Children of the Knight

by Michael J. Bowler

  Maria responded after a pause, “What man art thou that thus be screen’d in night so stumblest on my counsel.”

  During this recitation of lines, Jenny wandered down the aisle to a heavy boy dressed all in black and snagged the car magazine he’d been looking at. “Hey!” the boy exclaimed indignantly, “That’s mine!”

  “You can have it back after class,” Jenny said in a quiet voice. “Now pay attention.”

  “What for?” the boy asked with disdain. “Nobody talks like that no more.”

  Now Maria piped up with, “Wait a minute, I lost my place.”

  A few students laughed, and Jenny sighed. It was only second period.

  THE following days for Arthur, Lance, and their rapidly swelling army passed much the same as those previous. Weapons and fight training in the mornings, lunch, and then Arthur would offer instruction on the ways of knighthood, with discussion and questions afterward.

  The number of gang members who attended and indicated their intention to reject their old gang and join Arthur’s new one swelled by the day, though Arthur continually made it clear his was not a gang. His was a brotherhood. The homies explained to Arthur that street gangs were about brotherhood too, just mixed in with criminal activity and running the streets.

  The Round Table, Arthur repeatedly assured them, would be different.

  “As Knights of the Round Table,” he explained one day, “ye follow the code of chivalry, as I have toldeth thee. Above all, that means honor. The weapons we doth be using and with which thou art all training shalt be used only for self-defense and to protect those who are defenseless. Ye have not been able to win the hearts and minds of the people through violence and crime, but ye shall through service to all.”

  “There’s always gonna be vatos wanna run their own, Arthur,” Esteban pointed out. “They ain’t gonna like us musclin’ in on their territory. That always means war.”

  Many of the gang kids nodded their assent. They knew how it worked on the streets.

  Arthur tipped his chin approvingly. “Ye doth be correct, Esteban, as it hath always been with mankind. However, doth life itself not seem too bitter already without territorial battles or wars or feuds?”

  Esteban just shrugged, but many of the nongang kids nodded their assent. They knew all too well the bitter pill that was life. Mark and Jack exchanged a knowing look. Beyond bitter, they knew.

  Esteban was no longer clad in a tight wifebeater to try and show off for Reyna, but had now adopted one of Arthur’s tunics and accompanying leather drawstring pants while in the presence of the king. As was the custom, most of the other gang kids followed his lead.

  “The motto of this world doth seem to be ‘Do what is easy’,” Arthur continued, his eyes roaming their expectant faces, making eye contact with as many as possible. “Ours shalt be as follows––do what is right, rather than what is easy.”

  He let that sink in a moment.

  “That done be hard, Arthur,” Darnell threw out, and many heads nodded their agreement.

  Arthur nodded. “Anything that be worth doing doth be hard, Darnell.”

  Darnell fell silent to digest this, and Esteban glanced at him appraisingly.

  Arthur went on, “Might doth lie within the bad half of people, the selfish part. We canst not cut it out, so instead we turn a bad thing into something good—we agree as a knighthood to use might only for right. It shalt be the oath to which all of thee must swear.”

  The assemblage nodded in understanding. They’d heard this message on several occasions and understood the ramifications. If they joined up, they knew they’d have to check “me” at the door because then it would be “we” only, and not just the “we” of the Round Table, but the “we” of society. They were to put their own interests and wants second to the needs of the community. As children and teens who by nature were self-centered it was an easy concept to understand, but a hard one to put into practice.

  Arthur knew all this. Lance and Mark and Jack and others within his inner circle had explained these pitfalls, and yet they believed enough of the kids would give it their best shot, not because it came naturally, but because their lives were so lousy that anything else would be better, especially a campaign that sought to right the wrongs that had been done to them.

  Arthur continued making eye contact with as many of the children as possible while he spoke and saw eagerness in their eyes. They wanted this, he knew. They craved this opportunity to make a real change in their lives.

  “In the world today, I hear that what doth be wrong for some be right for others, and what be injustice for some be justice for others. Be assured of this, my young knights-to-be, right and wrong doth be for all peoples and all situations. The truth of what be right and what be wrong comes from God and his hold upon our hearts. We must striveth at all times to elevate the good half of ourselves, rather than give in to the bad. Only then can we achieve greatness.”

  Esteban raised his hand, and Arthur waited patiently. “What if, like, you give some vato a mess a chances and he keeps screwing ya on purpose? How can we have mercy, like you been saying, for guys like that?

  Arthur smiled warmly. “Ah, Esteban, there doth be no limit to mercy, and the treacherous need it most of all, for how else canst they learn?

  Esteban fell silent, considering this answer while the other gang kids began murmuring amongst themselves. This was an idea they’d always believed would never work on the streets and so it had never been attempted. But now Arthur had gotten them wondering, which was precisely his intent.

  THAT afternoon, Jenny stood before her eleventh-grade English class taking roll. Of the thirty-nine who should be present, today she only had twenty-five. And all the missing were boys. What was going on? Admittedly, most of these boys seemed to hate school, and their attendance was hit and miss anyway, but now she hadn’t seen them for several days straight.

  Teachers were supposed to call home when kids missed more than three days, but how could she call all these parents when this attendance pattern was occurring across every one of her classes? She’d be here till six o’clock every day just making calls, and when would she grade papers or prep lessons?

  Shaking her head in confusion, she addressed the class. “Anybody know what happened to the kids who’ve been absent a lot?”

  Heads shook disinterestedly, but no one answered. “Okay, well, pass forward your homework.”

  A few papers drifted languidly up the rows to the front, and Jenny collected them, gazing in consternation at the small number.

  “This is all the homework? Ten papers?”

  The students just shrugged again and looked bored. Dejected, Jenny set down the papers on her impeccably ordered desk and turned back to the class.

  “Okay, pull out your copies of The Great Gatsby and we’ll continue.”

  Groans arose as backpacks came up and hands went digging for the book. Some ignored her request completely. One boy continued doodling; another put his head down, while two girls passed a nail-polish bottle back and forth.

  Jenny eyed them all with wonder and annoyance. Here she was doing her best and they didn’t even care. Of course, she reminded herself, you have a choice to be here, they don’t. And they don’t have a choice of what English class to take, either. Fighting back her annoyance, she set out to implement her lesson plan for the day and sought to make it as fun as possible.

  THE following afternoon, hundreds of tired, but emotionally satisfied youths crammed around Arthur within the chamber for their daily discussion. Arthur and Lance had spoken of their growing need to find another, much larger, venue to conduct trainings and meetings and to make plans, but neither could think of an option. Even Esteban, who joked about using the old Coliseum downtown, had no viable suggestions. The sheer number of recruited kids was daunting.

  Word would go out on the streets about Arthur and his crusade, and every day there would be new faces amongst the throng. Some were disaffected gang members looking for s
omething more challenging or fulfilling, while others were just cast-offs like Lance who needed a home.

  As always, Arthur sat on his throne, which several of the girls festooned daily with flowers they’d bring with them. Lance sat at his right, sitting taller and more confident in his seat, which pleased Arthur.

  “Here, in your land,” he told the assemblage, “I have beheld much divisiveness between the various peoples. Such be true of mine own time as well. Humanity hath not changed much, I’m afraid. As was true then be true now—thou havest all been conditioned by thine elders that cultural separatism be an integral part of thine identities, that differences beeth of greater import than similarities. This doth be totally false, my noble company. No matter our background, we doth all be children of God and thus far more similar than different.”

  The kids looked at each other thoughtfully—black and white and brown and Asian and Pacific Islander and gay and straight and those who weren’t certain who or what they were or would be. As they digested the king’s words, they forced themselves to look past the physical differences around them and consider what was inside, but still they hesitated to accept Arthur’s proposition.

  Seeing their hesitation, Lance stood to face the king. “May I, sire?”

  Arthur nodded, pleased that Lance wished to take a stronger role in these meetings. Lance smiled for Arthur’s benefit and then turned to gaze at the crowd. All eyes were fixed upon him expectantly—he was one of them, after all, and they looked eager to hear what he had to say.

  “When I first met Arthur,” Lance began, butterflies doing cartwheels in his stomach, “I thought like he just said. I’m Mexican, an’ I grew up on the streets or in foster homes my whole life.” His voice grew more confident with each word. “I learned from black adults that Mexicans were dirty, from Mexican adults that blacks were dangerous, from white adults that I was lower cuz I had brown skin, and from straight adults that gay people were perverts who should all be killed.”

  There were gasps, nods, and head shaking from various kids in the crowd. Most of them had heard the same things.

  “I started to think like that too, just like all the other kids I knew. But when I got into skating, I met black skaters and white skaters and Asian skaters, and I found out we were all the same. We loved skating. We cried when we got hurt. We bled when we got cut. There was nuthin’ different enough about any of us to be important. All those hater adults who taught me wrong should be ashamed. The only group I still hated on when I met Arthur was—” He paused and looked embarrassed. “The gay kids.”

  Some of the gang members laughed and high-fived each other. Lance glared them back into silence. Then he met Mark’s gentle eyes, and the blond boy gave him that shy little smile.

  “I was wrong there too,” he announced in a commanding tone. “When I got to know Mark and Jack, it was just like with them skaters I hung with. I ain’t no different than any gay boy in here and neither is none a you, I don’t care how hard you are. They didn’t choose being gay any more than I chose being Mexican or homeless.” His eyes roamed the sea of faces before him. “If we’re gonna make this whole fellowship-thing work, if we’re gonna take all this might we got and change things to make ’em better, we can’t be hating on each other, or anyone else out there who don’t look like us. We have to be a team!”

  “Like those Avenger guys!” Mark shouted excitedly and began applauding vigorously. “Lance is epic!”

  The chamber erupted into thunderous clapping and foot-stomping approval, even from Esteban and Reyna, which caused Lance to blush with embarrassment. They were supporting… him! He turned to Arthur, whose beaming smile of pride warmed his heart more than all the applause in the world.

  DOWN in South Central Los Angeles, Justin was hard at work, standing on a shadowy street corner between two buildings, waiting for the junior high down the street to let out. He wore a long trench coat and designer sneakers, the newest style, lots of bling, and of course, his cartoon-character backpack. When he did business, he liked to show off. His father had wanted to have dinner tonight, but Justin didn’t want any part of his dad and the other pigs. Except maybe to pump him for information about that Arthur guy so he could pass it on to Ramirez.

  That crazy old Mexican scared the shit outta Justin, and he wished almost daily that he hadn’t let Dwayne talk him into selling for the guy. Sure, the money was great—he probably pulled in more in a good week than his old man did in a month. But Ramirez was dangerous. He’d as soon kill a kid as hire one.

  So avoiding dad and not pissing off Ramirez seemed to be his only activities these days. He didn’t even have time for a girlfriend anymore, and that really pissed him off. He hadn’t gotten any action in months, and he was frustrated. His ex kept texting him, and he considered hooking up with her, but just couldn’t stand her bitching. So he ignored her texts just like he ignored his dad’s.

  Just then his phone beeped. Pulling it from his pocket, he saw the text was from dad. Justin cursed with annoyance. Where r u? it read. Usually he didn’t even respond, but this time he thumbed in Busy. Instantly a follow-up message popped up. Come home I’ll take u 2 dinner. Justin considered a moment whether or not to respond.

  Maybe he’d take the old man up on the offer, maybe not. He wasn’t even gonna meet Dwayne tonight as usual cuz Ramirez had some other job fer him, something he wouldn’t tell Justin about. Which was fine with him. He knew Dwayne was bad news, crazy, and unpredictable, but he was in too deep with Ramirez to ever get out. Not ’less he died, he thought, something the Mexican could easily arrange.

  Yeah, maybe he’d give in and meet dad. Might be news on that Arthur guy. All depended on business, he decided. Speaking of which, a group of the middle-schoolers were chattering and texting their way down the sidewalk. School’s out, he chuckled to himself. Time to get to work.

  As the group approached, Justin whistled to get their attention. The kids stopped and turned. One of them, a chubby seventh grader named Darius, knew Justin and had often been a customer. He grinned and waved for the others to follow. As they stepped closer to Justin, the teen let the trench coat drift open. Numerous pockets had been sewn into the lining, bulging with bags of dope. He was ready.

  THE entire Boyle Heights district covered a large enough area to require two zip codes and two area codes, which is why it laid claim to different gangs within the same region. It was a quiet afternoon in Jaime’s run-down, Latino neighborhood. Of course, nothing here was suburb-like—the big bad city was only and always a few streets away. But this little enclave was somehow tucked back from the main drag, which at least allowed children to play in the streets most of the time without fear of being run over by speeding cars.

  Jaime’s mother stood to the side of her small, one-story stucco house, hanging clothes out to dry on a makeshift clothesline strung from the window to a dead tree. Helping her was Jaime’s little sister, Anna, who was barely four years old. The little one handed mom the clothes from a basket, and mom hung them up.

  With dad finally in prison for life, Jaime’s mother did her best to make a better existence for the boy and his sister. She knew she should’ve left their father years ago, long before he’d gotten Jaime into the gang lifestyle, but she’d been too weak, too afraid of being alone. Now the boy was in too deep to get out, or so she thought. Lately, however, he’d not been hanging out with the homies like he used to, and that pleased her. Still, she continually fretted about his safety and that of his little sister. She smiled as Anna tugged on her dress and handed her a shirt to hang.

  Jaime sat languidly on the porch with his pregnant girlfriend, Sonia. Normally, he attended Arthur’s daily meetings, but Sonia had said she wanted to spend more time with him. “You’re, like, always gone and never answer my texts,” she’d told him the night before. She knew about Arthur and his crusade and approved of Jaime’s involvement. She’d even attended some of the meetings.

  Her pregnancy did not recommend itself to weapons training,
however, and she didn’t particularly like Reyna’s haughty strutting, so she usually stayed home and helped her mom or helped Jaime’s mom with Anna. To set her mind at ease that he wasn’t cheating on her, which he’d done on more than one occasion, Jaime had promised to spend all afternoon and evening with only her.

  He’d been with Arthur for morning training and had explained to the man his predicament. True to his philosophy, Arthur had insisted that Jaime stay with Sonia, that he was acting as a responsible man for staying with his girl and vowing to be a father to his child.

  “Ye doth possess a quick temper, Jaime, which ye must control,” Arthur had said, having seen that temper flare more than once during weapons practice. “But ye be a man of honor, and that is the far greater quality.”

  For some reason, the compliment had pleased Jaime immensely, maybe because his own father was such a loser, or maybe cuz he’d really come to admire Arthur and what the man was trying to do.

  In either case, he vowed to watch his temper and left for home, which was why he and Sonia were cuddling on the porch steps when a screech of tires ripped around the corner and a big, black Impala careened toward their house. A black arm gripping a handgun and part of a head appeared at the open backseat window, and the shooter began firing. Jaime just caught a glimpse of Dwayne’s twisted dark face before he jumped on Sonia and pushed her to the ground.

  Bullets whizzed past, and several struck the wood of the porch, inches from Jaime’s head. Then with another screech of tires, the Impala sped past and vanished around the opposite corner, out of sight.

  Jaime cautiously lifted his head and checked Sonia for injury. She shook her head. “I’m okay,” she whispered.

  And then Jaime’s mother let out an ear-piercing screech of anguish and Jaime’s blood ran cold in his veins. Leaping to his feet, he turned and ran past the porch to the clothesline, and stopped dead in his tracks, his heart suddenly up in his throat.