Ask the Passengers
Page 47
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Kristina nods. “I say we tolerate the shit out of it.”
39
IN WHICH ASTRID JONES FINALLY LOSES IT.
ELLIS STAYS IN BED. This was the plan, and I don’t care.
If the situation were reversed, however, I’d like to state for the record that I’d go to school and support my assumed-gay sister during the lame-o tolerance rally because sisters do shit like that for each other. Then again, I haven’t really told her yet, so I’m pretty much to blame for my own lack of familial support.
The first noticeable sign of Tolerance Day: They moved the NO PLACE FOR HATE sign from in front of the guidance office fourteen feet to a spot in front of the main office. Very exciting stuff.
Study hall is out of control. There’s a sub, and someone has convinced him that this study hall isn’t one of those real study halls where people study. I sit by myself until Clay stops by and saves me.
“How you doing?” he asks.
“Good.”
“You ready for Wednesday?”
“Yeah. I’m stoked.”
“I’m going to kick its ass,” he says.
“I have no doubt.”
“Have you seen Justin at all?” he asks. “I’m kinda worried about him. And we need him back at the paper soon, you know?”
“I think he’ll be back this week. Ask Kristina. He’s okay, though. Nothing to be worried about.”
He lowers to a whisper. “I heard he went to jail.”
I shake my head. “Totally untrue.”
He sighs. “Oh, good. So what do you think this whole Tolerance Day will be like? My money is on it yielding a whole bag of nothing.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying not to think about it, really.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve got your back,” he says.
“Thanks.”
I spend the rest of the period reading the Socrates Project sheet we were all given at the beginning of the class, which instructs us on the schedule, the requirements and the actual day of debate.
I take a second to think about him—Frank Socrates—and I decide he’s my new hero. Not because he shows up in my life and talks to me when I want him to, but because of who he was and what he stood for.
I just love how he rejected all the boxes.
Then the bell rings, and the tolerance portion of our day begins.
First, to the assembly. I blend into the student body and don’t feel the spotlight on me so much as the lights dim and the guy talks. And talks. And talks.
“The world is made of so many types of different people, and we have to learn that though they might be scary at first, they are not inherently bad because they are different.” He starts this way and goes on to talk about his days in school as a mixed-race Latino and how hard it was for him growing up. He got beat up a lot. Teased every day.
I start to feel resentful. You mean to tell me that it’s 2011 and this guy gets paid to have remedial talks with high school students about how they shouldn’t hate other people? Isn’t this elementary? Shouldn’t it be automatic? What kind of species are we if we have to have people come talk to us about this crap? And how, if we’re that stupid, did we get to the moon and help build a space station?
He tells a story about how his mother was from Cuba and how she hated Puerto Ricans. He says, “No matter how many times I tried to explain to her how stupid this was, she never changed. It was just ingrained in her.
“Some of you have it ingrained in you. You weren’t born with it. You were taught. No baby has hate for anything.” He produces a baby (a real baby) and bounces the kid on his hip. “We were all babies once, right? This little guy doesn’t care what country you were born in or what religion you might practice or how much you weigh or who you might love.”
At that, I feel the spotlight again. He talks a bit about high school being a time of feeling things out, and after that I kinda block him out for a while because the spotlight is just so hot. And I’m angry. I say to Frank, who is sitting up on the catwalk operating the spotlight, “Frank, that baby is smarter than half of my humanities class. Is this how things have always been?”
Frank nods.
ME: I need to get out of here.
FRANK: Too bad you didn’t sit in an aisle seat. You’re not going anywhere.
ME: I can pretend I’m going to puke.
FRANK: Do you really think that would be wise?
ME: I just can’t believe he gets paid to talk about this stuff.
FRANK: I bet he can’t believe it, either.
Then I hear, “I just went to my twenty-fifth class reunion, guys. Let me tell you—people change. The girls who passed around rumors about all the weird kids? Are nice and have their own weird kids. The so-called losers who graduated at the bottom of the class? Are driving luxury cars and running big businesses. The kid who made fun of all the g*y kids? Is g*y. I’m not saying this will happen to all of you, but what I’m trying to tell you is that high school doesn’t end here. You guys will know each other for a long time, and you will get to see how life changes people. I only hope that for right now, you remember that there is no place for hate in a happy life. I don’t care who you are, where you come from or what God you believe in. I can guarantee you that if you hate, you will never achieve true happiness.”
Someone taps me on the shoulder and a note drops into my lap. It’s from Kristina.
Let’s skip the 6th-period pep rally thing.
I look around and find her and nod.
After the guy finishes his assembly program, Principal Thomson gets up and talks a bit about why it’s important to study diversity in high school, and then two boys walk down the aisles and meet in front of the stage, and they stand there with their arms crossed as if they’re bouncers. I think Mr. Thomson mentions something about signs in the hallways and how anyone caught making or hanging hateful signs will be suspended, but I can’t be sure. I’m too busy trying to figure out what these two kids are about to do.
One is Ross Bentley, our resident Holocaust denier. The other is some kid who I’ve seen around, but I don’t know. He seems to know Ross, anyway. They’re wearing similar T-shirts, but I can’t make out what they say in the semidarkness.
Eventually, the lights go on. There is relative calm in the audience, and people start to talk to each other as we are escorted, row by row, toward the gym. Because the lights are on, I can read what Ross Bentley’s shirt says. It says DON’T BE GAY, and it’s got one of those red circles with the diagonal line through the word g*y. The kid standing next to him is wearing this one: BE HAPPY, NOT GAY.
39
IN WHICH ASTRID JONES FINALLY LOSES IT.
ELLIS STAYS IN BED. This was the plan, and I don’t care.
If the situation were reversed, however, I’d like to state for the record that I’d go to school and support my assumed-gay sister during the lame-o tolerance rally because sisters do shit like that for each other. Then again, I haven’t really told her yet, so I’m pretty much to blame for my own lack of familial support.
The first noticeable sign of Tolerance Day: They moved the NO PLACE FOR HATE sign from in front of the guidance office fourteen feet to a spot in front of the main office. Very exciting stuff.
Study hall is out of control. There’s a sub, and someone has convinced him that this study hall isn’t one of those real study halls where people study. I sit by myself until Clay stops by and saves me.
“How you doing?” he asks.
“Good.”
“You ready for Wednesday?”
“Yeah. I’m stoked.”
“I’m going to kick its ass,” he says.
“I have no doubt.”
“Have you seen Justin at all?” he asks. “I’m kinda worried about him. And we need him back at the paper soon, you know?”
“I think he’ll be back this week. Ask Kristina. He’s okay, though. Nothing to be worried about.”
He lowers to a whisper. “I heard he went to jail.”
I shake my head. “Totally untrue.”
He sighs. “Oh, good. So what do you think this whole Tolerance Day will be like? My money is on it yielding a whole bag of nothing.”
“Yeah. I’ve been trying not to think about it, really.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve got your back,” he says.
“Thanks.”
I spend the rest of the period reading the Socrates Project sheet we were all given at the beginning of the class, which instructs us on the schedule, the requirements and the actual day of debate.
I take a second to think about him—Frank Socrates—and I decide he’s my new hero. Not because he shows up in my life and talks to me when I want him to, but because of who he was and what he stood for.
I just love how he rejected all the boxes.
Then the bell rings, and the tolerance portion of our day begins.
First, to the assembly. I blend into the student body and don’t feel the spotlight on me so much as the lights dim and the guy talks. And talks. And talks.
“The world is made of so many types of different people, and we have to learn that though they might be scary at first, they are not inherently bad because they are different.” He starts this way and goes on to talk about his days in school as a mixed-race Latino and how hard it was for him growing up. He got beat up a lot. Teased every day.
I start to feel resentful. You mean to tell me that it’s 2011 and this guy gets paid to have remedial talks with high school students about how they shouldn’t hate other people? Isn’t this elementary? Shouldn’t it be automatic? What kind of species are we if we have to have people come talk to us about this crap? And how, if we’re that stupid, did we get to the moon and help build a space station?
He tells a story about how his mother was from Cuba and how she hated Puerto Ricans. He says, “No matter how many times I tried to explain to her how stupid this was, she never changed. It was just ingrained in her.
“Some of you have it ingrained in you. You weren’t born with it. You were taught. No baby has hate for anything.” He produces a baby (a real baby) and bounces the kid on his hip. “We were all babies once, right? This little guy doesn’t care what country you were born in or what religion you might practice or how much you weigh or who you might love.”
At that, I feel the spotlight again. He talks a bit about high school being a time of feeling things out, and after that I kinda block him out for a while because the spotlight is just so hot. And I’m angry. I say to Frank, who is sitting up on the catwalk operating the spotlight, “Frank, that baby is smarter than half of my humanities class. Is this how things have always been?”
Frank nods.
ME: I need to get out of here.
FRANK: Too bad you didn’t sit in an aisle seat. You’re not going anywhere.
ME: I can pretend I’m going to puke.
FRANK: Do you really think that would be wise?
ME: I just can’t believe he gets paid to talk about this stuff.
FRANK: I bet he can’t believe it, either.
Then I hear, “I just went to my twenty-fifth class reunion, guys. Let me tell you—people change. The girls who passed around rumors about all the weird kids? Are nice and have their own weird kids. The so-called losers who graduated at the bottom of the class? Are driving luxury cars and running big businesses. The kid who made fun of all the g*y kids? Is g*y. I’m not saying this will happen to all of you, but what I’m trying to tell you is that high school doesn’t end here. You guys will know each other for a long time, and you will get to see how life changes people. I only hope that for right now, you remember that there is no place for hate in a happy life. I don’t care who you are, where you come from or what God you believe in. I can guarantee you that if you hate, you will never achieve true happiness.”
Someone taps me on the shoulder and a note drops into my lap. It’s from Kristina.
Let’s skip the 6th-period pep rally thing.
I look around and find her and nod.
After the guy finishes his assembly program, Principal Thomson gets up and talks a bit about why it’s important to study diversity in high school, and then two boys walk down the aisles and meet in front of the stage, and they stand there with their arms crossed as if they’re bouncers. I think Mr. Thomson mentions something about signs in the hallways and how anyone caught making or hanging hateful signs will be suspended, but I can’t be sure. I’m too busy trying to figure out what these two kids are about to do.
One is Ross Bentley, our resident Holocaust denier. The other is some kid who I’ve seen around, but I don’t know. He seems to know Ross, anyway. They’re wearing similar T-shirts, but I can’t make out what they say in the semidarkness.
Eventually, the lights go on. There is relative calm in the audience, and people start to talk to each other as we are escorted, row by row, toward the gym. Because the lights are on, I can read what Ross Bentley’s shirt says. It says DON’T BE GAY, and it’s got one of those red circles with the diagonal line through the word g*y. The kid standing next to him is wearing this one: BE HAPPY, NOT GAY.
