by Owen Thomas
“Cause Jews ain’t Christians.”
“Are you saying that you would be less likely to believe me if I were Jewish?”
She nods.
“Just because of that?”
She nods again. I am unable to resist. I am evil.
“You do understand, don’t you, Kashawnda, that Jesus was a Jew.”
Kashawnda actually gasps. Her eyes fill with rage and I can feel hate, actual hate, coming from this poor girl in little daggers. She is hopelessly ill-equipped to respond and I realize that this – not that she has been forced to concede anything about the Bible or Jesus Christ or her religion, but that she cannot put me in my place as her mother might – this is the source of her humiliation. In my effort to demonstrate the human weakness inherent in all historical doctrine, I have managed to make mortal enemies of at least four of the little cannibals … sponges, sponges, little sponges … fuck it, cannibals. Kashawnda is crossing her arms so tightly I fear she will crush her own ribcage. Bradley is writing in his notebook like he is carving through tree bark with a knife.
“Okay, let’s move on. Religion can be tough to talk about. But understand this: religion plays a huge role in human history. Huge. Religious texts are like your history texts. But, in the end, they are all someone’s point of view and you are entitled to question that point of view. My job is to get you to question everything you read.”
They seem almost as relieved to be moving off the subject as I am. I pivot into a discussion about history through the lens of conspiracy theories. Young Kevin throws out JFK and we have a rousing go at who was behind the grassy knoll. I make my best pitch on Lee Harvey Oswald acting alone. I cite the textbook and Justice Warren.
“Absolute fact,” I declare. “He was acting alone.”
“Opinion!” They sing it like a choir.
Oh, little sponges! How I have misjudged them. I have been too harsh. They are with me. We have bonded in the crucible of historical dialectic. I can teach and they can learn. This can work.
“Well what about all of those people out in Hollywood making those movies and showing you on the big screen that it must have been the FBI or the mafia that killed JFK. You believe Hollywood, don’t you?”
“Like your sister?” It’s Todd again, his head like an unruly ball of orange yarn.
“Let’s leave my sister out of it.”
“Who’s your sister? Who’s his sister?”
This, almost frantically from Tiphannie in the front row who has chosen the weighty subject of my Silver Screen relations as her first contribution. Todd and Brian unveil the answer for her together.
“Tilly Johns! Totally hot. Totally! Way hot! Yes. Totally. Oh I could totally do Tilly Johns. Totally.” There follows a flurry of high-fiving over Taren’s head.
“Down boys. Sit. Seriously. You’re talking about my little sister.”
“No way!” Tiphannie is looking at me agape for confirmation.
I can only sigh and shrug. I may as well get used to that which, with every movie, with every sexual exploit, with every tabloid, will only get worse.
“Whoa!” Tiphannie, mouth open and smiling, eyes spinning. Like she is on a very good acid trip.
“Okay, okay. Never mind my sister. She has nothing to do with JFK. But Hollywood has had a lot to say about JFK over the years and Hollywood does love its conspiracy theories. And if Hollywood said it happened, then it happened. Right? It must be a fact because we saw it on the big screen! Right?”
“Has your sister ever kissed Matt Damon?”
“Tiphannie . . .”
“Mark Walberg?”
“Tiphannie . . .”
“Brad Pitt? George Clooney?”
“Tiphannie, I have no idea. Let’s talk about … Mark?”
“Has your sister made any movies with Arnold Schwarzenegger?”
“No. Look, guys...”
“Kissed another woman on screen?”
“Does she live in a mansion?”
“Does she have implants?”
“Todd …”
“Sorry, Mr. Johns.”
“Not another question about my sister. Got it?” They are silent once again. “Now, history by Hollywood, fact or opinion?”
“Opinion.” Only a quarter of them answer. My momentum is gone.
“Oh, come on. The CIA must have killed JFK. Would Kevin Costner lie to you?”
I can tell I have lost them. I have lapsed into preaching and they are drifting away. I am in the lame duck zone. Not much longer and they know that door will open and they will drain into the hallway. They have given their brains a head start.
“Okay, almost done. Let’s talk about world view. What do I mean when I say that history depends on the world view of the historian? What’s a world view?”
Nothing.
“Anyone? Come on guys, this is easy stuff. Yeah, Todd?”
“Has your sister ever made any porn?”
“Todd, I told you I was not going to warn you again. I’m sorry, but I tried.”
“I was just . . .”
“I don’t care. Here’s the deal. Listening? Okay. The third chapter of your book is entitled Plymouth Rock. By next Monday, Todd, I want from you... don’t look over at Brian, he can’t help you now … I want from you a list of ten questions that you have about the Pilgrims that are not answered in that chapter.”
“But… I…was just curious about …”
“I understand. But I want you to be less curious about my sister’s sex life and more curious about history. Okay?”
Todd cascades in a clean, efficient free-fall from cocky, to earnestly indignant, to sheepish, down into the muck of a sullen, hateful funk, slapping his pen on the desk because life is so fucking unfair.
“Yeah, I know; life sucks. Okay. Only a few minutes left. Here’s the wrap up on the problem of world-view in history. It always matters who is telling the story. Always. It is your responsibility to figure that out.”
I point at them sharply to drive it home. “Figure… it… out.”
I walk behind my desk to let the words sink in. I rummage through my briefcase. I can feel their eyes are at my back; sizing me up. They cannot pigeonhole me. Their judgments are off-balance.
“You all know Christopher Columbus, right?” Most of them murmur and nod.
“Right. That guy. Ol’ Chris. Well, we are going to read about what a great man Christopher Columbus was, about how after sailing the ocean blue he discovered America in 1492. But your textbooks don’t mention the murder and mayhem he brought with him. Brutal, savage violence. Todd, you think my punishment is unfair? You should take a closer look at Ol’ Chris Columbus. When an Indian misbehaved, say, by trying to take back food that the Spanish had stolen from his family, the punishment was to have an ear or a nose or a hand severed from his body so that when he went back to his the village, everyone knew not to mess with good ol’ Christopher Columbus.”
Sideways glances. Raised eyebrows. Nothing like good old fashioned violence to keep their attention.
“You won’t read about that in your books. Your book is not going to tell you about the Ol’ Chris Columbus who captured thousands of Indians, made them slaves and shipped them across the Atlantic. About half of those Indians, stolen from their homes and families, died on the voyage back to Spain; the bodies simply tossed overboard like so much spoiled meat. Your book will not tell you about the Columbus who rewarded his lieutenants with native women and young girls – nine and ten years old – to rape at their pleasure. Your book will not tell of the mass suicides. Your books will not tell you about the Columbus who is responsible for the extinction – by violence and disease – of an entire Indian nation. Today we call that... what? What’s the word? Anyone? Who’s still talking to me? Sam.”
“Terrorism?”
“Well, no. Terrorism is usually violence for a specific political goal. The word I was looking for was genocide. You all know what genocide is?”
I see looks of confusi
on laced with alarm. I see children taking their first steps into complexity and nuance. I hear bubbles popping and glass shattering and metal groaning. I feel from them virgin out-rage and the heartbeat of inquiry.
“Okay. But that’s not the story we like to hear, is it? The story we like to hear is about how Christopher Columbus discovered America. The New World. Right? It’s a happy story. A story we like to tell our-selves. The only problem is that it is … not … true. What new world? New to whom? New to Columbus maybe. But not so new to the people who had been here for centuries. The plain fact is that Christopher Columbus never discovered America in the first place. Yes, Alicia.”
“Opinion. Not fact.”
“Okay. Fair enough. Good. One opinion that you need to evaluate is that Columbus was a late comer, following the Vikings, Africans, Phoenicians, Asians and maybe even the Irish.”
“So if he didn’t discover America, why is he even in the book?” says Sam.
“Because Ol’ Chris was an incredibly important historical figure. Just like the Pilgrims Todd is going to tell us about next week who never would have survived were it not for the generosity of the very Indians whose civilizations were plundered and eradicated by the violence and the disease that the Pilgrims brought along with their Bibles and their puritanical intolerance.”
“So the books just lie?”
“Well, I won’t accuse the authors of lying, but you’re going to have to determine whether your book is telling you the truth or whether it’s telling you bedtime stories.”
Silence. I keep pushing.
“And look out for your heroes folks; they aren’t who you think they are. Thomas Jefferson and George Washington owned, bought, sold, traded and used and had non-consensual sex with Black slaves. Not a pleasant fact. Not something discussed in your books. But true. Start getting used to it. Stop thinking of history as a collection of national heroes to be protected. These were actual people – flawed to the core – living at a particular time in our history. And these people, to whom we are greatly indebted, did some incredible things. Don’t worship them blindly. Don’t rob them of their humanity. Learn about them.”
I take a quick visual survey. They are attentive. Disturbed. Brows are furrowed. Chewing has stopped. Hands are still. Even Todd is with me.
“History is not about the study of heroes. Give me the name of a villain.”
“Saddam Hussein.”
“Good, Bill. Saddam Hussein. Why is he a villain?” “Because he killed and tortured people.”
“Oh, you mean like Columbus?”
“No. I mean . . . like, Columbus was like on our side but Saddam Hussein is like … fighting us. Was fighting us, but we caught him.”
“Not bad, Bill. Pay attention to world view. We tend to distinguish villains not by what they do, but what they do when they oppose our interests. Would Saddam Hussein have been a villain if he had been on our side? Amy.”
“Saddam Hussein would never be on our side.”
“Hmm. Who do you think supplied Saddam with his chemical and biological weapons?”
“Terrorists.”
“Nope. We did. The United States of America. Back in the 1980’s when we were more concerned about the Middle Eastern dominance of Iran than we were about Saddam Hussein. So, maybe Saddam Hussein should be a villain because he’s a bad man who has people killed, raped and tortured. But if that is true, then maybe Christopher Columbus should also be a villain. But Columbus isn’t a villain is he? He’s a good guy, right? Because he’s on our side. Just like Saddam Hussein was on our side back in the 1980’s; back when we – the United States of America – were making sure that he – Saddam Hussein – had plenty of anthrax and mustard gas and rocket launchers.”
I am staring into a silent chasm of disbelief. Sparks are shooting from their ears as the synaptic circuitry shorts out. The bell rings, rip-ping the silence. No one moves for the door. I have them in my hands. They are intellectually and morally upset and ready to learn more and I am suddenly proud all over again to be a teacher.
“Okay? Okay. Enough. I will leave you with the words of Helen Keller: ‘People do not like to think. If one thinks, one must reach conclusions. And conclusions are not always pleasant.’ We’re going to have a lot of fun in this class. See you all tomorrow.”
They gather their things, stand, desk-chairs scraping along the floor, and head for the frothing hallway beyond the door. Ashley, gnawing neon glop off her index finger, shuffles forward in the thick of the heard. She looks sideways at me as she passes my desk. I smile and nod. She slowly shakes her head at me. It is equal parts contempt and condemnation.
“History!” I mouth cheerily, giving her a big thumbs-up just to show I am immune to her attitude.
“Your history,” she mouths back. “Your history.”
She looks away. I watch her drift off into the hall slowly realizing that there was no way for her to have mouthed an apostrophe had she wanted to. You’re history.
The revision comes with the spider-up-the-spine feeling of how much we do not know about our own circumstances nor when or how we will encounter the reminders and consequences of our own past. There is no way to teach that kind of history. It is not history as world-view. Or history as conspiracy. Or even history as subjective opinion.
The look in Ashley’s eyes suggests an altogether different lesson.
History as iceberg.
CHAPTER 10 – Tilly
The message had come with my breakfast, sealed in a green-bordered envelope with a circle of plum wax, slipped beneath my plate of man-go. The flourish was entirely that of the hotel, but the message was all Blair, typically Spartan in its efficiency and authoritarian in the way it marshaled both letter and meaning into lock step obedience:
Tilly: John’s a mess. No shooting. Ivanova today. My place - 11:00. -- BG.
I took the message to mean that Jack Wellington – only Blair called him John – had gotten worse; had progressed from feverish fatigue and green-tinted wooziness to actual incapacitation. I assumed constant vomiting and diarrhea and turned out to be correct.
Jack was a fifty-something London stage actor who longed to segue into American film. I think Blair cast him in our movie because he needed an older, attractive looking Brit to play the part of the man who unwittingly delivers his family, and himself, unto a pride of hungry lions. It was brilliant casting. Jack delivered every scene with a compelling subtext of desperation. He had the look, sound and feel of someone for whom time was running out, a condition that on screen was believably inspired by the breath of a 200-pound lion and not simply poor theater reviews in the London Times.
Unfortunately, Jack showed up in Mombasa with a nasty flu and a case of viral meningitis. While his condition certainly added to his natural air of desperation, it also took him out of commission. He soldiered on for the first couple of days. Blair found a way to turn the situation to his advantage by shooting the death-by-lion scenes before the safari camping scenes because Jack just looked so awful. But, eventually, the virus took Jack beyond even cinematic death and we had to wait for him to recover. Blair took the disruption personally, of course, and never again used Jack Wellington, whose swan song before retiring was as the high school principal in a London stage production of Grease.
But for as much as it vexed Blair, Jack’s illness ended up playing to my advantage. The delay allowed for some additional days in Kenya, which I was growing to like very much, with its colors and tradition and its song. Among many other things – like browsing the open air markets of Kongowea for spices and a beautiful yellow sari that is still in my closet after seventy years, or touring the teeming North Shore and its purlieus in a rickety boda-boda with my very excellent guide Kahil who taught me how to chaffer with vendors and introduced me to authentic Taarab music and then proposed marriage when I tried to pay him for the day – I owe to Jack Wellington’s incapacity a hot air balloon ride that I have never forgotten. As the sun set over the acacia-dotted plains of t
he Maasai Mara, loping clusters of giraffe, herds of antelope and blue wildebeest and elephant, and vast, flaming formations of African cranes, all slipping in and out of our quiet, bulbous shadow. It might have been the shadow of a head, peering down into the cradle of humanity. It was like floating over an ancient dream that we all recognize in the marrow of our unconscious.
But Jack’s illness also meant that I finally had Blair’s attention on script work. The hiatus allowed the better part of two full days for us to get to the bottom of Colonel Elena Ivanova, which was a vast improvement over the scraps of attention she had been receiving in the evenings after a day of shooting and compulsive fretting over the dailies.
Tilly: John’s a mess. No shooting. Ivanova today. My place - 11:00. BG.
The message beneath my breakfast fruit had offered no directions to “my place.” I found Blair Gaines that morning like I had all the others before him. It was like falling, really, or slipping on ice hidden beneath a whisper-thin sheet of snow. It is the nature of a body to succumb to gravity. And so it was with me and my directors. It was a sound that they made, or a light that they shed, or a vibration that they hummed in their bones without even knowing. Or, at least, knowing without really knowing. They must have known something. How can a resonance so true, so perfectly tuned, go unnoticed?
Like so many directors, Blair had a singularity of presence that gleamed and flickered in the dark like a beacon to lost and desperate sailors. Strange that it is the lost and desperate who are most likely to mistake warning for invitation. It is an irony so sick as to make one believe in a psychopathic God. But then, the notion that God has issues in abusing our trust has always been one close to my heart. In the words of Angus Mann, “Trust breeds its own betrayal, even in the heart of God.”
For a man with a reputation as a gritty, down-to-earth, working man’s director, Blair Gaines knew how to luxuriate. I found him on a saffron lounge at the foot of an immaculately maintained, lily-strewn pond. The lounge had been backed up against the trunk of an enormous Waterberry tree, its lush canopy dappled with dense clumps of cream-colored flowers, its southern branches ballooning like a rich, green cumulous raining petals out over the pond.
