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!”