife said to him.

“This is going too far.”

“What? Honey, the child gave her opinion. When I was a child, we were asked our opinions, not to tow the party line.”

“You didn’t find what she said disrespectful?”

“No I was pretty impressed. That’s solid insight for a seven year old.”

“She disrespected her teacher?”

“By disagreeing with her? I agree with Scooter. What are teachers? Bullying losers with degrees who get off picking on kids.”

“Um, and how do you earn your living?”

“My line of education requires discourse, analysis, and tolerance. Way more give and take.”

“Of all but conservative points of view…”

“This is not about me. A seven year old was asked an opinion, and she offered one backed up by evidence and logic. Seven year old logic, but logic nonetheless. Nothing she did was wrong. What? The pope is gonna excommunicate a seven year old? He may wanna be careful. She looks like she could turn the Holy See on its ear.”

“You know she got more heated with her teacher than she did with us.”

“Passion is lacking in today’s classrooms.”

“This all started because of that casino thing.”

“I’ll fix it. But be honest: if I was so off base, then why is Scooter in agreement?”

She was quiet on that one.

“I’ll go with you to the meeting.”

“Bet you will. Wonder if that really is a weave she wears?”

“Shut up.”