by Owen Thomas
“Thank you, your Honor. Mr. Green…”
Walter Green crosses his arms and stares at the desk in front of him, waiting for the question that refuses to coalesce on my tongue. After seconds of silence, he looks up, first at Archoni and then at Melvin Etus, for confirmation that there was still no question for him to answer. The sound of people cheering outside floats like a cloud up the exterior wall, pressing against the windows.
“Are you … is it possible that you are not fully informed about what I said or did not say in the classroom?”
“Are you calling Todd a liar?”
“No. I’m… no. I’m just wondering if you might agree that you do not have the full context. I mean, because you were not actually present for the class.”
“No. Sir. I don’t agree.”
“But you were not there, correct?”
“And boy are you ever lucky that I wasn’t.”
“What if I told you that I never said that Christians were terrorists?”
“I’d say you were lying.”
“But you were not there.”
“I believe my son.”
“What if I told you that I never said that America taught Hitler how to exterminate the Jews? And that what I really said was that Hitler studied our concentration camps for American Indians as a model for…”
“I said I believe my son.”
“Blindly?”
“Yes sir.”
“If I told you that I assigned Todd extra work because he was misbehaving in class would you believe me?”
“No sir. I would not believe you. I believe my son.”
“Are you saying that Todd has never lied to you about anything?”
“Objection,” Etus is on his feet. “Your Honor, we’re straying into wholly …”
“Sit, sit,” says Archoni. “Overruled. Mr. Green, please answer the question.”
“Todd has never lied to me. He was raised right.”
“Never?”
“What did I say?” His face has hardened into a pale, freckled slab; his mouth pursed into a red, petulant slit.
“Okay, but isn’t it possible, Mr. Green, that Todd misunderstood? I suggested that my students question their religion. I did not tell Todd that his religion was questionable. There’s a difference. Don’t you think there was a mis…”
“No.”
“No?”
“There is no difference. It’s not your job to encourage my son to question his religion. Or to question his patriotism. Especially in a time of war.”
“You don’t see a difference between examining patriotism generally and questioning his patriotism, Todd’s patriotism, specifically? You don’t see that patriotic thinking distorts history and that Todd’s patriotism, or your patriotism, or my patriotism is irrelevant to history?”
“Patriotism is not irrelevant. Sir. We are at war. Sir. You are no patriot, sir.”
“Why would you say that? You don’t even know me.”
“I know you enough. I know the high esteem you have for Communists and for Muslims. I know that you are a sympathizer. I know how you tear down our President.”
“I… I… you think… a sympathizer? I didn’t tear down the President. Last I checked, he was still standing.”
“You encouraged the students to hate him. They were chanting against him.”
“No. Mr. Green. I encouraged the students to think critically. For themselves. I encouraged the students to resist being manipulated and bullied by patriotism.”
“Bullied by patriotism? We are at war, sir.”
“You keep saying that! It’s not a goddamned football game, Mr. Green. It’s not about being a good Buckeye!”
“Mr. Johns.” It is Archoni, looking down at me beneath the black outcropping of his eyebrows. “You will refrain from using profanity in this courtroom. Understood?”
I nod.
“It may be that you are past the point of being productive here. Can we thank Mr. Green for his time?”
“But, your Honor, I didn’t…I mean these things they say I said…”
Judge Archoni swivels.
“Mr. Green. Am I correct in understanding that you have no actual, first hand knowledge of what transpired in Mr. John’s classroom?”
“Correct, Judge.”
“And that you are relying entirely on what your son told you?”
“Correct.”
“And it is your testimony under oath that you have no reason to believe your son’s representations to be inaccurate or fabricated?”
“Correct.”
“Thank you, Mr. Green. Mr. Etus, do you have any further questions for this witness?” He holds up a cautioning index finger. “There is a right answer and a wrong answer to that question.”
Etus smiles ingratiatingly.
“We thank Mr. Green for his time, your Honor.”
“As do I. Thank you Mr. Green, you are excused. Mr. Etus, your next witness.”
I sit down as Archoni and Etus do their little dance. I am filled with rage. I want to upend the table and throw the water pitcher across the room. Arthur Kirkland is inside my head, screaming and tearing up my brain. You’re out of order! You’re out of order! The whole trial is out of order! Walter Green passes me. I can smell his sanctimony in the draft. I want to push him sideways into Robertson who is pretending not to gloat.
“Your Honor, the Board of Education calls Pamela Knox.”
She is a petite, overdressed, brittle piece of work; a vision in black from the ends of her starchy blonde hair to the toes of her patent leather pumps. Perhaps mine is just one of several funerals she is attending today. The nails match the lips. The pearls match the teeth. She has no difficulty fitting into the witness chair. Archoni swears her in. She intends the I do to sound emphatic. She will have to settle for bitchy.
This is Brian’s mother. Unannounced, I would have guessed Alicia, or maybe Bill, but I can see it now. It’s in the eyes. That piercing, razor-sharp vacuity. I try to remember all of my interactions with Brian Knox but nothing stands out.
Pamela is pissed off at having to wait so long. She has some place to be. Etus apologizes for starting so late, which, of course, is my fault. He makes this apology as he is standing next to me. He promises to keep it short. She nods crisply. You do that.
Pamela sells real estate. Brian is the only offspring of an eighteen-year marriage to a husband that manages construction. Is she upset? Yes, she’s upset. Very upset. With who? With Mr. Johns, that’s who. Him. Right there. The one who is also making her late. She points out the culprit with a blood red, extra glossy fingernail. Why? Because Mr. Johns is using the classroom to proselytize rather than teach history, that’s why. Toward what end, you ask? Communism. Atheism. He accused the Pope of raping and pillaging and warmongering. The Pope! The Holy Father! A war monger!
Etus looks satisfied and starts back towards his seat.
But wait, there’s more. Pamela is no longer answering questions. She is appealing directly to Judge Archoni, insisting that he acknowledge the gravity of her testimony. She points at Etus, meaning to point at me. But she is not looking where exactly she is pointing because she is turned away from us, engaged in what might appear to be a private conversation with the judge.
“He’s teaching my son that Christopher Columbus engaged in slave trading, revenge mutilation and genocide. Christopher Columbus, judge! Genocide! Nothing is sacred to this man. My son should not have to listen to that nonsense.”
When she is finally silent, the judge looks at Etus, who tips his hand my direction.
“Mr. Johns,” says Archoni. “Do you have any questions for Mrs. Knox?”
I want to say no. I am in more of a hurry than she is for this to be over. I want to tell her to just go the fuck home or to the funeral parlor or to Communion at Our Lady of Eternal Inclemency, or wherever she needs to go because there is nothing I can ask her that will make one bit of difference.
But it is my turn and the judge is looki
ng at me and everyone is waiting. Fuck.
“Mrs. Knox, did your son happen to mention which Pope we were discussing?”
“There is only one Pope, Mr. Johns. The Pope. The Bishop of Rome. You were discussing … The… Pope.”
“But there have been many Popes, correct? More than just the one.”
She purses her lips and crosses her arms.
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
“And did Brian explain to you that we were discussing not Pope Benedict XVI, but Pope Urban II and his arrangement with Emperor Alexius in the 11th Century?”
“No. Makes no difference. He is and was and always will be the Holy Father.”
“Have you ever heard of the Crusades, Mrs. Knox?”
“Don’t patronize me, Mr. Johns. When you are in a hole, stop digging.”
“Have you?”
“Of course.”
“What were they?”
“Your Honor,” Melvin Etus whines, pushing himself up from his chair. “Is it really necessary for Mr. Johns to administer a history test? Mrs. Knox’s working knowledge of the Crusades is hardly...”
“I’ll allow it. Mrs. Knox?”
Etus sighs and looks apologetically at the witness.
“The spreading of Christendom, Mr. Johns.”
“How? At whose expense?”
“This is insulting.”
“The correct answer is, through hundreds of years of brutal rape, pillage and plunder in the name of Jesus Christ at the expense of, among others, Mohammedans. Muslims, Mrs. Knox.”
“Christians are not terrorists.”
“Did I say Christians were terrorists?”
“Yes.”
“Says who? Brian?”
“Yes.”
“Well then Brian misremembers. Because I said the opposite. I was using the Crusades as an example. I said that the fact of the Crusades did not make all Christians terrorists any more than the 9-11 attacks make all Muslims terrorists. Would you agree with that statement?”
“That’s not what you said.”
“Would you agree?”
“I am an American citizen, Mr. Johns. I am proud of my country. You are what is wrong with this country. You can have the Muslims if you like them so much. If you feel so sorry for them. I’ll take Christopher Columbus any day.”
“Because you’re a proud American.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, you do realize that you share this country with millions of proud, patriotic Muslims and that Christopher Columbus was never an American?”
“He was a good Catholic.”
“So was Pope Urban II. So was Al Capone.”
“Mr. Johns,” says Raymond Archoni from on high. “As elucidating as this is...”
I ignore him, pretending as if I have not heard or do not comprehend him.
“Are you denying that Columbus sold Indians into slavery? That he mutilated them? That he exterminated a whole…”
“That may be your view of things, but it’s not something to be pushing.”
“It’s not my view of things, Mrs. Knox. It’s a fact. It’s well-documented.”
“It’s not relevant to the basics of history.”
“The basics of…”
“Christopher Columbus stands for something.”
“Stands for… what does he stand for? Conquest? Crimes against humanity?”
“America. He stands for America. He discovered this great county.”
“No. No he didn’t.”
“You’re entitled to your personal opinion.”
“It’s not opinion. It’s a fact. Mrs. Knox. It’s a fact.”
There is giggling from behind me. I do not need to turn around. I know it is Alicia and Taren. They are laughing because among my last lessons to them was that history is the study of opinion masquerading as fact. Back in another life, when I was a gainfully employed teacher, I had been willing to accept Abraham Lincoln’s assassination as an ‘opinion’ just so that these kids might get into the practice of critically examining everything they read and hear and see. Now they see me up here selling facts like Colin Powell at the U.N. The irony is not lost on me.
“Our children, Mr. Johns, must be encouraged to have respect for the institutions and the people, yes, like Christopher Columbus, and George Washington and Thomas Jefferson and Ronald Reagan and all the rest of them, that helped make this country great and proud and free. They may not have been perfect people, but they are important people and they need to be respected. You’re just tearing them down.”
“So leave out the bad stuff. Is that it? Let’s just leave the American Indians out of it. And slavery. And the Tuskegee experiments. And Japanese internment camps. And the invasion of Cambodia.”
“Show some …”
“Let’s just teach the happy, feel-good stuff.”
“Show some respect, is what I’m saying, Mr. Johns. Look around you. Look at this country. All you hear any more is what a bad country we are. How bad Americans are. How everybody hates us. We let others push us around and call us names and then we get labeled the bully. We get attacked by a bunch of Iraqis flying airliners...”
“Saudis.”
“Same difference. Muslims. We get attacked and we’re just supposed to take it? No sir. We are not France. And the last thing we need is a generation brought up to believe that all of our cultural heroes were actually depraved psychopaths. And I am now late.” She sighs in exasperation and looks at Judge Archoni. “May I be excused?”
“Mr. Johns…” He is lifting his eyebrows.
I sit down. Pamela Knox swishes haughtily past. I can hear Etus thank her.
“Mr. Etus?”
“Judge, we have other witnesses who would testify in a similar vein to Mr. Green and Mrs. Knox. We reserve the right to call those witnesses in rebuttal if necessary. But in the interests of time, the Board of Education would now like to call Principal Robertson as its next witness.”
Robertson is up and moving for the witness chair before Etus is through speaking. The contrast between the pallor of his skin and the slick blackness of his hair is strange and mildly shocking. His head looks like a boiled egg topped in a drizzle of Texas crude.
He remains standing for the oath. Chest out, shoulders back, buttocks clenched, gut retracted up into his ribcage. He raises his hand, hyper-extending his fingers until they almost bend backwards. This is the full, unapologetic, American-witness, truth-telling salute. Say it loud, say it proud. I do so solemnly swear.
Etus walks Robertson through his resume up to his current position as Principal of Wilson High School. He appears to examine each question thoughtfully before answering. At least Pamela Knox was efficient. Robertson seems to want to stay all day, as if he and Melvin Etus are sitting out on a porch swing drinking iced-teas and reminiscing about the good old days.
Another wave of muffled cheering washes up the side of the building, followed by the deep bellow of an amplified voice that sounds vaguely like Harry Belafonte. I tune Robertson out and listen for the music. I can make out the word Columbus and another wave of cheering and applause, louder than the last, but no music.
The idea pops into my head that we are close to Columbus Day. The annual celebrations in the city that bears the name of that most singular explorer have started. How ironic is that? Columbus Day celebrations outside the very courtroom in which a history teacher is slowly roasted alive for teaching the dark side of Columbus.
No. It is too early for Columbus Day. Robertson speaks my name.
“Mr. Johns was the subject of many complaints.”
“And you have heard the testimony of Mr. Green and Mrs. Knox?”
“Yes.”
“And each of them complained to you about their concerns?”
“Yes. They did.”
“And were the complaints of Mr. Green and Mrs. Knox generally representative of the concerns raised by other parents?”
“They were very similar, yes.”
> “How many complaints have you received altogether from parents about the manner in which Mr. Johns has chosen to teach his history class?”
“It is not his history, Mr. Etus. You see, that’s part of the problem. He is teaching our history. Your history and my history and this country’s history. He is a custodian of that subject for the benefit of the students. It does not belong to him. It has been entrusted to him on the expectation that he will teach it responsibly.”
“Okay. Well, Mr. Robertson…”
“Please, call me Bob. To answer your question, I received approximately fifteen or sixteen different complaints from parents and another three or four complaints from the students in his class.”
“All to the same effect.”
“Yes. They were all expressing varying degrees of outrage at Mr. John’s highly unbalanced and disrespectful presentation of the subject matter.”
“But surely … Bob … as a teacher, Mr. Johns has the responsibility to explain history in a full context that sets forth even the least savory aspects of our national and cultural experience.”
Robertson gives me an unctuous smile, not so subtly suppressing a laugh.
“Yes, I heard Mr. Johns’ rather petulant and sarcastic question of Mrs. Knox that perhaps he should simply leave out all of the bad stuff. I think that’s how he put it to her. I believe your profession calls that a straw-man argument. But no one is suggesting that Mr. John only teach the good-feeling, patriotic version of history. What Mr. Johns is supposed to teach, Mr. Etus, is the textbook. Those books have cost the City of Columbus a great deal of money. Those books are used in school districts throughout this state and throughout this great country. They come very highly recommended, they have been carefully vetted and they are expensive for a reason. It’s because they are very good textbooks. They incorporate the very balance,” Robertson laces his fingers together and holds them out for Etus to see, “the very balance of historical cultural and political viewpoints that Mr. Johns appears to care nothing about.”
“Are the teachers…”
“We did not hire him to throw out these carefully developed and selected textbooks and to substitute his own brand of history, one that I will venture to say, has absolutely no balance whatsoever and that is comprised almost entirely of Mr. John’s left-wing, America-critical agenda.”
