The Better Half(31)
Frankly, I was unaware Winn had such an interest in the athletic history of RoyalHawkins until today’s meeting when he showed up in my office with a spreadsheet and a lecture. He detailed every female and male basketball season record dating back to 1984, the year he became a RoyalHawkins alum. I gave it a cursory glance, not noticing anything obvious, but feigned interest in his concerns nonetheless. Winn specifically pointed out to me that we have only had two seasons in thirty or so years when a RoyalHawkins basketball team has made it to any finals in the school’s athletic division. I would have guessed Winn’s birdie would be in a bundle for not having a golf team before he would be sweating it out over basketball stats. Shame on me for assuming.
Without being clear on his desired outcome for our meeting, Winn asked me to take some time to review the numbers and consider what kind of legacy I want to leave as RoyalHawkins’s first female head of school. I told him I was unaware I would be exiting the school anytime soon and needed to be pondering my legacy five hot minutes after I got into the head’s seat. Winn chuckled but assured me I needed to seriously consider addressing RoyalHawkins’s athletics. It’s just like a man to tell a woman what she needs to consider even while she’s dressed as Cleopatra, one of the most intelligent and powerful female rulers.
Slightly intrigued by where Winn’s going with all this talk, I decide to take a walk around campus to consider sports at RoyalHawkins. I know for sure we can improve on the basketball uniforms, those things are fugly. Why somebody would take gangly, pimply, awkward teens and wrap them in a polyester mystery blend is lost on me.
Walking the halls of the middle school, I see an unfamiliar, towering man from the back with scuffed shoes, torn jeans, and a dirty oversize blazer with something that looks like garbage peeking out of the pocket flaps. On his head is a backward baseball cap that looks ratty and sweat-stained. I hold tight to the walkie-talkie that goes everywhere on campus with me and get ready to call for backup to escort this unfamiliar gentleman out of the school. This is my first brush with a stranger on campus, and in today’s climate, school safety is every parent’s, teacher’s, and staff member’s primary concern.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say once, using my inside voice, then quickly following up, “EXCUSE ME, SIR,” in my outside voice when the man doesn’t immediately turn around. My feet are firmly planted on the ground, but my heart is flying fast. My index finger hovers over the red emergency button on the walkie-talkie that goes directly to the police station. The fist of my other hand is clenched and ready to throw a punch if the man attacks. Marisol took our self-defense class years ago seriously, never allowing us a single absence, and right now I’m more relieved than ever she enforced perfect attendance.
The man slowly turns around. “Oh hey, Nina. Sorry. I was engrossed reading one of my student’s essays. For a thirteen-year-old, Bojing is crushing it making connections between the rise of the Weimar Republic in Germany and his thoughts on modern-day US politics. Sharp kid for sure.” Jared’s rubbing his lips together, bopping his head to a tune that apparently only he can hear. I blow out an audible breath. Lord have mercy, it’s only Jared. Though I’ve barely had a sip of water all day, I think I peed my panties a little.
I can’t get past the black smudges Jared has artfully placed on his cheeks. “Um, Jared, who are you supposed to be for Halloween?” I ask hesitantly, hoping this young man has a reflective side that will offer an astute explanation, but I brace myself for the musings I fear are coming my way.
“I’m a hobo,” he declares, spreading his arms wide to give me the full view of his costume. “I left my bandana-stick bag in my classroom. I’ve got my basketball in it for after school.”
Hope crushed.
“You mean a homeless person? You came to celebrate Halloween at school . . . dressed . . . as . . . a homeless person?” My emotions have swung from disbelief back to panic. Sweat’s trickling down my back as I imagine the number of emails that will be coming my way from parents after Jared’s students share at the family dinner table that their history teacher dressed up for Halloween as one of Los Angeles’s most devastating social ills.
“Nah, not a homeless person, a hobo. Like from the Dust Bowl era a la John Steinbeck and The Grapes of Wrath, my favorite book. That’s how my people made their way to California. My great-grandfather and his brother jumped trains all over the United States trying to get a little work here or there, sleeping under bridges, running from authorities, until they made it to the Golden State.” Jared’s pumped up with pride sharing the backstory of his family. It’s pure sweetness wrapped neatly in a PR nightmare.
“I’m telling you, Nina, my family has stories for days that have been passed down in vivid detail about my great-grandfather and my great-uncle Otis. As a social studies teacher, my goal is to wear a Halloween costume every year that honors an era in US history. This year I’m honoring my great-grandfather and his struggle to get out of the South and become a proud Californian. He loved it here more than anything.”
“Did it cross your mind that the tweens you teach, whose most pressing thoughts are what’s being served for lunch today, might assume you are posing as a resident of Skid Row? That while your costume choice is obvious to you, it may not be to the rest of RoyalHawkins? That, in fact, it had me moments away from alerting the police?” I ask, working to control my voice from betraying the anger brewing that Jared did not consider any of these ramifications on the school when he came dressed as a retro homeless person. Sorry, hobo.