Freedom Stick Part 2

The weeks continued on under the rule of the Freedom Stick. The days were quiet, punctuated by an occasional cracking we never lifted our necks up to see.

In those weeks, we learned what good behavior was. We raised our hands. We stood in straight lines. We straightened up our posture, and our lower case dees.

And we learned.

We studied, we found brains we never knew we had. In a few weeks of intense concentration and focus, we shot through the year's intended lessons and began reading Wittgenstein, Kikkegard, and performing Chekhov plays.

We shed our names once we entered the classroom, and were known only by our seat numbers. I was 15. But by god, there was order. The weaker kids like me were no longer picked on. We were safe.

Finally one boy, Number 04, came to class with a cold, because he played Ivanhoe in the play and didn't want to miss rehearsal. He sniffled a little too loudly, and Mr. Grater was up from his desk like a disturbed lion, his vile plank in hand.

"Number 04. Do you want the Freedom Stick?"

"No sir," mumbled 04, through his wheezing.

"I said CEASE that wheezing!" the Freedom Stick came down on 04 and he wailed. The wail gave him another swat and prompted more wheezing. "The beatings will continue until morale improves" bellowed the teacher.

I had to look. I saw Mr. Grater standing over a trembling 04, his hand white and red from beatings and clutching the edge of his desk. It was too much.

"Mr Grater?" I asked.

"Yes 14?"

"When you named the Freedom Stick, you said it gave us the freedom to be free from the cruelty of our neighbors. Or, if you rather, from ourselves."

"There is no questioning the Freedom Stick, 04."

"Yes sir, I know. But you have educated me past the point of simple blind obedience. Please hear my questions out so I can better understand your wisdom."

"Go on."

"So through the Stick we obtain freedom from one another, but not what John Locke would have described as personal freedoms, the freedom of the self."

"You also do not have the freedom to yell fire in a crowded classroom."

"Certainly, yes. But don't you see? The freedom to learn and be good but do nothing else is no freedom at all. 'Freedom Stick' is nothing but an Orwellian word to make we animals embrace the cage that shackles us. You pluck the feathers from our skin until we are grateful for the warmth coming from your hand--" I spoke quickly now, because Grater was descending upon me, "--Just as 'Operation Iraqi Freedom' was a misnomer that actually gave the Iraqis only the freedom to have the direction of their state altered by a greater super power who AAAGGH!!!!"
Just then, white hot lightning shot through my fingers and up my spine. I tasted copper in my mouth.

Another bolt of pain struck, but I did not cry out this time. My white and bleeding knuckles clutched the desk, taking swat after swat. With each swing I felt as though he had mountains of muscles in reserve that he had never used before, and endless stream of agony.

But I did not scream for mercy.

I looked up and saw my classmates watching us. They would not hold their heads down. Then:

The drop of a pencil, followed by another. Suddenly a great rain of simultaneous pencils falling, like a wood and graphite shower. The beating stopped. Grater knew what he was up against.

The Synchronized Pencil Drop. Then began the humming. First from one student, then another and another, until there was no way of knowing exactly where the humming was coming from. They beat in rhythm with one another, like a tiny rainshower of revolution.

"Do you hear that Grater?" I asked. "Do you hear the people singing the song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will NOT be slaves again!"

Then he was struck on the face with a gooey white mass of paper that oozed down his forehead. More spitball salvos came until at last he was ducking and running toward the door.

We let out three huzzahs. We knew that we were doomed, and that soon the principal would come into the room and put down our revolution. But for the time being, we drank from our tiny milk cartons as free men.

Freedom Stick

Second grade. Our teacher, Mrs. McBee had a baby over Christmas, so had a new teacher, Mr. Grater. Mrs. McBee (or as she sometimes allowed us to call her, "Carmen") was very pretty and she brought candy to class every Friday.

On his first day, Mr. Grater sat at his desk while we filed into our seats. He was a large man, with a long black beard. I don't mean a happy, dwarf beard, but a gnarly, scraggled beard that covered three-quarters of his face. His cold black eyes were the only part of him that moved, darting back and forth from the foilage of his facial hair.

After the morning announcements were done, he stood along with us for the pledge. The class was so stunned by his size, we couldn't concentrate on the flag while we gave our allegiance to it. We could only stare at his 6 foot eight frame, his great gut, and arms like steel girders. His legs were lanky, though, like two frail slilts holding up a stone temple.

We were reduced to recting the pledge in halfhearted mumbles, rendered speechless by the sight of this man who would hold dominion over us for the next six months.

At the end of the thing he walked the aisles, taking attendace. His voice sounded like gravel kicking up under a truck on a back road, harsh and gurgled. When the bok of our names was put away, with our mouths trembling under this man's harsh gaze, he produced a thin wooden board. So thin, it was almost floppy. Written on it were the words "Freedom Stick."

"Children," he began, using the only name he ever calle dus, "This is our freedom stick. We are all happy the freedom stick is here, because it means we are all free. Free to study in peace and quiet. Free to learn about the great, wide world outside these doors. Free to always feel safe from other classmates' teasing and ridicule."

What was said next, I cannot remember. I heard the softest of whispers behind me, and in a flash Grater was on top of me. I heard the Freedom Stick crack past my ear like a bullet, then the air was filled with Derrick Cobb's screams. I turned and saw him clutching a warped hand, and that horrible sound still fills my ears. The sound of flimsy pine whacking against human flesh and bone, the swift, violent pounding of terrible, tiny thundercracks.

"No talking," Grater said in a low voice. "Now go see the nurse."

to be continued....

My Last Couple Dogs

A number of months ago I was cruising in a jeep with a couple of friends, when my sister rang on the cell phone. "Bub, you have to go down to the car wash. There's a puppy lost down there whimpering it's little head off."

I hung up and spoke flatly to the driver. "Turn around, Britni. We have a rescue to mount." With that we one-eightied to the other end of town. Sure enough, there it was. An adorable spotted brown puppy, wailing, walking in and out of traffic, stopping cars and causing bedlam with its adorable innocence.

Like anyone else in this town, the pup felt awkward about accepting help. I nudged toward him, he nudged back. We finally cornered him behind the warm rusted ice machine and scooped him into the jeep.

He (it appeared to have a penis) was a pleasant passnger, and had finalyl stopped whining. The next few hours were spent showing the dog off and trying to solve its many mysteries. Everyone made their seperate observations about the pup. he was clearly a house dog, because he was so heavy. His claws weren't trimmed, but they weren't filed down, eaither, indicating it had lived on a carpeted surface. We all agreed it was a mixed breed, with it's mishmash of color, tails and ears.

By far, the dog's most endearign feautre were it's eyes: one blue, one brown. Like David Bowie. Because of this, and the animal's girth, we called it Major Tong.

We took digital photos of the Major and made posters. I even wrote a cute little poem:

Found
At the Car Wash end of town.
Adorable dog, one eye blue
The other, Brown
If you want this adorable slice of heaven
Call 587-1397

I even walked into the police station to file a report. It was my first time in a police station where I wasn't paying a fine or picking up a family member.

No one would keep the major for the night, so it was left on my shoulders. I had the number of a relative who was supposed to find lost animals homes. She would call me back tomorrow. Apparently, her husband was getting tired of his home being used for a kennel, so this lead might not work out.

Major Tong wasn't housebroken, so we went through quite a few rolls of paper towels while he got used to my place. We had another dog staying with us months earlier, a little terrier named Ruby. Ruby was originally my sister's worry, and when she wanted rid of the dog mom took her, in hoped of breeding the full-blooded bitch for a cash crop of puppies. We never hit Ruby, especially near her ovaries. Never let her near the microwave, either. We put more care into that dog's reproductive system than we did into our own home.

Sadly, mom just wasn't good at tolerating dogs, and my sister found her a good home. I always insisted to my nieces and nephews that Ruby was a lifelike robot that I built. They were young enough to half-believe me. "Is she really?"

"Yes."

Pause. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Then why does she poop?"

"I made her to act like a real dog, stupid."

But presently, Major Tong was a nice enough houseguest. He whimpered a little, but calmed down after I kicked him a little. Just kidding.

Turns out the relative could take the dog, and I drove him out to her house. She had a large dog pen, where a collie and a cocker spaniel had comfortable living quarters.

Sally (my aunt) was able to identify the dog immediately. "She's a husky/lab mix," I was told.

"Wait...she?"

"Yeah, it's a girl."

Turns out that not only did Major Tong have nipples, but the thing I had mistaken for a penis was actually a rudimentary vagina. I am quite proud of my ignorance of a dog's genitals.

Epilogue

Major Tong found a good home, and Ruby's new owners were astonished one day when they gave her a bath and she short-circuited. Afterwards, all she could do was chase her tail, which suited her just fine.

I Love a Parade

Every year my small little hometown throws a big party. They call it "Old Timer's Day." We block off main street, and for four days the village is filled with rides, games, booths selling confederate flags and Dale Earnhardt memoribila. The mardi-blah festival culminates in a nine-and-a-half hour parade featuring antique cars, church floats, fire trucks, marching bands, and shriners. Horses are brought in at the end to place homebrewed manure on the roads.

In 2000, I played a small role in the parade. I had a job with a pizza joint at the time, and they needed a volunteer to wear the Big Tomato Costume. I had never been a big tomato before, and I liked the idea of parading through my town in disguise. This may be why I trick-or-treated until I was 17.

The tomato suit consisted of red tights and a red ball bigger than my torso that I wore over my head. I could fit my hands out the side, nothing more.

Pre-parade, everyone meets at the old high school (it's the elementary school now, but we still call it the old high school) to recieve their numbers and get a rundown. As usual, several churches were submitting floats. And every single one of those floats had a Jesus. I lived in a town of 400 homes, with 12 churches inside ten miles.

That's a lot'a Lords.

There were Jesuses of all shapes and sizes: fat Jesus, tall Jesus, blond Jesus, real beard Jesus, teenage Jesus. No Jesus looked Arab or Jewish, of course. They were all very comfortably Anglo-Saxon protestant Christs (we have one Catholic church, which thankfully didn't recreate any stages of the crucifixion).

Have you ever seen a motley band of Christs chatting together? Watching this through the sweaty red cloth of a ten-pound tomato costume, I was a little intimidated. Here were these men of deep faith, with cheap fur glued to their faces, who had an absolute conviction about their lives.

To their mind, wearing a bedsheet and a wig mean that someone could escape eternal suffering. Think of that: somewhere in the heavens, an eternal war is waging between good and evil, and they are a part of that.

I never even made the basketball team. Not with these skinny little tomato legs.