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.