Tag: Caribbean Fiction

               Over dinner, pointing his fork for emphasis, Chrystel offered his opinions on every-
               thing  ̶  people and politics, exotic places ravaged by civil war, the Mayor of the
               city, "your average American". His words gleamed with exciting good humor.

                
               For the most part, he told her, human existence was determined by men who sat 
               in conference rooms and board rooms; men who drank fine Scotch, smoked hand-
               rolled cigars and wore boxer shorts. As for the rest of the sweaty world one only
               need fear men who go long periods without sex, and people who were afflicted
               with those two incurable diseases: the common flu and human stupidity. He
               assured her that, with the decline of the Soviet  Union, the making and spending
               of money were the twin engines that would drive the pleasures of the guzzling
               world.

                 When he suggested she put her money to work in the stock market she withdrew
               her life savings  ̶  ignoring a nagging voice urging her to call her daddy first  ̶  and
               handed it over. Not once did she fear he'd vanish for good from the earth. The
               investment proved sound; it paid big dividends. She bought property in
               Westchester with some of the profit. And when the moment arrived when he
               would sleep with her, she responded like a virgin for whom trust was more 
               important than passion.

               In recent years she'd grown soft and round at the hips and legs. At social events
               where men sipped alcohol, spoke with harmless humor, then seemed to steer the
               conversation toward the possibility of sleeping with her, her body stiffened; she'd
               smile and move away.

               With Chrystel there were no preambling moments, no rough manly haste either to
               reach that summit. Each night after dinner she waited for signs, for desire like
               smoke alarms to go off in the living room.

               One night he took a sip of his coffee; his long fingers carefully rested the cup and
               saucer on the table; then he turned and looked at her. She smiled, a little
               uneasily. He got up, outstretched his arm, and said, "Come, let's go inside." Just
               like that. As if he were taking her on one of his trips overseas, their destination
               not yet clear.

               For weeks her bedroom had been in a state of readiness for just this moment. Still
               fully clothed he insisted on undressing her. He explored her soft round contours,
               until at last it seemed he approved and wanted every part of her, bulges and fat
               and bone. It was a ritual he would repeat each time they slept, full of sighs and
               vague mutterings; his hands restless and probing, over her breasts, between her
               thighs; his hands squeezing the globes of her buttocks, his lips on her navel.

               Throughout all this she kept her eyes closed, happy to surrender to his
               examination, happy to be found satisfactory.

               She wished they were young again, with all the time in the world to be reckless
               with their passion. Then she thought: thank goodness this is happening right now,
               our bodies still healthy and mature, good and strong, our intimacy an intelligent
               thing, thank goodness.

               "Are you okay?" he would ask, breathless beside her; and her quick response, "Yes,
               I'm fine", seem to calm his heaving chest. "What are you thinking of?" he'd ask,
               staring up at the ceiling; and she'd answer, "Nothing. It's good to have you here."

               She felt no need to talk about him to anyone. In a city of marriages made and
               unmade, a city of love and betrayal, alimony and anger, orders of protection from
               a stalking spouse, in a world so fractured and violent and ripe for television news,
               wasn't she better off this way, half-knowing who he was? Hadn't she come this far
               on her own, trusting her own instincts?

               One evening, late summer, before the start of the Fall term at John Wayne
               Cotter, she hinted that perhaps she could accompany him on one of his trips to
               Europe. She would, of course, pay her way, and not interfere. She could stroll
               around, visit museums, take mini excursions while he was off doing whatever he
               did. Chrystel listened patiently; he said he didn't think it was a good idea. His
               silence, the chilly way he stared up at the ceiling worried her.

               It was a mistake, she realized, to broach the idea while they were still in bed.
               Wrong time, wrong place.

               She had dared to suggest they redraw the lines that defined their relationship. He
               might interpret it as a craving in her for some new cloying alliance. What more
               need they ask of each other?  After all they were friends, they were lovers;  
               approaching middle age. Why not just leave things as they were?

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001) 

                  Anyone who stepped into the office of Principal Theresa Wamp  ̶  and being
                  ordinary mortals, teachers had no reason to step in unless summoned  ̶  might be
                  struck by what seemed an extraordinary otherworldly place; like a retreat from
                  the chaos in other parts of the building.

                    "Have you ever looked in there?" Mahmood Sharif once asked Radix. "I'm thinking
                  of organizing a field trip to her office for my students. We're discussing tenant
                  farming. Just one quick look, that's all, would help them understand the two
                  separate worlds: the privileged class and common labor".

                    Just one quick look would bring to the eye, first, the shiny display of school 
                 trophies; then the burgundy drapes, the beige carpet; and if you shut the door, 
                 the soft silence, the feeling of being comfortably ensconced.

                  Adjoining her office was the conference room: more burgundy drapes, a 
                  varnished table, a coffee cart and a coffee maker  ̶  everything required to 
                  coddle the decision makers at John Wayne Cotter. On her polished desk were
                  framed pictures of her father, and of Theresa Wamp's properties, a home on
                  Long island and in Westchester (the opinion, even among her harshest critics, 
                  was that they were "quite lovely" homes).

                 Then the flowers. Theresa Wamp loved flowers. If you wanted to thank her, or
                  for any reason show your appreciation, a bouquet of flowers brought to her face 
                  a full moon of delight. There were flower decals on the windows of her car, on
                  the lapels of her jackets, on notes she sent to the administrative staff.

                      Once, as she addressed the incoming freshman class, she felt impelled (at the 
                  end of remarks about the need for respect, the importance of discipline and 
                  "good tone" in the building) to suggest the following, spoken in all seriousness: 
                   Wouldn't it be nice if every family of every child sitting in this auditorium 
                   took the trouble to do a little planting of flowers, around their homes in the 
                   Bronx. It would do so much to lift the spirit of the borough, which has been so 
                   unfairly stigmatized  ̶̶  as an orphan borough, a borough beset  with crime, 
                   ugly poverty, ugly rundown buildings.

                        Imagine: looking down from apartment buildings and seeing not the desert of
                    weeds and dry brick, but flowers; bright, defiantly beautiful flowers. Wherever
                    there was bush, empty lots, unsightly weeds, let everyone pitch in and plant
                    flowers. What transformation! People would see results right away. They'd feel
                    better about themselves.

                    There was rumor and speculation about her single, unwed status. Theresa
                    Wamp did in fact have a lover. The only person in the building who knew
                    about him was Mrs. Haliburton, who kept this nugget of information like a key 
                    in the folds of her bosom. (It thrilled Mrs. Haliburton to think she was privy to 
                    information which many in the building  ̶  in particular her white colleagues  ̶   
                    would give an arm and a leg to possess; and use to their advantage.)
             
                    For her part Principal Wamp handled the problem in a clever way, keeping her
                    guard up, always smiling, maintaining a professional tone even in casual 
                    conversation. After all, gossip and speculation was the price she had to pay for
                    being a woman in a position of authority. It was a tough choice, in a tough
                    Bronx neighborhood.

                       She put in long, hard hours. She left the building late afternoons in her Buick 
                   Regal. Once she'd passed through the toll gate at the Throgs Neck bridge that
                   part of her that made decisions and kept the lid on things would empty its bin;
                   she'd feel instantly relaxed; she switched on the car radio.

                      The home on Long Island she considered a place of refuge; she could take off her
                   shoes, pour herself a drink and begin to unwind. She lived for the weekends,
                   which was when her lover came to visit. He spent an evening dining with her;
                   sometimes he slept over, leaving early the following morning. Not much shared
                   time as these things go, but then she'd schooled herself not to ask too much of
                   him. Besides, one evening, carefully and graciously arranged, could release an
                   eternity of delights.

                   Who was her lover?

                   Whenever she visited her father in Natick, Massachusetts he put the same
                   question to her. "So who is this man you've been seeing all these years? How
                   much longer will you keep seeing him?" Theresa Wamp would say only that he
                   was a wonderful man, wonderful to be with. "But if he's so wonderful, what's
                   stopping you from marrying him?" Because, she crooned, she didn't want to get
                   married. Marriage would imperil what they now enjoyed. "Imperil? What are you
                   talking about? Am I never to be visited by my daughter and my grandchildren on
                   Thanksgiving?" And Theresa Wamp would kiss him fondly on the forehead and 
                   point out with a heaving heart that the prospect of a visit "with grandchildren" 
                   for Thanksgiving dinner was, well, with each passing year, not sustainable.

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                   One morning a student announced that Xavier had been in a fight: he cut a boy
                   with a box cutter, they took him to Lincoln Hospital; they gave him ten
                   stitches to close the wound. Her heart scorched, Judy turned away, her face
                   cringing in disbelief.

                        This could not be true. First of all the girl telling the story, Shanequa 
                   Washington,was pregnant, and had this habit of crooning to herself and rubbing
                   her stomach. When she wasn't doing this she was recounting frightening
                   incidents of life and near death on her block. The girl wanted attention, plain
                   and simple. Sitting there relaying wild stories, and eating vanilla wafers as if
                   they were candy  ̶̶  how could anyone take her seriously?

                        When eventually Xavier returned to class Judy Weiner searched his face for
                   clues to the incident, for signs of remorse or triumph  ̶̶  anything!  She walked 
                   over to where he sat. "How are you feeling this morning?" Sensing he was in no
                   mood to talk she went back to her  desk.

                   At least he was here, in the classroom; brooding and solitary, but here  ̶  not
                   out in the hallway running wild in a pack. As for all the talk of violent behavior,
                   Xavier was too smart for that.

                        Two weeks after the alleged face-slashing incident Xavier disappeared. His
                   guidance counselor sent his teachers a note informing them he'd been arrested
                   on an undisclosed charge; he would be out for an undisclosed period. Judy
                   Weiner wanted to know the circumstances. The counselor offered few details.

                        The day he returned  ̶  wearing his black or gray clothes and bright sneakers  ̶  
                    it was as if he'd taken a short vacation. He walked up to her desk and handed
                    her papers from the courthouse; no need for further explanation. Then he
                    went to his desk and put his hooded head down in a way that said, Leave me
                    alone.

                    She glanced at the court papers, then pushed them away. She was relieved and
                    happy he was back. She had no wish to probe the circumstances of his arrest.
                    He'd probably had enough of questioning. The important thing now was to get
                    him back on task.

                   "New software came in while you were away, " she said.  He didn't answer.

                         At moments like this when he sat all coiled up, hard as granite, she felt
                    helpless, unable to do anything for him; and afraid she'd set off some sim-
                    mering outburst. She couldn't bear to see him like this, all folded in, shut away
                    under his hood. She stared at him and waited. He didn't look fatigued or           
                    ashamed about something. She busied herself with paperwork of her own.

                         What was behind this behavior? Surely it made more sense to open up, talk 
                    about what bothered him. All he had to say was, Okay, things got a little
                    messed up back there, but I'm ready to move on. That would be sufficient. 
                    She'd be willing to accept that; she' was ready to move on.

                         She made one last attempt. "Xavier are you alright…ready for work today?"
                    Anticipating the same stony silence, she looked away.

                         His shoulders lifted a little; slowly his face came up, his eyes still shut; his
                    hands peeled the hood from his head; and she was stunned. He had shaven his
                    hair off. His head was now one shiny skull.

                          Words leaping from her heart got stuck in her throat. She walked over to
                     where he sat; he was stretching his arms in an exaggerated gesture of shaking
                     off the vines and weeds that had trapped him down there. Her eyes could not
                     leave his skull.

                         "What happened to your hair?" she rubbed his head, mouth open in playful
                     innocence and surprise.  Never in her teaching life had she felt so close to a
                     student.

                     She could hardly imagine his young man's body; it was always covered in
                     trendy clothes, somewhat rough-textured and gloomy, as if his young manhood
                     disdained light materials and colours. But here, now, he had bared a part of
                     himself to her  ̶  his skull, with its lacquered glow, something she wasn't
                     supposed to see, much less touch; like some kind of atonement he'd chosen to
                     make for his mistakes.

                          So he was ready to make amends; he was ready to move on; only she hadn't
                     thought he'd do it this way, shaving his head, saying to the world, I'm starting
                     over.

                          But now her attention was making him self-conscious. He moved his head,
                     leaning away from her. 

                    "You play any instrument, Miss Weiner?" His eyes looked dull, the question 
                     seemed to pop out of nowhere.

                    "Do I what?" What was he talking about?

                         "You know, like the piano or something?"

                          "I'd always wanted to play the harp, but no, I don't play anything…".

                          "The harp… what's that?"

                            She moved back to her desk. She had no idea where he was taking her with
                      this new interest; there was no mockery in his voice.

                           "You know, it's got strings, and it's like a giant bow, and you sit and pluck at
                      the strings."

                           "Oh, I know what you talking about." He laughed his young man's savvy laugh. "I
                      could see you playing something like that."

                            "Why, thank you, Xavier."

                            Some days these Special Ed. kids took a lot out of you, left you a shell of your
                       self at the end of the week, your nerves in tatters. Deep in her bowels that
                       morning she felt she'd got something back from Xavier to restore her. What-
                       ever the world might think, Xavier was pure of heart; wild-spirited and
                       careless with his life, but pure of heart. She was bound to him, bound to his
                       anger and suffering.

                                          (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D. Williams, 2001)

                 At the start of the new week Mrs. Caratini would enter the room and spend ten
                   or fifteen minutes with Judy Weiner, exchanging weekend gossip. The students
                   were told to boot up the computers and start work on their journals. Mrs.
                   Contreras, the teacher's aide, kept them on task, while Judy Weiner fixed her
                   hair and applied makeup using the tiny mirror in the teacher's locker; then she
                   joined Mrs. Caratini who sat in a student's chair, legs crossed, filing her nails.

                       They spoke as if it hardly mattered if students overheard, though Mrs.
                   Caratini lowered her voice when inserting the word fucking. They believed
                   their conversation had no meaning for students in the room and required little
                   privacy.

                        In fact, no one paid them any attention, except Xavier.

                        He had a late afternoon job that sent him home after midnight. Some
                    mornings he'd arrive and promptly put his head down on the desk. Since Miss
                    Weiner was never ready to start the bell, he saw nothing wrong in catching up
                    on lost sleep for the first 10 minutes.

                        He referred to Miss Weiner and Mrs. Caratini as Bologna & Cheese. Without
                    wanting to, he overheard much of what they said. At times he dozed off only
                    to be roused by Miss Weiner speaking in her slow refined way, explaining some 
                    mishap. Things always seemed to happen to Miss Weiner. She left her keys in
                    the teachers' bathroom; a car rear-ended her car and the insurance people
                    were refusing to cover the entire cost of repairs; her mother wasn't feeling too
                    well lately. On and on, one sad story after the next.

                        Sometimes he'd groan in frustration and mumble to himself, Get a grip,
                    bitch, get a grip! At other times he followed the conversation  ̶  when, for
                    instance, Miss Weiner was telling Mrs. Caratini about the Jewish cocaine gangs
                    at the turn of the century, and how she understood what was happening to kids
                    who were pulled into the drug business in the Bronx.
      
                    But Xavier saved his contempt for Mrs. Caratini   ̶̶  a conceited little bitch with 
                    a skinny butt. Always going on about herself. And talking shit. He couldn't
                    understand why a sophisticated person like Miss Weiner would have as a friend
                    someone as stupid as Mrs. Caratini; always, Oh, let me tell you, last night I
                    made myself a huge salad, it was like huge, and I ate it all by myself…Did I
                    tell you, I went to a model home Open House last Sunday? Just off the Grand
                    Central, past the airport? Anyway they had these model homes, two bed-
                    rooms, three bedrooms, kitchen, bath, really gorgeous houses. They were
                    asking 170 up. I tell, you prices are literally going through the roof these days.

                        On and on with this boring shit. And Miss Weiner just sat there sucking it up.

                    When he'd had enough Xavier would stretch his arms and make a roaring sound,
                    like a rested lion stirring itself; signaling he was ready to work. He'd been
                    ready all along, he implied, but these two teachers sitting there jawing away   
                    didn't seem eager to start. This tactic always worked. Mrs. Caratini would
                    throw him a frantic, worried look; then she'd glance at her watch, gather her
                    keys and leave the room.

                        And Mrs. Weiner would declare in a cheery voice, "So are we ready to work
                    today?… Xavier, how're you feeling?

                    Always she deferred to him with a curious tenderness, at times treating him
                    as if he were the scion of a very important person whom she'd been asked to 
                    tutor.

                    "No eating over the computers. You know the rules, Xavier."

                    "Calm down. You see any crumbs on the keyboard?"

                       "Xavier… you're squinting."

                       "So."

                       "Maybe you should get your eyes examined."

                       "I have glasses."

                       "You own a pair of glasses…? So why don't you put them on?"

                       "Don't need them. I can see alright."

                       "Xavier, if you don't wear the glasses prescribed for you, your vision will slowly 
                     deteriorate…to the point where, well, as you get older you'll need them all 
                     the time."

                        "It don't matter. Don't plan to live that long anyway."

                       "Please, don't talk like that."

                       "Why? Ain't nothing you can do 'bout it" 

                (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                    "What happened to you? I tried calling you last night," Mrs. Caratini said. She'd
                    been waiting in the main office near the time clock for Judy Weiner. And much
                    to her relief, here she was, looking pale, a little tired, confirming her
                    suspicions something had happened.

                        Mrs. Caratini (Math) was Judy's closest friend in the building. They were the 
                    same age, twenty-nine, but Mrs. Caratini looked younger, and walked with 
                    frisky quick steps; and seemed always ready for fun.

                        Mrs. Caratini had been married, and she liked telling the story of her 
                    marriage. She'd flown out to Las Vegas with her boyfriend during spring break; 
                    and there, one evening, as they strolled on a crowded sidewalk, he suggested 
                    they get married; on the spot, right there. Why not, she responded, giggling.

                        Back in New York her husband  ̶  an Italian businessman, ten years older, 
                    good-looking, "with a nose for money", she said  ̶  turned into a testy, 
                    unbelievably coarse man. Mrs. Caratini didn't wait for things to settle down,
                    for problems to work themselves out. One day she was married, the next day,
                    boom! it was over; she was single again, just like that.

                    For Mrs. Caratini to emerge unscathed from what seemed a moment of naive 
                    reckless decision, only to resume her life  ̶  a fearless soul, full of carefree 
                    chatter and lean-bodied energy  ̶  seemed to Judy a feat just short of 
                    miraculous. If she, Judy, were to attach herself to this woman, who was 
                    already exploring new possibilities, some of those transcendent qualities might
                    rub off; her life might be changed.
                           
                     Sensing patches of emptiness in a colleague's life Mrs. Caratini was only too
                    willing to take Judy Weiner under her wing. "You need to get out more, make 
                    yourself available," she kept saying. "Some work on the hips, a little toning of
                    the thighs, fix your hair, you'll be fine."

                        Judy Weiner, in some ways more sensitive and intelligent, began to question
                    all the things she'd always believed, like her obligation to her ailing mother
                    (meaning, Judy was stuck in the house a lot). She deferred to the other 
                    woman's experience, the neat dramatic entrance and exit from marriage. Mrs.
                    Caratini (everyone in the building, for reasons unknown, continued to refer to
                    her as Mrs.Caratini) had gone through so much, in such a short period of time,
                    she just might have the answers that eluded Judy Weiner all these years.

                        So began, in a flurry of hope and desire, their joint excursions to Manhattan
                    nightclubs, on weekends, wearing tight fitting or revealing clothes. Mrs.
                    Caratini, who had a preference for leather outfits, assured Judy there were
                    guys out there, they were sure to find someone; not Italian guys who prefer
                    women with long hair, and in any case weren't worth the effort, Trust me on
                    that! Yes, nice Jewish guys, if Judy preferred; not your regular Orthodox,
                    but nice. And those new Wall street millionaires, looking for the perfect mate,
                    they weren't too intellectual, but you can't have everything, can you? And
                    there was always the stranger from nowhere who might turn out to be the 
                    one, who knows?

                        At some point, just as Judy was ready to give up, thinking the Manhattan
                    project ill-advised and irresponsible (she had to leave her ailing mother alone
                    for hours) she met someone she liked.

                    His name was Mike; he was fortyish, built like a warm cuddly bear; he had a
                    salt and pepper beard, chubby arms and soft hands; and he was half-Italian,
                    which surprised Mrs. Caratini who thought she could spot even half an Italian
                    a block away. He had a sense of humour, a gentle manner and he held a fairly
                    decent conversation. And he was a Pet Shop owner.

                        They'd stroll about Manhattan sidewalks; take in a movie; enjoy dinner at a
                     restaurant, talking all the time. He talked about his pet shop; ever since he
                     he was a kid he had this love of animals. Judy listened with keen glowing
                     wonder. He helped run a little league baseball team out in Queens; and he
                     was still single because, well, to tell the truth, he hadn't given any serious
                     thought to settling down.

                     They met again the following weekends, another movie, another restaurant. 
                     One Sunday afternoon he drove out to her home to visit, bringing her a
                     Tibetan dog. He said it had been house-broken. Judy was overwhelmed. No
                     one had ever given her a dog before.

                    "This is a big signal, Judy, biggg signal," Ms Caratini said, visibly more thrilled 
                     by the gesture than Judy. " Now here's what you need to do. You play him for
                     awhile, don't make him think you're needy. Just keep him interested, see what
                     happens. He gave you a dog, Judy, a dog! Now me, I'm the shallow type. I   
                     return all presents. Give me money. My ex-husband used to buy me jewelry.
                     I'd toss it in a box. Whatever he gave me. Into the box. Give me money."

                          Soon after that visit with the gift of the dog, Mike suddenly stopped calling;
                     he just dropped out of sight. Judy was baffled. She imagined him disabled and
                     hospitalized; maybe he was out of town.

                     She called the pet shop. A young woman, who spoke as if she was Mike's
                     assistant, told her in an odd knowing tone that she'd give Mike the message.
                     She said Mike was busy; there was a lot of shop business to deal with right
                     now. She added, as if she knew more than she should about Judy's relationship
                     with her boss, that Mike would get in touch with her as soon as he'd gotten
                     over the hump.

                         "Gotten over what? the hump? What did she mean by that?" Mrs. Caratini
                      couldn't keep her voice down. "She's got some nerve talking to you that way, 
                      the bitch! and as for Mike, he's a fucking idiot, disappearing on you like that.
                      Just like all Italian men. I knew this wasn't going to work out. Judy, listen to
                      me, you're going to have to forget this man…" 

                     "I can't think of anything I said. Maybe it was …" 

                     "…and forchrissake, stop flagellating yourself. It's not like you were hoping 
                       to marry this guy. If I were you I'd go right down to his pet shop and give
                       him back his fucking dog.  I'm serious. I told you I didn't like gifts. I had a
                       feeling this wasn't going to work out."

                         (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                  Most of the play is about Iago messing with Othello, getting into his head with
                  the jealousy stuff. The man is like a dog with rabies, evil to touch. But
                  Shakespear makes Othello act confused, like he don't know what to do. I'm
                  saying, get mean with the bitch! Niggers don't take crap from nobody. He don't
                  need to ask Iago what to do, telling him go spy on his woman, "bring me the
                  ocular proof". Get straight up with the woman, ask her what's the deal.
                  Shakespear have him falling down with epilepsy, and now Iago playing him
                  for a sucker.

                      See, Shakespear didn't understand niggers. This Othello travel around the
                  world, he tough and silent like Chuck Norris. The man decide to make a home
                  for himself in Venice. Aint easy to migrate and start a new life in a strange
                  country. People don't want you cause you different. But a man got to stop
                  moving around some time, put down roots somewhere.

                      And Desdemona, she kind of migrating too. Moving out of Daddy's home, and
                  starting a new life. Stepping out of "no man" in my life, crossing into new
                  territory. People don't like when you do that. And since it's a black man and a
                  white woman, she got to watch his back, he got to watch her back. Only way
                  they going to make it.

                  Othello was right to tell her, you hang with me, everything's cool, you mess with
                  me, then "chaos is come again". Nigger got to know his woman is there for him
                  100 Percent!!

                  So when Iago start getting into his head he should have settled the matter right
                  there. Get mean with the bitch, that's what any nigger would do. Got Othello
                  saying, "Arise black vengeance", like now this is some racial thing. And saying he
                  "won't scar that whiter skin of hers than snow."  Can you believe, Othello kissing 
                  his woman, at the same time getting ready to kill her, and don't want to mess 
                  up her snow white skin?  Make no sense.

                     He shouldn't have trusted that sly dog Iago, calling him "honest Iago", like they
                  were buddies. Trust nobody, I say. Your best friend will sell you out if you give
                  him a chance. Trust nobody.

                  Well the handkerchief, Othello made a big mistake with that. Came back to 
                  haunt him. He should have given the woman jewelry and stuff, not a hand-
                  kerchief. Desdemona didn't understand how much the handkerchief mean to
                  him.

                      An Egyptian first gave the handkerchief to his mother, who gave it to Othello
                  to pass on to a Moorish woman, who would understand about the "sibyl" and
                  "magic" and stuff. Desdemona didn't understand all that. I think that's what 
                  flipped the Moor, when she lost the handkerchief. It's like losing a bird you care
                  for all these years. You wake up one morning, you hear no sound, the bird cage 
                  open, the bird that used to sing to your soul is gone. Othello trusted Desdemona
                  with the handkerchief. She didn't take care of it. Lost her man right there.

                     I rate this play a B. My reason for giving it a B grade is because I learned a lot 
                  about what could happen to a black man who's on his own in this world, even 
                  though Shakespear didn't get it all right. I think teachers should teach plays 
                  like "Othello" more. I had "Romeo and Juliet" in my freshman year, it was 
                  alright, then "Macbeth" with Mr. Bilicki which I didn't like (didn't like Mr. Bilicki 
                  either).

                     This play has taught me one thing, which is to get through all your adolescent 
                  stuff quick, then settle down with some woman. I don't plan to wait like Othello
                  till I'm in the "vale of years". Might end up marrying the wrong woman. Anyway, 
                  first I got to shake off stuff that's on my back right now.
                  The End.

                        (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)               

                                                            Report on OTHELLO the MOOR
                                                    Written by William Shakespear
                                                       Prepared for Miss Wiener by
                                                     M. Xavier H. a.k.a. the X-Man

                     Well first of all, I was surprised to learn there were Moors in Venice who 
                     invaded Spain according to my teacher. Seems like niggers were everywhere
                     in the world in those days. Just like they everywhere in the world today. You
                     can't keep a good man down all the time. My grandfather from Jamaica
                     would open his eyes in his grave if he heard I was in New York. Seems like
                     niggers is everywhere fighting for respect.

                           Well, Othello, I have great respect for that dude, seeing as how he was a
                     soldier of fortune who offered his services to the Venetians to fight the Turks.
                     Aint nothing wrong with that. A man's got to do something to make a living in
                     this world.

                           So he far away from home fighting for these white people, you think he'd get
                     some respect. But no, there is Iago and Roderigo plotting against him cause he
                     black. Calling him "old black ram" and "thick lips". Not to his face. They won't
                     dare say it to his face. Othello would take them out quick!!

                           Well, it seems they jealous of Othello cause of his big you know? White folks 
                     have a serious problem with the big you know. Personally I don't see what the 
                     problem is. Make no difference how big the nozzle once you get it in there 
                     and start filling her up. But Iago and Roderigo, they go brontosaurus with 
                     jealousy.

                           People be quick to say it got nothing to do with race. But when he hook up
                     with Desdemona it's like, who's this nigger messing with a white woman?
                     Making "the beast with two backs"? Bet the Venetians never heard of the 
                     beast with two backs till Othello rode into town. Takes a black man to show
                     some people a thing or two.

                    Well Othello, he wasn't going to run nowhere when Iago warn him the girl's
                     father looking for him. Cause running aint his style. "My title, my parts and
                     my perfect soul shall manifest me rightly." I say, go for it, nigger! Let them
                     show you respect. You got just as much right to a white woman as any man,
                     specially since there aint no black women around. I mean, what's a nigger to
                     do in Venice with no Moorish women around? Jerk off in the bathroom?

                     Now as for Desdemona, she knew what she wanted from the start. "She loved
                     me for the dangers I had passed."  She fall in love with a dangerous man,
                     cause she tired of being cooped up in her father's castle, bored out of her
                     skull, cause aint no good white boys around. Then this Othello come riding
                     into town and it's like Wow! Where you been? He been all over the world,
                     fighting cannibals and and all those weird anthropophagi people. This here
                     was one crazy nigger! "She loved me for the dangers I had passed."  Othello
                     got that right! Got all them white boys in Venice so spooked, they figure he
                     getting busy "twixt the sheets" with white chicks.

                     That Desdemona knew what she was doing. Only one way to get out of that 
                     no-life castle her father kept her in. She had to cross the tracks, get on the
                     wild side. Went all the way to Cyprus with her man. Knew what she was doing 
                     alright.

                     But check this, now Shakespear makes Othello say lines like "Rude am I of
                     speech", like he apologizing to the Venetian court cause he don't speak good
                     English. Aint nothing to apologize for. Let the man speak his own way. I'm
                     saying, some white folk got this thing about speaking proper, meaning their
                     roundabout chicken squeak way of saying things. Aint nothing rude about
                     being direct, saying what's on your mind.  (I'm sure you understand what I'm
                     saying, Miss Weiner, even if I forget to indent and stuff. By the way the spell 
                     check on this computer don't know some of my words!!!)

                     Then Shakespear make Othello fall down with epilepsy. Can't have a nigger 
                     who's strong and dangerous in his play. No, something got to be wrong with    
                     him. He talks "rude" English, he old and "declined into the vale of years", and
                     now he's got epilepsy. Make no sense. A dangerous nigger with epilepsy? How
                     come he a soldier, fighting all those Turks, and suffering from epilepsy? Falling
                     down in the middle of battle, shaking and frothing with epilepsy. Make no
                     sense. 

                           (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                 For the parents' conference Radix was assigned to share the room with Judy
                 Weiner. She sat at her desk at one corner of the classroom, while he pulled 
                 chairs together at the other and made himself accessible.

                     Judy Weiner gave herself completely to the duty of meeting parents. She had the 
                 kids design a WELCOME banner on the computers; she pinned writing samples of
                 their work on the wall; the computer screens flickered in readiness for student
                 demonstration of competence and grasp of the new technology. At her desk her
                 mark book was open, with student folders and texts nearby; and as the parents
                 walked in – nervous, uncertain or sometimes visibly angry – she'd put them at
                 ease with a cheery "Hello! nice of you to come ". She had no problem with the
                 Spanish-speaking parents who studied her face and seemed to understand every
                 word she spoke.

                      All of which intrigued Radix who couldn't decide if Judy Weiner was a consum-
                 mate actress putting on a show for anxious parents, or a true professional who
                 did what was expected of her; who followed the guidelines set out by Principal
                 Wamp for these conferences: saying nothing that would injure the self-esteem of
                 student and parent; reinforcing the positive; projecting a future of accomplish-
                 ment and success for the child.

                 Because they shared duties and space he kept bumping into that other side of 
                 her, the vulnerable, anxiety-ridden side. Whenever this happened she'd look
                 away, or busy herself with some desk-straightening task.      

                 Their joint "Special Education" classes were limited to a maximum of twelve
                 students. On good days they were lucky to see six students, all of whom needed
                 individual attention. Then there were snow days when no one showed up, and
                 there was not much to do but catch up on paperwork.

                       Not surprisingly there developed between them an awareness of each other,
                  silken threads that connected them, but which snapped the moment their eyes
                  met. She would look away and the conversation trailed off as she scurried
                  back to her rabbit hutch of duties. Or so Radix imagined.

                  What was she afraid of? Was she seeing someone? How old was she, where did
                  she live, why was her face so blanched with worry while her body, clad often in
                  tight trendy clothes, looked firm and youthful? And how to explain those
                  mornings when she seemed affable, buoyant, on top of things, then the next
                  day apprehensive, dogged by some hidden distress?

                       He couldn't bring himself to enquire about her; he didn't want to appear prurient
                  or "interested". Still he worked alongside her, partners on task, aflame with
                  with curiosity.

                       As the weeks passed, the distance, the strangeness between them, seemed to
                  widen, then close, then widen again. They talked easily as teachers, but he
                  had to be careful with that other sensitive side which surprised him like cobweb
                  he'd walk into. Maybe she sensed his spirit hankering after something, and not
                  wanting to be rude she'd let him approach but only so far; then she'd let him  
                  back off, peeling the cobweb from his face.        

                  So they sat at two corners of the room, waiting for parents, preoccupied and
                  apart. 

                  At the end of the evening, as they prepared to leave, she took her time tidying
                  up, switching off the computers. And when Radix offered to help she assured
                  him he needn't worry. Besides, she was sure he wanted to get home. A smile
                  broke out on her face, and she said, "I was hoping to see Xavier's mother. I
                  wanted to show her his book report. He wrote me a wonderful book report."
                  Radix knew and understood her fondness for Xavier. "Would you like to  a look at
                  it?" she asked.
 
                      Radix hesitated. English Literature wasn't his field; and Xavier was a strange
                  moody student who liked Miss Weiner but steadfastly ignored him. "You could
                  take it home with you, read it over the weekend," she insisted. And because 
                  this was the first time she'd pressed anything on him, because she was alone 
                  with her hidden passions, wanting him now to share this one, he agreed to look
                  at it.

                      (From "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!" a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)

                 "Be careful," Meier spoke up. "There's a patrol car behind us, if you're thinking of
                  going through another light."

                 "Well, whaddaya know! Bob, why don't you stick your head out the window, and
                  tell that officer he's going the wrong way. We're the good guys in the Bronx. The
                  bad guys are the other way."

                 "Speaking of which, did any of you teach Rosie Contreras…? graduated three or 
                  four years ago," Brebnor said.

                 "You're lucky to see anyone again once they graduate. It's adios amigos! and
                  they're gone," Lightbody said.

                 "Well, I was on my way home a week ago and this police cruiser tucks in behind
                  me. I changed lanes thinking he wants to pass. He tucks in behind me again.
                  Kept following me for miles. So I'm wondering: what does he want? Next thing I
                  know he pulls me over…May I see your license and registration?…So I ask,
                  what's the problem, officer?  The officer lifts her hat and she says to me, The
                  problem is you can't teach!… Yes, Rosie Contreras! I couldn't believe it. That
                  girl always said she'd be a cop one day. So Rosie, I said, you finally made it. Yes,
                  she said, I was following you from way back in the Bronx. waiting for you to
                  make one mistake so I could arrest your ass."

                 "I think I know who you're talking about…short and feisty, with these big busts, 
                  well-harnessed and…" 

                 "No that's not Rosie Contreras."

                  At the Bravo piazza place Jaime Bravo waited at the entrance to greet his
                  teachers, wearing an apron, and making exaggerated gestures of readiness to
                  serve. Eventually his father came over to say hello.

                  The group concentrated on the pizza, chewing and sipping, listening and 
                  nodding respectfully to Mr. Bravo who hovered and said over and over that he
                  was not a college-educated man, that he knew what it took (he pointed to his
                  forehead with index finger) to make it in New York city. He waved his arms
                  around his pizza place to indicate how hard and long he'd worked to build up his
                  business. When it was time to leave Mr. Bravo, feeling topped up with fresh
                  self-regard, shook everyone's hand at the door.

                       Usually when they trooped back to the car it was in the rowdy spirit of sailors
                  who'd gone ashore, had a good time in the town and were returning to the ship.
                  This time, the night cold and dark,  they could think only of getting back to
                  John Wayne Cotter and its uncertain future; getting through the parent
                  meet with little agitation, then going home.

                      "Does anyone know the trick of getting selected to go on the senior trip," Brebnor
                  said, breaking the silence in the car.

                      "Now there, Senator, is something worthy of a congressional hearing," Lightbody
                  perked up. "You know, last year I submitted my name. They told me I couldn't
                  go. They said it was up to the students; and apparently the students didn't want
                  me along."

                      "So who gets to go?"

                      "That's what I want to know. And get this: certain teachers get to go every year.
                  Always the same people. And I've heard of all sorts of… goings-on that… go on
                  up there."

                 "What do you mean goings-on?"Brebnor said.

                      "Well, strange things do happen… certain liaisons, shall we say..? The students 
                  talk when they get back."

                       "Aw, c'mon."

                         Lightbody was relieved, the bon vivant carpool mood was back. "Listen, you 
                   guys, there are things happening in this school that, if word ever got out…" He 
                   wagged a finger, and lowered his voice. "I know for a fact there's a tiny    
                   prostitution ring working in the school." Laughter, incredulous laughter.  "I'm
                   telling you… it's a teacher's job to listen to what the kids say. "My sources…"
                   More laughter.  "You see, everybody's so busy looking out for the bad guys
                   with the beepers and the drugs and guns in schoolbags. Meanwhile, there's
                   this little cell of…shall we say, forbidden pleasure… run by three Jamaican,
                   you might know them, the ones with the big earrings? and jangling bracelets?
                  
always hanging out in the hallway? I hear they've got a little bordello business
                   going. They cut class, they go home, parents are at work, they're open for 
                   business. You can even get a little marijuana on the side if you like…it's
                   happening, guys!…and from all reports these girls are expensive."

                         "I think Mr. Lightbody is in the wrong profession," Mr. Ghansam said, amused 
                   but absorbing every word. "He'd make an good undercover agent, don't you 
                   think?" 

                         Back outside the school, feeling reinforced by the pizza meal and the buddy
                   talk, they looked up at the building they worked in, massive in the dark, all lit
                   up (they rarely saw it at night); and waiting now to receive parents, students
                   and teachers, as it had over decades; seasons of graduates streaming through
                   its doors, filing up on its auditorium stage in caps and gowns, then pouring out
                   into the working world.

                         Out of nowhere something sparked and stirred inside Bob Meier, a sense there 
                   might be some purpose after all in his profession. It stirred right at the 
                   moment they came through the main entrance, mingling and shuffling forward 
                   with parents and students, some of whom smiled and pointed him out to
                   mothers with grim set faces.

                         And there were the seniors dressed formally in white and black, smiling at
                   everyone, handing out schedules and programs. A group from the culinary
                   classes stood behind their display table in shiny aprons. Oh, Mr. Meier, you
                   have to buy something from us!

                         Yes! And no wonder we keep wanting to come here every day, Meier thought.
                   Never mind the hellish classrooms, the hair-whitening grind; the fear that flays 
                   the spirit. John Wayne Cotter, old stone quarry of a school. Welcome back.

                                  (from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)