“Thanks for relinquishing the mike and this time, Dr. Nethercutt.” He looks at the mike. “You may be about to have second thoughts.”
Nethercutt appears taken off guard, moves toward Miller, but Matt turns slightly, shielding the mike from his reach.
“Our superintendent just offered maybe three tanks of gas to entice one of our gridiron superstars to rat out his buddies. Of course he knows that anyone who takes him up on it wouldn’t live to fill the second tank. If you ask me, this is a good way for our school administration to make a show of addressing the problem while at the same time making sure no resolution is reached.”
Whoa! Couldn’t have said it better. Nethercutt has left the noose on the podium; Miller picks it up. Nethercutt demands the mike, moves threateningly, but Matt Miller is a state champion wrestler. In his state championship match last year, he was taken down only twice, and made lightning escapes both times. “Begging your indulgence, sir. I’m not finished.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
Matt smiles. “No, I’m not.”
Nethercutt lunges for the mike, and Matt dances easily out of his reach. Nethercutt straightens his suit jacket. “Mr. Miller, I am the superintendent of this school district. I’m demanding that you hand over that mike.”
Matt says, “Dr. Nethercutt, I’m a solid three-six grade-point-average student who has earned a state wrestling championship for my school, and I will give you the mike as soon as I’m finished, which won’t be five minutes.”
Nethercutt hollers for security.
This gym is quiet.
“Young man, your diploma is officially at risk.”
“So be it.”
Whew! This Christian has some nuts.
“As a man of God, I’m interested exclusively in the truth. Somebody in our student body hung a noose on an African-American student’s locker.” He stares at the noose in his hand. “And it’s pink. Some asshole who doesn’t know the origin of the phrase ‘killing two birds with one stone’ killed two birds with one stone. He, or they, also committed a hate crime.”
Nethercutt stands with his hand out, flushed bright red.
“When I heard Dr. Nethercutt’s spectacular reward offer, I asked myself something I ask probably five or six times a day: What would Jesus do? See, I know who put the noose on Marcus James’s locker. Roger Marshall hung it, and Aaron Strickland and Ray Stone watched.”
Roger Marshall stands up in the bleachers and yells, “That’s a goddam lie, Miller, and you know it. What’re you, James’s boyfriend? I’ll see you after school!”
The Bean starts onto the floor, but I grip his shoulder. He glares at my hand, and I remove it. “There’ll be news coverage,” I whisper. “I’d think long and hard before making my next move.”
“I’d love to see you after school,” Miller continues. “If I heard you guys right, Strickland tied the knot, but I can’t be sure I heard right.” He turns back to Nethercutt. “I can’t prove any of this. In a court, it’s hearsay, because I was dressing down for a preseason workout in the locker room when I heard them laughing about it.” He offers Nethercutt the mike. “I don’t know what is to be done about it,” he says, “but I just thought I should get the truth out. It’s what Jesus would do.”
I would like, at this point, to take back anything I ever thought about Very Devout Anything. Nethercutt snatches the mike, thumbs the off switch, and says something to Miller between gritted teeth. Miller smiles, pats him on the shoulder, and offers to shake his hand. Nethercutt sneers and turns toward the crowd, flips the mike back on. “What Mr. Miller just did was irresponsible. I want you to disregard it. I assure you all, we’ll look into this and it will be handled appropriately. You may return to your classes now.”
Marcus
Holy shit! I came to school this morning all willing to let the noose hang in midair in Mr. S’s room and just watch what kind of bad mojo it gathered. I told my granddad about it last night, and he looked at me with those big sad eyes of his and said, “You do what you got to do, boy—you always do—but don’t go bitin’ off more than y’all can chew. You be sure somebody’s got your back, or you lay low. Them Marshalls is mean as snakes.”
Plus, I got Mr. S’s point; you choose the time and place to make your stand. All I got to do is lay low and get my ass to Stanford, which was my new plan after talking to my grandpops. But then Nethercutt calls me out. Got to hand it to him; he did what I did, opened the situation right up. See, when I put that noose around my neck and walk into class, it’s like saying, “Bring it.” Shee. Everyone knows where it came from. I been in the South, all the time seein’ pickups; two big ol’ rebel flags flyin’ straight back in the eighty-mile-an-hour wind created by the third-grade-educated rebels speedin’ down the freeway. You know to stay away from those dumb bastards; they got a mandate to shoot you. And I’ve read about Kansas; I know anybody wearin’ a cowboy hat drivin’ his family in a Taurus up to the Holy Church of Jesus Christ is probably not a good candidate to hear how good his muscular buttocks look in those jeans. There are things you expect in certain parts of the country. But see, you could be wrong. The guy in the pickup could be just livin’ out his family history; he read some bullshit American History textbook and came away thinking the Civil War was really fought between the industrial North and the agricultural South over economy and his ancestors weren’t racial bigots and they maybe even died heroically in it. You might talk that guy right out of his hate. And the guy in the cowboy hat could be headed to the church to tell the pastor that he and his family are scoutin’ out other churches “cause they can’t hang with a congregation that feels gays are an abomination, ’cause one of his kids is gay. All that could be. But if you live in the northwest part of the United States of America, which didn’t even have a part in the Civil War, and your family has a rebel flag painted all up one side of your barn so you can see it five miles away, and your uncle wears a different color T-shirt every day that says ONE MAN, ONE WOMAN, ONE MARRIAGE UNDER GOD, well, let’s just say that stacks the deck pretty good against a Marcus James getting invited to dinner at your house unless he is dinner.
So laying low wasn’t a bad idea. But Nethercutt aimed every eye in the student body at me, and Matt Miller locked them all in, though Miller’s intent was good, and he may have made me a little bit safer calling Marshall and his buddies out. Something bad happens to me after all that, those guys will fall into the category of “persons of interest.” But all in all, it feels less safe around here than it did, say, this time last week.
“Teachers. Please excuse the interruption. Would you send Roger Marshall, Matt Miller, Aaron Strickland, Ray Stone, and Marcus James to Mr. Bean’s office immediately. Thank you.”
Shit. I’m a smartass and I stand up for myself when I can, but I do not look forward to walking into that particular mix of inhumanity, especially with The Bean and Nethercutt running things. So I’m hauling down the hall, trying to get there first; you know, pee in the corners and establish my territory.
“Mr. James. Good to see you.” The Bean.
“Wish I could say the same, sir,” I tell him. No territory to establish; I’m dead last. Marshall and his guys stare at me like I just scored a touchdown for the other team. Man, how is this shit my fault? Matt Miller leans against The Bean’s desk, arms folded, staring down the Marshall gang. Nethercutt is seated in the corner, jotting down some notes, and The Bean shuffles papers like a rookie dealer in Vegas. He clears his throat. “I don’t know exactly where to start here. We’ve had an interesting couple of days….”
“I know where to start, Mr. Bean, so why don’t I do that?” Nethercutt stands. “I want this solved today, gentlemen, and it will be.” He turns to Miller. “Mr. Miller, I don’t appreciate the position you put me in at the assembly today.”
“With all due respect, sir, I didn’t put you in any position. I simply said what was true.”
“Well, I didn’t experience that due respect. You as much as said I didn�
��t want to discover the source of this.” He holds up the noose.
“You got all that was due from me,” Miller says back, and I’m getting ready to dive under The Bean’s desk. This wrestler boy’s stayin’ on the offense.
Nethercutt stares daggers at Miller, and that’s almost not a metaphor. But Miller looks like you could stick daggers in him all day long and then he’d just stretch out and go to sleep.
“You had better watch your impulses, young man. That state wrestling championship will get you only so much, and I’m warning you, you’ve about maxed it out.”
“Dr. Nethercutt, off the mat I don’t do anything on impulse.”
“Be that as it may,” Nethercutt says. “In my opinion you fanned the flames of a potentially dangerous situation, and I’ll tell you right now there may be consequences for that.”
“If there are, there are, but you might want to remember my mother is a pretty good defense attorney,” Miller says back.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Whoa!
Miller keeps talking. “Sir, I represent three entities when I act: God, my family, and my school. I’m comfortable that God backed me today, and so did my folks. I guess it remains to be seen what my school will do.”
Marshall stifles a laugh. Neither Miller or Nethercutt even notice; they’re eyeball to eyeball.
Nethercutt blinks. “Look, Matt, I’m trying to fend off a potentially volatile situation while at the same time keeping this school reflected in a positive light going into this bond issue, whatever it takes.” He dangles the noose, turns to Marshall. “Mr. Marshall, tell me what you know about this.”
“Not a thing, sir. Miller is lying. None of us knows what he’s talking about.”
Nethercutt looks back at Miller, who raises his eyebrows. “Hard to know who to believe, huh?” Miller says.
Nethercutt turns to me. “What about it, Mr. James? What has to happen for you to let this go?”
Just being around Miller makes a guy want to stand up and fight, but there’s not a one of those ball players doesn’t outweigh me by forty pounds. “I don’t know,” I say, “I came to school today thinkin’ maybe I made my point. Next thing I know you’re turning me into a marked man.”
“I called that assembly to get to the bottom of this.”
“Was that seventy-five comin’ out of your pocket, or were you gonna get it out of petty cash?” I ask him. “I’ll let the whole thing go right here if Marshall can turn his pockets inside out without double your reward offer falling out on the floor.”
Nethercutt glances at Marshall. Marshall shakes his head.
“I’ll ask again,” Nethercutt says. “How can we wrap this up?”
I say, “You know what? I’m gonna give you this one, Coach. I’m gonna take one for the mighty Wolverines. I don’t want the football team to lose its big tough studly linebacker, ’cause I kinda like him in those tight pants, and I don’t want the school to give up free lunches and art and music because we don’t pass a levy. So I’m hangin’ up my noose. I would ask a favor, however.”
Nethercutt says, “Shoot.”
“I’d appreciate it if today was the last day you figured out one more way to hold me up to the student body as the token faggot nigger.”
The Bean leaps up. “Mr. James, I will not have that language in my office. You will apologize to Dr. Nethercutt, or I’ll be sitting in this office with your grandfather negotiating your return to this school.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” I say back. “My granddad lays low, but you take him on over a noose and all y’all will be in the news.” I like following this wrestling Jesus freak’s lead.
“You listen—”
Nethercutt raises his hand. “Hold on, Andy. Mr. James made his point. I can handle the rough language. Let’s get our house in order here.” He turns to Miller. “Are you satisfied, Matt?”
Miller doesn’t move; arms still folded, looking at the floor. He shakes his head slowly. “Naw, I’m not satisfied. I don’t think anyone has taken this seriously enough. As recently as 1969, this was openly a sundown town. That noose represents a whole bunch of what is wrong with this country. You and Mr. Bean don’t get it. You don’t understand that we’re more diminished by racism than Marcus is. It doesn’t cost us as much, but we’re more diminished. I thought I’d see a little more integrity in my waning high school years. But it’s Marcus’s gig, so I’m with him. I’m not satisfied, but if nothing else happens, I’m willing to let it die.” He looks straight at Marshall. “If anything else does happen, that noose is part of the history I’ll bring to bear.” He picks it up off The Bean’s desk.
Roger Marshall glares at Miller, then at me, with the steely gaze of a cold-blooded killer, but it’s pretty clear The Bean and Nethercutt prepped him, ’cause he says dick.
I slap my leg and jump up. “Well, I’m glad we had this little meeting, but this is more fun than I can stand. Gotta get me some lunch.” And I take my leave.
Mr. S
“So are we flush?” I catch up with Marcus in the hallway. “On to the next challenge?”
“We flush,” he says. “Tell you what, though. Throw my man Matthew Miller’s nuts in the back of your pickup and haul ’em down to the weigh station. School record, I’m tellin’ you. That boy’s ninety-nine percent sac. Shit, he barely knows me.”
“I was impressed.”
Marcus laughs. “You just caught his opening act. You shoulda seen him in The Bean’s office just now. I hope he can take care of himself. Marshall looked killer.”
“Matt Miller won state at one-sixty. That makes him a natural at one-seventy-one. Barring the use of weapons, I think he can take care of himself.”
Marcus shakes his head. “Well, let’s hope they bar the use of weapons. I gotta get to class. I feel like giving more people fewer reasons to send my ass to see The Bean for the next week or so.”
Matt Miller
I hope this is as strange as the day gets. Guess I shouldn’t complain. I decided to take Dr. Nethercutt on, but what choice did I have? WWJD, right? What would Jesus do? Well, Jesus never backed down. That’s my standard, though I’ll never approach His state of grace. Man, when I saw that noose…How can you live in this country, know its racial history, know its biases against colors and creeds and sexual preferences, and stay quiet when you see a noose hung on an African-American kid’s locker? And it was pink. That’s because James is gay. These guys don’t even know what to hate first. I don’t worry about James. He’s a gay black kid in the inland Northwest, thirty-five miles from where the Reverend Butler had a neo-Nazi compound for more than thirty years, and he’s made it this far. This isn’t as much about him as it is about us. I’ve been taught acceptance since I was a little kid, in Sunday school and in regular school. I know about the sixties and the civil rights marches and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X. I know about Matthew Shepard. As much as I love my country—and I’m going to find a way to serve it as soon as I graduate—I know we are in no way as cool as we tell ourselves. Right here in my high school lifetime, some white kids hung nooses from a tree they claimed as theirs in a schoolyard in Jena, Louisiana, because a black kid sat under it. He didn’t chop it down, or see how high he could pee on it; he sat under it. Even more recently, some college kids at George Fox University, a Christian university in Oregon, strung up a life-sized cardboard cutout of Barack Obama. A judge in Georgia put a black, future NCAA scholar-athlete in jail because he had consensual sex with his white girlfriend when he was over eighteen and she wasn’t. And that’s just our racial profile. Take a gander at our sexual preference profile. Back in the eighties when the AIDS epidemic broke out, our government did squat for years, because guess who they thought contracted the disease. Gay men. And you know what the line was on that? It was a punishment from God for doing the nasty thing “within gender.” If I’d been up and running when that crock was conventional wisdom, you’d have seen some seri
ous witnessing. My God, we’re coming to the end of the first decade of the twenty-first century and there are still people saying their marriages would be soiled if we let gay people be married. Like they aren’t soiled by the fifty percent that don’t make it, or the others that stay together and hate each other. Shoot, if I were gay I wouldn’t want to get married; I’d want to call it something else. Some TV preacher said the other day, “If we let gay people get married the next thing people will start wanting to marry is their pets. Where will it stop?”
Listen, people who want to marry their pets have already done to their pets what these guys are worried about. Wanting to marry an animal isn’t about civil rights; it’s about mental health. People just don’t get it about Jesus. When He saw a wrong, He righted it. When He saw what wasn’t His business, He left it the hell alone. I don’t worry about Him wanting me to find a place in my heart for the Marcus Jameses of the world. That place exists naturally. Jesus didn’t care whether you were some other color than pasty white, or whether or not you were gay. His Father made them and He loved them all. Jesus would want me to find a place in my heart for the Marshalls and the Stones and Stricklands, which, if you can’t tell, I have a harder time doing, but at the same time He wouldn’t want me to back off them when they did mean, stupid-ass things, because the thing Jesus loved as much as truth was justice. He’d want me to throw it in their faces so they could learn. This wasn’t a guy looking through some book to find reasons to diminish others. This was a guy who’d have strapped on His steel-toed sandals and kicked some serious butt when He saw people like the Klan or these idiot neo-Nazis using His or His Father’s name to spread their hate. Everybody’s equal in the eyes of God. End of story. I got a plus in the Big Book today when I came out on the gym floor.
This isn’t over. I don’t like how my gut feels after the assembly and the meeting in Mr. Bean’s office. Something is cooking. Marshall and his boys let it all go way too easily. That’s why I backed off and let Marcus run with it. But my eyes are open; I stuck my nose in it, and I can’t pretend to not know what I know if it hits the fan. Any time there’s a Marshall involved, there’s a better than fifty percent chance of trouble. Roger’s uncle tried to kill his own stepdaughter several years ago because she was mixed race and he blamed her for his troubles. He ended up killing someone else, but what’s stuck in my head is that his family still thinks he got screwed. Somebody needs to…oops, that was an un-Christian thought. I allow myself several of those a day.
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