The copy of “Two Little Savages” (by Ernest Thompson Seton, as he was styling himself in 1911 when the book was copyrighted) that I grew up reading and rereading was bought by my father in 1940, used. I was one year old that year, new. Twenty years later, when I met Bob Scriver, the book-- indeed, the whole attitude -- was a tie between us. (You’ll remember that the story begins with a taxidermy shop.) We were two boys together, which I fancy was probably much like Seton’s arrangement with his wife. Penrod and Sam came along. Then Tom Sawyer and Huck.
The first year I taught, 1961-62, was in Browning where, in those days, students were tracked. The first class in the morning was the “bottom” of the eighth grade, grouped by performance rather than potential. They were quite an assortment, all boys. I fell for them hook, line and sinker, though I don’t think I really taught them very much. Jesse came for the food, and we finally tossed him out for playing a card game in class with a deck that had naked women on the back. (I’m sure it counted that the women were all white -- or actually quite pink.) He used to come back into the building and open my classroom door to hiss, “I’m gonna KILL you!” “Oh, right,” I’d defy him. “Go home!” I’m not sure he had a home but at that point I didn’t worry about such stuff.
My favorite student was Alfred, an artist and the youngest, who would come to lean his elbows on my desk when there was a spring blizzard like the one raging against my window this very minute. “Do you remember the smell of the dirt when it’s first dug up in the spring?” he would ask. “My grandpa raised raspberries,” he told me. And he worried about his horse. He became a grandpa but he’s gone now.
Alfred’s older brother, Lloyd, was much tougher and able to fight hard. His ambition, he said, was to go to jail because that’s where his older brothers and uncles were. His best friend was Stanley, who was half-black, very dark, and about the same smart. Their IQ’s tested out at about a hundred, which is normal, so I figured that given their background (no TV in those days and no magazines for sale on the reservation) and the cultural divide, their actual IQ’s were probably more like 120 or higher. Two boys already had children with under-age girls who were not allowed to come to school because of the pregnancies. One boy was only there because he was cross-eyed. He’s done pretty well in life, so he could probably get his eyes uncrossed now, but he says he’s used to them that way. Actually, his brain would need months and months of retraining, depending on how it has compensated. Several of those boys are dead. Our star became a tribal judge. Everybody was Blackfeet except me.
I’ve been thinking about this class because one of the boys, a big poker-faced guy who never let down his guard, had a son who is one of my all-time most memorable students. He just died a week or so ago -- the son, I mean -- 37 years old and with a passel of children. I need to find his mother and talk to her, as much to comfort myself as her. The cause of death was not given which might mean suicide or even AIDS. I won’t tell her my most cherished moment with this kid, though she was there. We were having a parent-administration conference and he told the officious Navy-sergeant, marcelled and fullofit, to “Fuck off.” My sentiments exactly. The principal was so stunned, he didn’t say anything for minutes. We just sat there and looked at him, trying not to laugh.
But that original 1961-62 class of boys was mild compared to the set of white bad boys in a nearby town forty years later. They had been told they were stars and that meant that they could act like ghetto hires on a bigtime basketball team: that is, push everyone around, break all the rules, crush girls under their feet, abuse any substance they came across. The admin -- again -- had good American values: win at any cost, maintain the image of the town, and eat the young. I was very fond of these boys, who were grouped into one speech and drama class late in the day. My diabetes II was still undiagnosed so by that time I couldn’t remember names, but I had a firm grasp on everything else. They felt that knowing their names -- important FAMILY names of HOMESTEADERS -- was a serious sign of disrespect. It took a while to win them over.
One big guy, totally atypical and nonathletic, had a wildly wonderful sense of humor and the jocks never picked on him. I asked why. “Are you kidding?” they said. “His family is a motorcycle gang!” As it happened, I figured out that I knew the boy’s father except that he’d only been on horseback when I taught him.
Another boy, an Irish citizen who had inherited property back in the Auld country (I’m not making this up) wore his flannel collarless shirts and after a few weeks went to the principal to demand to be put in a proper class. “I haven’t time for this nonsense,” he said. The actual star of the basketball team was also transferred out, this time by his mother and grandmother who had a tight grip on the future of their young man. Dunno what happened to dad.
I tried and tried to get a grip on these young men. The best assignment I came up with was to read a piece of poetry while playing fitting music in the background. One young man did an absolutely stunning job -- he read Keats! And well! I gave him an A plus for the assignment, which meant that he thought he should get that for the course.
They never could understand that when the punishment came down, it would not fall on them but on me. And it did. Just before the ax fell the first week in November, I resigned. That next day was the best we ever had. We leveled with each other. They hated the place, got no support from parents, only from the coach and only if they won. Girls just tried to reform them but wouldn’t allow the sex that might comfort them. I understood. I hoped that helped.
They asked whether they could come visit me in the years to come and “sit on the porch and drink beer together.” I promised them coffee. I don’t drink beer and don’t have a porch, but we could sit in the driveway on lawn chairs. One pair of boys did come to visit. Another sent a wedding invitation.
My Browning students keep in touch. I attend their funerals and watch the local paper for their successes. One of them -- not from that class -- is the chair of the Tribal Council now. And every morning I get up before dawn to check on the progress of those boys in Amsterdam, “Cinematheque.” I try to understand. They need it and I need it.
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