Tag: N.D.Williams

 

                  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)

 

 

 

                 Meet The Parents day was an event not too many teachers looked
                 forward to; nor could they escape or be excused from it. It required some
                 dressing for the part. At the end of the afternoon (or the evening, the
                 next day) session, the question, "How many parents did you meet?", fell
                 from everyone's lips. They hurried out the building thinking maybe it
                 wasn't worth the effort, wearing that jacket and tie, or that black
                 dress.

                      Asst. Principal Bob Darling had tried once to implement an everyday dress code
                 for teachers, something within the bounds of the college-professor look; at bare
                 minimum a jacket. It didn't catch on. It seemed once they got tenure many
                 teachers didn't care much how they dressed.

                      Principal Wamp privately bemoaned the absence of uniting colors and a uniting
                 spirit at John Wayne Cotter H.S. Students for the most part were more attentive
                 to fall and summer fashions (they had their 'Dress For Success' day but only a
                 handful of seniors showed any enthusiasm for that); and her staff looked on the 
                 profession as more akin to a job in a sprawling old stone warehouse; a job that
                 demeaned them by requiring that they punch in a card on a time clock. They
                 dressed in a way that provided at least some comfort, some compensation for
                 the low salaries.

                      There were the usual mavericks in bizarre colors, jeans and sneakers; like Mrs.
                 Sciatti, responsible for school drama productions (last year she mounted a huge
                 production of "Evita" in collaboration with the music department, which went
                 down rather well). She favored braless ankle dresses and beads, straight out of
                 the 1960s. And Mr. McNulty who believed his US army fatigues would deter
                 trouble makers from starting anything on his floor; and, of course, Mrs.
                 Haliburton.

                     The crew from Westchester – Meier, Lightbody, Brebnor and Ghansam – was
                 always nattily attired. They wore jackets as a matter of course; it  looked
                 better leaving home for a job at a Bronx high school in a jacket and tie.

                 For the meeting with parents the evening conference presented a problem. It
                 started at six thirty, about four hours after the end of classes; which meant four
                 hours of doing nothing; or finding something to do in the Bronx, since it made no
                 sense racing home to the suburbs and racing back.                  

                 Luckily for them the father of one of the students, Jaime Bravo, owned a pizza
                 place in the Bronx. They were welcome to hang out there, he assured them;
                 enjoy special service, courtesy of Jaime, and special prices, courtesy of Jaime's
                 father. It became their evening pre-conference ritual, going to the pizza place.
                 They reminded each other about it, waited for each other at the school 
                  entrance.

                      Lightbody, the designated driver that evening, wore an elbow-padded jacket and
                 a tie designed with the Stars and Stripes.

                     "I see you're showing the flag tonight, Mr. Lightbody," Mr. Ghansam said, 
                 squeezing into the back seat.

                     "Damn right, I am. It's going to be a long night. I had six parents yesterday. Six 
                parents. With weather like this I don't expect many more. Yes, I'm striking the 
                colors tonight."

                     "Hey, did any of you see Mr. Beltre yesterday? He's Jahmal Beltre's father," 
                 Brebnor said.

                     "I saw Mrs. Large…and I saw Mrs. Smalls…"

                     "This guy, they're from Jamaica, I feel really sorry for Jahmal, he's not going to 
                 pass my class, that's for sure. Anyway, there I was trying to make it look like he 
                 might just make it, if he got his act together. I mean, this guy is a pain in the 
                 ass; no self-control, gives me no end of trouble. Anyway, there I was saying to 
                 his father, Weell, he has a slim chance if he hands in the remaining assign- 
                 ments. And Mr. Beltre's there, you know, nodding and shaking his head like he 
                 understood what I was saying. Suddenly the guy stands up and…smack…he 
                 lays a right hand across Jahmal's face…he's got these big hands, like sledge 
                 hammer swinging hands, and he goes…smack…right across the face, sends 
                 Jahmal sprawling off his chair…"

                       "You're kidding me!" Lightbody turned in his seat.

                       "…and then he turns to me and says, See here, teacher, now you can't do that, 
                  cause you not allowed to, but I can do that. Don't worry, I'm going to straighten 
                  this thing out."

                        "Probably went home and beat the manure out of the kid," Brebnor said.

                  "I sat there… I mean, I was stunned. I didn't know what to say."

                  "Well, fresh off the boat they keep coming, still searching for the American 
                   dream…and bringing the old barbarous ways of dealing with problems," 
                   Lightbody said.

                        "These days they're coming off planes, Mr. Lightbody, not boats anymore," Mr. 
                   Ghansam gave him a challenging grin.

                        "Well, now, thank you very much, Mr. Ghansam, for…shall we say… updating 
                   my metaphor. I presume in your day you came off the boat."

                        "Mr. Lightbody, I'll have you know I arrived in this country by aircraft."

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

 

 

 

 

 

                 The teams came back from the lunch break at different times, so for awhile
                 there was little team work; just one or two teamsters slogging through the
                 paper pile, disgruntled, looking at their watches, wondering where everyone
                 else was; and thinking of calling it quits for the day.

                      Bilicki made no objection whenever his team suggested they call it quits. One
                 afternoon Amanda explained she had a dental appointment; and Bilicki himself
                 muttered he had business to take care of. The following morning the team
                 assembled but Mimi Agulnick was late. This incensed him. Mimi didn't have a
                 sense of fair play.

                      And Mimi came up with the most banal explanations for lateness. Always some
                 pathetic little story. This time it was her boyfriend. In her mid-thirties, frizzy-
                 haired, always touching the mole near her left nostril, Mimi talked with a
                 student's agitation about her boyfriend. She had no scruples baring intimate
                 details. This was part of the free spirit image she liked to impress everyone
                 with: the teacher who, when she wasn't teaching, could be naughty, could be
                 downright dissolute.

                 Yesterday morning she gave an account of her trip last summer to Jamaica
                 with the boyfriend. They'd stayed at a place called Ecstasy, where all expenses
                 were pre-paid, and everything imaginable was catered for. All told to a gasping 
                 Amanda, their voices lowered, the giggles muffled, while Mimi stood bent over,
                 her elbows on the desk, her bosoms – my God given boobs! – bulging for world
                 acknowledgment; and her fat rump, unruly flesh stuffed and barely contained in
                 blue jeans, stuck out in free spirited readiness.

                      Ignore, Ignore! Bilicki clenched and grit, irritation bursting his seams.

                      She walked in an hour late this morning, a little puffed face. She gasped and
                 seemed frantic about something and apologized. To Amanda's What happened?
                 she launched into an explanation involving the boyfriend. He'd lost his job,
                 poor thing; he was depressed; he was unhappy with their situation, with having
                 to depend on her; she'd tried to cheer him up, and had left the house late; and
                 then the traffic and everything.

                 Bilicki didn't know what to make of these revelations, and what looked like 
                 another display of shameless histrionics. In any event, despite the heaving of
                 her overburdened breasts, Mimi was ready and eager to pitch into the piles
                 now that she'd arrived, so he said nothing.

                     At some point the chatter broke loose.

                     "This essay is doomed from the start…doomed." "Who's the kid?" "Sandy
                Quinones …know him?" "Oh, Sandy…he's in my class. Fancies himself a lady-
                killer. He does little work and he thinks he's God's gift to the girls." "And the
                girls go flip for him." "Well, one thing's for sure, he can't write." "I've been telling
                him that all semester. The other day I said to him, Sandy, you're going to need
                more than good looks if you hope to graduate on time. He tells me, Don't worry
                about it. I've got the juice. I've got the juice!" "Well, this composition has no 
                juice whatsoever… "The Deathing of an American Girl". I think he meant "The
                Dating of an American Girl"! With some of these scripts, you read the first
                paragraph, the last paragraph, you get a pretty good idea whether it passes." 

                     At this point Bilicki, his voice controlled but quivering with displeasure,
                intervened: "I'm sure Sandy's mother would want us to give her son a fair
                hearing."

                    "You mean, give her son a fair reading," Mimi said.

                "Well, my dear tax-paying team captain," Amanda scraped back her chair,
                 turning a few heads in the room, "You're welcome to read this script…in all
                 holistic fairness… there you go." She grabbed her bag. "Now if you'll excuse
                 me, I have to go to the bathroom."

                     "Oh, let me come with you," Mimi said. "I left my bathroom key at home."

                      Bilicki sighed; he knelt at the pew of his soul; he prayed (for Mimi Agulnick) that
                 a sudden cancerous affliction would require the immediate removal of one of
                 her boobs; he prayed (for Amanda) that horrible-looking varicose veins would
                 show up and spread one morning as she lotioned her legs.

                      Mrs. Balancharia, whose accent at that moment sounded wonderfully soothing,
                 exclaimed, "We're almost done anyway, aren't we, Brendan?"

                      It certainly looked that way. Just the Sandy Quinones script, then the totals,
                 and they were done. Bilicki picked up the Quinones' script and he read it.

 

                             
                                           The Deathing Of An American Girl

                The deathing of a girl come's from meathing a girl. Eather in school or on the
                road and you and her begin to talk. You maybey would say, yo! Can I bring your
                bag for you if she have a bag. Maybey she would say eather Yes or no. If she say
                yes, you would take the bag from her and you would bring it for her. then you
                would ask her, What is you name and she would tell you her name if she want to
                but! I not shure she would want to. Then you would say my name is Sandy or
                anything you want to say. Then you would ask her if you can foller her to her
                hous. If she want to she would say to you yes, but if not she would say no. You
                may ask her for her phone number. Maybe she would give it to you and the two
                of you would exchange numbers. You may invite her to come to your hous and if
                she want to come she would say yes. About two week's later you would ask her
                if she would like to go out on a death with you. If she is in love with you, she
                going to say yes. But if she don't love you she going to say no. but if she say yes!
                you and her will plan a day or night and a place to go. When you go there the
                two of you would share some ideas and eat some food if you want to. Then you
                can do anything you want with her. Anyhow you want with her. That is what a
                death is.

                                                                                    THE END

                      

 

 

 

                 For the marking and grading of the State Regents exam Pete Plimpler organized
                 his department into teams, selected, he said, smiling ruefully, on the basis of
                 their congruent personalities. He appointed captains to solve problems and
                 disputes that might arise.

                      Bilicki was the captain of his team. He winced when he read the names of his 
                 team members: Agulnick, Ballancharia, Blitch. What congruence was Pete
                 talking about. He'd simply arranged the department alphabetically, the lazy
                 fop! Mrs.Ballancharia, always careful not to offend, laughed at everything that
                 was said. Amanda and Mimi Agulnick, the drama teacher, acted as if they hadn't
                 seen each other in ages.

                     Sporting a bowtie, and a brand new shirt he'd evidently cracked open for the
                 marking session first day, Pete Plimpler made a short speech about responsi-
                 bilities; he reminded everyone the room was off limits to inquiring students;
                 papers should remain in the room at all times, which meant that Bilicki couldn't
                 disappear somewhere quiet once the chatter started; and lunch break should
                 not exceed the stipulated one hour.

                     Most everyone was dressed in blue jeans, or something suitably informal;
                 except Bilicki, who showed up dressed for just another day at the office, and
                 was told to relax when he complained about the noise level affecting his
                 concentration.

                 Captains had not much power; they assigned tasks and coordinated activities.
                 Bilicki knew he had to be careful. Each teacher was in a sense a captain of his
                 or her classroom once the doors closed; they didn't take it kindly when spoken
                 to about grading; they became edgy and defensive if a colleague questioned
                 their judgment, no matter how subtle the questioning.

                      They were expected to follow the criteria for measurement set out by the
                 State, but as the hours slipped by, and the pile of brown envelopes still looked
                 formidable, fatigue set in, the eye glazed over from repeating the same task;
                 and grading sometimes became a snap response.

                      Situations would arise and swell and consume everyone with cross-talk:

                      "Has anyone heard of Deliverance?" "Heard of what?" "This kid is using as his
                 reference a novel titled Deliverance." "Wait, I think I've heard of… isn't that by
                 that writer, what's her name?" "Judith Cranston." "Riiight… doesn't she write
                 those torrid romance novels?" "That she does." "Okay, but is that literature?"
                 "Well, the question did say, Choose two works from the literature you have
                 read." "Right, not necessarily the literature we have taught." "Right, so I
                 suppose we should accept this book." "Yes, but does anyone know this book,
                 Deliverance?"  "Deliverance was written by James Dickey." "Judith Cranston
                 writes these trashy novels about sex and betrayal and handsome cruel men…"
                 "What am I to do with this essay?" "Wasn't there a movie with that name?" "Oh,
                 that's a different Deliverance." "About four guys in canoes and the Cajun
                 people?" "I think I saw that movie." "No, that was something completely
                 different."

                 "What am I to do with this essay?" "Amanda…Amanda… I just told you who
                 the writer was. You're not listening to me." "Just mark it. I mean, does it sound
                 credible? Does it try to answer the question?" "Yes, but suppose the kid made
                 it all up."  "Oh, I don't know, ask Pete." "Who's the kid?"  "…Jennifer Eliely?" 
                 "Oh, I had her once. She's a good kid." "She's not going to be here next
                 semester." "What do you mean?" "I hear she's moving out of state… she's trans-
                 ferring."  "Why would she do that?"  "Apparently, she saw something dangerous."
                 "Saw something dangerous?"  "That's what I heard. She. Saw. Something
                 dangerous. In her building. So her parents are shipping her out." "What a
                 shame. She's such a  sweet kid." "I still don't understand. What could she
                 possibly see that was  dangerous?" "Brendan, could you help me with this? I
                 don't know what to do with this."

                 "I just wish you'd all shut up. And get on with marking," Brendan's brow was
                 creased and grim. He'd been stuck on one paragraph, reading it over and over,
                 unable to block out completely the talk that seemed always too loud. "We've
                 still got piles and piles of envelopes, and the tallies to do, and then…"

                     "Whoa, Brendan, Brendan, you really must learn to relax, "Amanda said.

                     "Yes, you need a time out, lighten up," John Benkovitz shouted from across the
                room."

                     "What you really need is to see your barber… no kidding… this time of year, a
                 haircut would do wonders for your state of mind."

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

 

                 Being friendly with students had its rewards and boundaries.
“Look all you
                 want, don’t touch,” McCraggen in Phys. Ed would say. “And if you
touch, don’t
                 roam.” Which was alright for him to say, teaching in the gym. He’d
kiss the
                 Hispanic girls on both cheeks, the Spanish way; he’d hug them and
squeeze
                 them, and heaven knows what else he did – and got away with.

                     Last year in the Regents test room this girl Theresa Santos
– she was a senior
                 now, getting ready for college life – caught him,
Mr. Brebnor, looking. She
                 had this short skirt on, you could see right up the canyon of her thighs. She
                 caught him
sneaking a peek.

                 His eyes sort of swept past her body like the beam of a
search light, and there,
                 like a breach in the fence of a POW camp – her open
thighs. She looked up at
                 him, smiled and crossed her legs. The search light
moved on. It circled and
                 passed her way again, and – holy camoli! – the breach was there again.

                    Now she was writing furiously, head bowed with a strange
inspired concen- 
                 tration, as if the answers to all the questions on the page had started
flooding
                 her brain; she had no time for ladylike proprieties; she had to
put pen to
                 paper fast.

                 The heads of the other students were bowed over their
papers. Brebnor peeked.
                 His eyes popped alert in his skull and became a
hairy-legged insect. It crawled
                 up the girl’s legs, over her knees, it started down those
thighs. Not once did
                 Theresa Santos flinch; she chewed her gum a little harder,
but not one muscle
                 of awareness twitched on her thighs.

                      At some point she must have felt a frisson of impropriety,
prompting her to
                 cross her legs; he looked away with one fast beat of his hot
heart.

                 That was last year in January. Here, now, so far, nothing
quite as world-
                 upturning  happened. Just
dark thoughts - as yet to slide into a zone of
                 depression, but all the same
dark, angry dark thoughts. Like the tardiness of
                 the teacher who should have relieved
him long minutes ago!

                      He heard her shoes clack
clacking up the hallway. He started gathering his
                 things for an abrupt hand
over and wordless exit. He didn’t look up to see who
                 it was; he knew who it was,
from the footsteps in all haste, apologizing for
                 being late. He knew the old
hag face, the fading, single picket fence of the
                 body, the short skirts she wore,
too short, despite the firm, youngish legs. No
                 man would want to hold her in
his arms, he thought; but the legs merited,
                 maybe, a quick second look.

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

 

 

 

 

  
                 Brebnor was standing at the window of a classroom on the third floor, a
                 proctor for the state Regents Math exam; his mind stretched out on a nail
                 bed of introspection.

                 So Bob Meier had gone on sabbatical; he hadn’t said a word about it to his
                 buddies, except that asshole Jim Lightbody, who seemed determined these
                 days to sound upbeat and cheery about everything; from the proposal to
                 close of the school, to his crumbling marriage. Asshole.

                     The man’s marriage was on the rocks, on the rocks; and there he was 
                 making stupid little jokes, telling the carpool that his daughter, a high school
                 senior, had decided to drop out. She was dropping out, from a school in
                 Westchester; a good school, with opportunities and advantages, clubs and
                 advanced courses, and nurturing sports programs. You’d think they’d have no
                 drop out problems out there; you’d think a girl, whose father was a teacher,
                 would have no reason to drop out. And what did Lightbody, the loving
                 father, say to her? Go ahead, drop out, if that’s what you want to do.

                 He disclosed all this on a Monday. Lightbody’s cheeks and chin always had a
                 freshly shaven look on Monday. And there he was, all clean and smooth,
                 bringing the carpool up to date about his family situation, like it was
                 someone else’s family situation: “So she says to me, If you guys break up
                 don’t expect me to stay with either of you. So I said, Fine, fine. But
                 where are you going to go? And she says, I’ll move in with my boyfriend…
                 Move in with her boyfriend!… So I said, Fine, fine, do whatever you want.        

                 Sharing this very private family…mess…that Monday morning with the carpool.
                 With Ghansam, for chrissakes! He didn’t care if Ghansam found out. The man
                      was clearly in need of professional help. One of us should have told him that,
                 instead of just going along with his jaunty…crapulous…crap.

                 January was the most difficult time of year for Brebnor. So many issues floating
                 up to the ceiling like helium balloons. Always in January. First month of the new
                 year, end of the semester. Nothing but work, piles of paperwork; final grades,
                 all kinds of pressure. And always the air escaping from those helium balloons
                 leaving him acid with mistrust and resentment.

                 Here he was watching over the bowed heads of ill-prepared students taking the
                 State Regents exam; grappling with questions they had little hope of answering.

                      He was losing it – the love of teaching, the passion he’d started out with never
                 mind the low salary. He’d begun to look back, regretting missed opportunities,
                 forks in the road not taken. He was thinking about his teaching schedule for the
                 next semester, the school set to close at the end; the years he had left before
                 retirement.

                     And his marriage – his wife was refusing to have sex with
him. Going on two
                 weeks now, no sex. Not tonight. No,
I’m too tired. And all because he’d
                 forgotten their wedding
anniversary. Forgotten to take her out to dinner. First
                 time this had ever
happened, and suddenly she’s acting peculiar. You’d think
                 she’d understand
after all these years living with him, sleeping with him.

                 Of course, there was more to it than that. Things weren’t going too well
                 between them – little things, stupid petty things; snappish arguments at dinner,
                 sullen shoulders in bed.

                 He went to the door and looked up and down the hallway. He wasn’t allowed to
                 sit. They didn’t want you sitting. It didn’t make a fucking difference standing or
                 sitting, but the assistant principal walked in on him the other day and made a
                 big deal about it; telling him there might be Board of Education people in the
                 building monitoring how the exams were being proctored; looking for small
                 things, like teachers standing, not reading the New York Times at the desk.
                 Little shitty things. Like remembering to write on the board at 10 minute
                 intervals how much time had elapsed.

                 He looked at his watch. He should have been relieved 5 minutes ago by
                 someone. Some teachers took their sweet time showing up for relief
                 assignments, and the assistant principals did nothing about that! He decided
                 not to stand at the door, scowling, evidently waiting to be relieved. He went
                 back to the window. 

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

 

 

                The future of John Wayne Cotter H.S., clouded with rumour, made more
                frightening by speculation, now loomed with certainty once they’d turned into
                the new year. Everyone went about their tasks with strained or surly temper,
                sensing that the Spring semester could very well be their last together.

                The ripples of change had already touched the carpool. Jim Lightbody tried to 
                put a bolder than usual face on things. Bob Meir was going on sabbatical.  
                Apparently he’d told only Lightbody about it. “Didn’t he tell you?”  Lightbody 
                asked the others, a little chagrined he was the only one who knew. “I’m sure
                he mentioned it some time.” Meir wasn’t with them that day.

                “I see you’re putting on weight in certain quarters,” Ghansam said, patting 
                Lightbody on the stomach. Lightbody glanced at his stomach and made a
                dismissive noise, not quite ready to change the subject.

                “So what’s he going to do?” Brebnor asked.

                “Well, he has to take nine graduate credits…I think he’s going to St Joseph’s
                College, in Westchester.”
 
                “Why is he going on sabbatical now?” Ghansam wanted to know.

                “That’s what everybody does. You take your sabbatical in the spring, it flows
                right into the summer holidays, you come back in September…”

                     “Nine education credits…that’s like going back to college again…which is why
                 I haven’t taken sabbatical. I’ve had enough of college courses,” Brebnor said.

                “It’s not that bad. You take the courses that are related to your field,”
                 Lightbody said.

                “What’s Bob going to do? Did he tell you?”

                “I think he said Human Sexuality…”

                “…that should spice up his marriage!”

                “…and the History of Television”

                “Sexuality and television,” Ghansan gave a short laugh. “But wouldn’t that 
                 raise a few eyebrows at the Board of Education?”

 

                The school was closed for Martin Luther King Day, which fell near the end of 
                the fall semester. It seemed not a good time to celebrate King or any slain
                hero; teachers were digging out from under mounds of paperwork, final
                grades had to be entered, pass/fail issues dealt with. Many truants showed 
                up at this time with smiles and a bright determination to make things right.
                In English class they offered to do a book report, do anything to make up for
                weeks of absence or missed assignments.

                During the days before the Martin Luther King break, Mrs. Haliburton, for
                reasons she never fully explained, showed up without her head wrap. It
                caught the attention of Marjorie Paige (Math) who secretly monitored Mrs.
                Haliburton’s words and wardrobe; who now simply had to tell someone what  
                she’d noticed.

                “Have you seen her this morning?” she said to Mrs. Boneskosky (English). 
                They were on line in the teacher’s cafeteria. Mrs. Boneskosky, not happy 
                with the day's lunch menu, was considering the pizza slices along with the 
                French fries. She felt tired and a bit cranky; she’d just done three-classes
                -in-a row.

                “Seen who?” 

                “Our Equal Opportunity Advisor… Mrs. Haliburton? I mean, have you 
                noticed anything strange about her?”

                “No I haven’t… I haven’t seen her.” Mrs. Boneskosky tried to shake off 
                Marjorie Paige. She was in no mood for idle gossip, especially from this 
                odious little plump woman who, like her colleagues in the Math depart-
                ment, could not lift their conversation above the level of backbiting gossip.

                     “She hasn’t got her turban thing on today.”

                “Her what?”

                “You know, that wrap thing she always wears wrapped round her head. 
                She’s not wearing it today.”

                “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed,” Mrs. Boneskosky seemed at that moment 
                absorbed with food selection.

                “Well, she’s got short hair…I mean, she’s a shorthaired woman…I was 
                flummoxed.” Mrs. Boneskosky’s own thoughts had begun to drift, but that 
                word flummoxed, so rare a choice for a Math teacher, snapped a finger at 
                her weary spirit.

                With a quick intake of breath she made an effort to listen to Marjorie Paige 
                who, it appeared, was also having a pizza slice, the French fries and some
                soggy broccoli. “And all this time,” Marjorie Paige continued, “I used to think
                she had a full head of hair under that…turban thing…and this morning she
                steps into the elevator and… I almost fell to the floor. It was so…” Marjorie
                Paige seemed lost for the next word, and Mrs.Boneskosky promptly lost
                interest in her again. “I mean, I couldn’t recognize her at first…just this itsy-
                bitsy bit of hair on her head.”

                Mrs. Haliburton may or may not have sensed the mild consternation her 
                headwear had provoked. After the Martin Luther King holiday, just as 
                mysteriously, she resumed the wearing of her head wrap.

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