Educational Experience

On one of the longest days of my life, we rolled up to DeGrazia High in the Humvee bumpin’ R & B Christmas carols. It’s a real Humvee, Army surplus, not the domestic Hummer you get off the lot. And when I got out, it was like The Day the Earth Stood Still. Swear to God-people just froze in their tracks.

And this black girl with these real long braids grinned over at me and said, “Oooooo, Merry Christmas to me, honey...”

So...let’s just stop here and let me give you the lowdown on my looks because they’re an important part of my story, unfortunately.

Long story short, I model sometimes. Total fluke, how that happened.

I was one of those fools that stands outside of Abercrombie and Bitch spraying everybody with that damned cologne that you could smell all over the Tucson Mall by the end of the day-you know, those guys with no shirts on. I got that job, for which I was totally underage--I’m 18 now, by the way--almost the same way I got my first modeling job that day. Someone liked my looks and invited me to apply.

But the modeling agent who discovered me there was a very big deal in the business. She was rushing through the mall looking for something one of her models needed or something--I’ve never actually asked her what exactly she was doing there that day. But I remember she went flying by me, then took a few steps backwards, flicked me this business card and went, “Call this number on Monday. Nine-ish, A.M.” and then rushed right off again.

So, yeah, I’m a better than average looking guy. That’s not something to brag about, of course-it’s not something I earned or some kind of accomplishment. Luck o’ the draw is all. And it pisses me off sometimes that it matters so damned much, but I’m not going to lie to you--it’s an advantage, nine times out of ten. Yeah, you run into a lot of guys who really hate your guts from jump--women, too. But mostly, it gives you kind of a head start. And you can work it or not, it’s up to you.

Big Man works it--he’s my right hand man. I don’t know how to explain what his “duties” are, actually. He’s not a bodyguard, not a driver, not anything like that, though he does those things. I mean, sometimes he’s like a father, sometimes he’s like a brother...I don’t even think of him as someone who works for me, though I do pay his salary.

And he’s got ’way more swag than me. I think so, anyway. I mean, when he got out of the Vee, the girl with the braids almost had a total meltdown. Dude is every ghetto girl’s dream. Baller tall, baller pressed to death all the time, too. Custom suits--no rapper shit. If a rapper’s wearin’ it, he won’t. They couldn’t anyway. His clothes have to be tailor made because he’s so huge.

I mean, the man is incredibly particular about how he presents himself. Keeps his hair shaved down almost to nothin’ and lined just right-I like to tease him about that after he goes to the barber. I get out my IPhone “leveler” app and put it up to the sideburns or the line above his eyebrows like I’m checking to make sure they’re perfectly straight.

He is also the only man I know who doesn’t have to look up to me. Literally. I’ve been almost freakishly tall since 8th grade. And Big can look me in the eye easy--could break me in half in a heartbeat, too. I’m pretty buff, but he’s ridiculous.

Which...is why he’s perfect for the job. He doesn’t have to go for bad. He looks like he’s bad. But you don’t get a lot of men trying to test that. You know what I mean. The gunslinger, “Quien es mas macho” routine. They don’t do that with him. They’re scared he’ll decide to show ’em how wrong they are

Having pretty much brought the whole campus to a halt just be getting out of the damned car, we strolled up this walk to the Main Office Building trying to hurry up and get outta the way so the kids would just go on about their business. But a bunch of girls started following us. And then all these other kids started following us. Till they got to the Main Office doors where this big Mexican security dude stepped out and said, “I know you’re not tryin’a come in here and work this last nerve the day before vacation!”

He wasn’t talking to me and Big, though. It was the kids trying to rush in behind us he was angry with. The girls gave him some lip, but he was running interference for us, stepping aside just enough to let us through while he sparred with them verbally. You could tell he really liked the kids and vice versa. So they were mostly laughing and teasing him, and trying to bribe him with Christmas cookies and stuff like that.

So we eased on by, but got this “Who do you think you are?” look by this angry looking black woman who was talking on the phone at a desk just behind the “Check In” counter. There were three other women in the back there, but they looked like deer in the fucking headlights for some reason. I mean, they just stood there staring like we all had two heads or something.

It was clear that the black woman was the “gatekeeper.” You know, the one all the other ones defer to, who sizes everything up and does “triage” to decide who gets waited on and in what order. If at all.

So I was glad that Big Man had followed us in. He hit her with his million kilowatt smile and said, “Merry Christmas!” in that smooth, “basso profundo” voice of his.

And her demeanor totally changed. She smiled all flirty and girlish and said, “Ooooo, looka here, honey! Christmas came early this year--yow can I help you folks this mornin’?”

I gave everybody else a few beats to recover, and then I said, “I think you’re expecting me today, right? Colton James.”

The black clerk reached for a box full of folders, flipped through in a way that let me know she’d been doing this job ’way too long, and came up with mine in two seconds flat.

And as she looked over some kinda note paper clipped to it, she said, “Your first stop’ll be the Counselor’s Office. Let me give them a call, baby. Just a minute. They been lookin’ for you.”

As she went back to her desk, Big Man said, “Call your P.O., too.”

“I did.”

“You sure?”

“No. just said the first thing that popped into my head—of course, I did!”

He chuckled and said, “Yeah, you’re crackin’ wise now, but you got a lot ridin’ on this, playa. It’s not just you’ll be in a world o’ hurt if you don’t get this done right. You get locked up…”

He didn’t finish that thought. He didn’t have to. There were some lives on the line, that was definitely true. So I sighed and started looking around the office myself as a distraction from the gravity of the situation.

It was an old school. In Tucson, they don’t build schools with wood counters and things anymore and it’s too bad because they feel warmer. Classier, too, I’ve always thought. Like the people who built them really looked up to teachers and thought education was a noble cause. The new places are like shopping malls. No soul.

But like a lot of the old and new ones, both, this one had sort of gotten left behind in the sheer craziness of it all over time. Like, there was this wall full of posters that had been there as long as the clerk, probably. I say that because the celebrities on some of them were long past their five minutes of fame. I didn’t even know who a couple of ’em were, to be honest. They slap that kinda stuff up on the walls trying to be hip or something initially, but once they go up, they never come down. Which defeats the purpose, of course.

But you can understand why they get behind the times like that. I mean, while I was thinking about the posters, this big white woman stomped up to the counter and said, “I have been calling here for the past hour trying to get someone on the damned phone--where’s the goddamned principal?! Hidin’ in her office as usual?!”

And she would not stop yelling and cussing ’til security came to haul her away--even then, she kept screaming about suing and kicking people’s asses the whole way out. All the ladies behind the counter just sat there looking like they were kind of used to it, but I could see they were sort of unnerved.

I would’ve been scared, too. People are fucking nuts now. She could have had a gun or an old man waiting outside who would come in and tear the place apart, maybe. Who knew?

I didn’t have time to think about that, though. Because this little Mexican woman wearing one of those really awful, applique’d Christmas sweaters came out, gave me a motherly smile and said, “We have been waiting for you, mijo! Come!”

I turned to Big Man and said, “I’ll text you after my last class.”

And he said, “Hasta luego. MEE-hoh,” with this little wise guy smile on his face.

I “socked” him. Which of course just made him laugh. But then he put his big hand on my shoulder gently and studied my face for a second to make sure I was really okay.

“It’s all good. We’ll head on over to the Carnival when I get out--call Bonnie for me.”

“You think she should be out there in all that noise’n’ whatnot?”

“We can try. If she gets tired, we’ll cut it short.”

I’ll tell you what that was all about later.What matters is how worried he was about leaving me there. But he finally gave me a pat on the shoulder, saluted the clerk and started for the doors without looking back.

So I followed the Mexican woman, marveling from behind at her big, feathery “do” that came together in back just like swan’s wings. The top layer was dyed a kind of coppery red and the “feathers” beneath that had been dyed almost blue black, which was a bit too edgy for her. But at least it wasn’t “Telemundo” blond.

The Counselors Office was just around the way from the Main Office. When we got there, the Mexican woman nodded toward one of the little rooms along the wall, and my counselor, Ernesto Martinez, rose from his desk very solemnly and offered his hand.

He was a really tame looking guy, in a navy sweater vest and eggshell blue shirt, all of which went really well with the mom jeans he was sporting for casual Friday. I could’ve done without the little Frosty the Showman pinned to the vest, but it was the kinda thing a well-meaning secretary might’ve brought in for the holidays. As were all the tinsel garlands and origami stars and other signs of the season.

They even had Christmas lights framing the big picture window across from all the offices that opened onto the hallway. In fact, all the little office windows were also framed in lights. And a radio was tuned to one of the soft rock stations playing nothing but the sappiest carols imaginable all day long-I wish a reindeer would’ve run over whoever wrote that song about Santa getting run over by one. Swear to God I do.

Despite all the canned Christmas cheer, Martinez was so stiff he almost seemed afraid of me. He asked for my file and looked everything over so carefully that I think it was just a way of regaining his composure. And then he closed the file and trained those nervous eyes on me-they were almost doing that thing albino eyes do, that little oscillation thing that makes you nervous when you try to focus.

And he said, “I see that you exceeded standards in all three state exams.” And I could tell that he had decided on that opening line ’way before he looked at that file. Or the first time he looked at the file and realized what a mistake this whole thing was. They didn’t get kids who passed those exams, period, let alone a kid who’d exceeded standards. Most of the schools didn’t-even the better ones. So this was going to be one helluva fucked up little deal. And he had to try to sell me on it anyway. Or thought he did.

So I said, “Yeah, but that was...almost six years ago, right?”

“But the state universities might admit you on the basis of your test scores. Regardless.”

His eyes were begging me to say, “Wow! Really? Let’s do that, then!” But this was not his lucky day.

I had to say, “You’ve read the judge’s decision, right?”

He nodded and accepted the inevitable, knitting his fingers together on his belly.

“It’s...a very unusual arrangement.”

I smiled and said, “Well, he’s out to make a point. And I’m not tryin’a aggravate him. I got mouths to feed and a business to run—lives hangin’ in the balance, you know? If I go down, it all goes down with me. I am the franchise.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility for someone your age.”

“You think?” I said—I was laughing, though. He…sort of smiled. I think I’d scared him a little bit, to be honest.

“I mean, I am the franchise, you know?” I added. “So I can’t do time. And we’re talkin’ felonies, too. Big time—this judge is no joke. He’s itchin’ to take me out.”

I wasn’t even close to giving him the whole story—I won’t go into it here, because it’d slow things down too much. But when I say I couldn’t do time, I mean it. From the depths of my soul, I mean it. Trust me on that.

He said, “Yes,” and his eyes started doing that thing again. So I was really glad when he went back to the file and pulled out my schedule and said, “We couldn’t put you back in the gifted program mid-year, of course.”

And then he looked up and added, “Though we could appeal that decision.”

“No need. I’ll...do whatever.”

His eyes started pleading with me again.

“It’s just that...our language arts program is...remedial, for the most part. Given our population, which is largely at-risk or ELL.”

He had the jargon down, this guy. And by the way he said, “remedial,” and “...at risk or ELL” kinda bothered me, too. I figured he was also one of those people of color who had bought the “up by the bootstraps” thing hook, line and sinker--I would’ve bet money he was a proud Republican, in fact. To prove that bogus point that anyone can make it in America if they work hard enough--I’m sure he gave that old line to all the kids he dealt with, too, no matter what ailed them.

And as he told them the story of how he started out a poor barrio boy, he would leave out the special scholarships and how affirmative action had forced a few people to grudgingly admit he had the skills they were looking for. And now here I was, a kid who’d stumbled into the American Dream without a lick of hard work--without finishing high school, too. Damn me.

“It is what it is,” I said. “Sometimes you just have to make it work.”

I thought he’d like that answer, but he looked sort of puzzled, like I’d said it in Hebrew or something. And then he put the schedule back in the folder and sat back in that way that tells you the interview is over and the lecture is about to start.

I sat back, too, to give him my full attention. Or to look like I was listening.

“I will have one of our student assistants walk you to your first class, and each of your teachers will appoint a guide to get you to the class that follows. You will need to have the Daily Progress Reports in the file signed and comments entered from each teacher, each day and then submitted to me after school on Fridays throughout next semester.”

“How are the teachers taking all this?”

“Well...some know you’re coming today to get acclimated. But a few of your classes were changed last week, so you may catch those teachers off guard.”

“Yeah, no kidding! The day before Christmas vacation, I’m here.”

“It’s not unheard of.”

“I hope.”

“Students come and go rather randomly here. But...what I’d really like to know, if you’re willing to discuss it...”

“Shoot! I’ve got a pretty open mind.”

He watched me for a minute with those oscillating eyeballs, and then leaned into it.

“The...business you’re in...”

He had to stop there and find a way to talk about it without making it sound as bad as he obviously felt it was. So I decided to help.

“Adult entertainment,” I said.

I saw a faint smile flicker on his face. And he nodded and said, “Yes...”

And then he looked away again--this time, to check something on his computer. Or to pretend he was.

“We have...decided it would be best if you didn’t discuss or...divulge any details about that with the staff or students.”

“Wasn’t planning to. I mean, it’s not exactly gonna come up in casual conversation, right? Like, ‘We’re having pizza at lunch today and how many porn sites do you have exactly?’”

He went Casper white.

“Well, I...wasn’t aware of...”

“Adult entertainment,” I said, with this little twinkle in it. I mean, what ’d he think it was?

“It’s the parents we’re most concerned about, actually. They might not be as...open minded about it as the district has been.”

“Believe me, we brought that up, too. But the judge had a thing or two to say about that.”

“What...exactly?"

I smiled. He was soooo freaked out--worst poker face, ever.

“Well, he said that as long as the kid lives within your school’s boundaries, it’s against the law to turn him away. He went toe to toe with your legal eagles about that--you gotta remember that he sees your gang bangers and drug dealers and whatnot after they’re arrested over here. So, in his eyes, I’m nothin’ compared to that.”

He pondered this...and let it go.

“Would you mind talking about your decision to leave only five months into your freshman year? That first time around?”

He suddenly looked really comfy. I think because questions like that are what counselors are taught to ask.

So I said, “It wasn’t much of a decision. We were pretty much homeless at the time. And I had six brothers and sisters who needed to be fed and clothed and all that. My eldest sister had a little job, but it didn’t pay much. And there were a coupla little ones who weren’t in school yet, so somebody needed to watch them...”

“And your parents?”

I smiled quietly.

“Well...my mother was...let’s just say...the opposite of gifted. I mean, she tested as what they call MIMR, but...I have a feeling that’s kinda frowned upon by now.”

“The legal designations were changed to mild or moderate intellectual disability-MOID.”

“Yeah, well...bless her heart, whatever you call it, she was more like one o’ the kids than a mother.”

“And there was no father present in the home?”

Killed me the way he put things. It was like he was reading a questionnaire or something--he could’ve just said, “So...where was your father?” or something more conversational and compassionate.

“Oh, there was always a man around, but...none of ’em were what you’d call a father, no.”

He frowned a little, so I added, “I kept up with all the programs and...shelters and whatnot for us, though. Places we could eat, places we could get healthcare, clothes--that’s a full time job in and of itself. Everything’s temporary or...there’s a limit to how long you can be in the program or something. So I hadda keep track of it all.”

“But didn’t your mother have to sign things or...”

“Yeah, that was a problem sometimes. But we would find somebody to stand in for her. Or, sometimes I used to say she was deaf. I even learned to sign from this kid we knew-Gracie could only do like...‘Yes’ and ‘No,’ though. Coupla other things.”

“That must have been a very heavy burden for you.”

That was sincere. I could feel it. So I smiled sincerely for once, too.

“Yeah, well...we survived,” I said.

And when he looked uneasy again, I said, “So! That’s my life story. Pretty dismal, right?”

“I’ve heard much worse,” he said, in what I think he wanted to be a reassuring voice.

“Oh, no doubt.”

“Well, we’re...about done here. Do you have any questions?”

“Nah, I’m good. Let’s get this show on the road!”

“Great! We’ll get one of our student aids to show you around, then. Should be a pretty easy day for you!”

He was just offering his hand to seal that deal when all hell broke loose just outside his window. There was this husky looking Indian girl being dragged into the outer office by two security guards--she was wrestling with them like it was a WWF match or something, this girl. And she was clearly under the influence of one of more substances, because even when they’d finally got hold of her arms she started kicking at the teachers and a couple of other security guards and screaming like she was being stabbed to death.

But Martinez didn’t move. He was like Bush in that classroom on 9/11, sitting there all pale and flummoxed as she called those guy every street name for genitalia--male and female---in the book. And then she went back to wailing like someone had shot her dog or something when these two cops came running in.

“Jamila, what did I tell you the last time?” the female cop of the pair asked.

The male one knelt down next to her pretty fearlessly considering. But Jamila was watching the female one, which gave him the opportunity to tie up her hands and ankles right quick. She worm squirmed a little bit right after he got her ankles shackled, but then she just sort of went limp and started whining like a puppy.

And I quit waiting for Martinez to react or say something.

“I know my way around,” I told him. “You don’t need to send anyone with me.”

But he turned his focus back to me as if nothing weird had happened, flipping through this folder holder thing in one of his desk drawers ’til he came up with a map of the campus to hand me.

“There are a few new buildings,” he said. “The Senior Wing and Voc. Ed. complex weren’t here when you last attended.”

“Senior Wing?”

“That’s correct. We divided the campus by class levels the year after you left. Parents had been asking to have freshmen set apart from the others at least.”

“I bet the kids didn’t--”

Something hit the wall in that room where they’d taken the Indian girl. And then she started growling like some kind of wild animal. And Martinez still didn’t move.

So I got up, hoping maybe he’d do the same. And he did, but not to go find out what was going on, just to walk me over to the door and say, “My door is always open” in that fake voice that also said he didn’t really want to be bothered.

I left, but then I back tracked, and saw him walk toward the room where that crazy girl was flailing around even with her arms and legs cuffed. And she looked up at him and said, “What’chu lookin’ at, faggot?!”

I’ve never seen such blazing hatred in anyone’s eyes before. But then, just as I was getting to the end of that hallway, she started to scream, “HELP ME!” over and over again like they were getting ready to water board her in there. And something about that and the dark, dingy hallway made me feel like I couldn’t catch my breath. I actually had to stop and shake my arms and legs like runners do, just before they bend down into the blocks. And then I inhaled and exhaled...and started walking toward my first class right when that weird electronic bell “hooted” and the real race was on.