Melting pot, words (1779), School story Options

[Guest_carrion_*]

Feel free to rip it apart. I don't bruise easy.

Revised, with the lovely help of Nina and the much needed assistance of Toumai

Melting Pot
By Ryan Thomas

    Mrs. Knox tossed her raccoon hat on top of a neatly piled stack of graded essays. It settled on an A plus. On her wooden desk, orderly arrayed, sat a stuffed mug-shaped penholder and a gruesome pile of wordy responses to her question − “Is my America, your America?” She had enjoyed only one paper. A cold breeze, drafted from an open window, swooped around her black, daisy-covered dress (bragged a size eight), before exiting, stage left, through the open doorway. Entering students paired up in dramatic teen conversation about life. Emmanuel Guzman, author of the one good paper, sat upright in his chair.
   
    The bell blared, as Bobby Newmark’s chubby frame quickly hobbled into his seat. He looked around, happy to be on time today.
   
    “Good morning class, I hope you found the assignment challenging,” Mrs. Knox warmly inquired, pacing slow at the front row.
   
    Scanning the aisles, her sights wandered to the back row where Johnny Rimms stared straight ahead with a black hood on. “Excuse me,” she warned, “headphones off in my classroom. Thanks.” Johnny reluctantly put his ipod away. At the front of the class, Molly Kibben was using a pocket mirror to do her face. Mrs. Knox signaled for Molly to put the makeup kit away.

“I would like to ask a few questions,” she announced.
A boy raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“Sure, why not,” Mrs. Knox replied, disappointed.
    Manny rose and headed for the door. A few minutes had gone by, one kid gone, plenty to go, she thought. Molly Kibben finally stopped after a few more strokes of the brush.

    “Who can tell me why slavery was so important?” Mrs. Knox asked.
    A hand shot up from the back row, two in the third. Within a matter of a few moments most of the class was ready to participate. She pointed to the young man in the back corner.
“You in the back,” she paused, “why was slavery so important?”

    Emmanuel bore a nervous grin. He rapidly tapped the metal book holder under Sally Atchen’s desk with his foot. Every so often she threw her head back to warn him to stop, but Emmanuel didn’t make the connection.

“Slavery added to the melting pot,” he answered sharply, looking around for approval.
“Blacks weren’t added, they were taken to be slaves,” James Barne, a black kid, threw back at him. He shot a quick glance at Emmanuel from the third row.  
“I agree,” said Shelly.

    Sally violently threw her head back toward Emmanuel, “me too,” she proclaimed, nodding her head down at Emmanuel’s fluttering feet. Suddenly aware, he stopped.
   
    “Finally,” she pouted, flinging back her hair.

Emmanuel's cheeks turned rose-red.  

“I don’t know. If blacks weren’t forced to be slaves they’d still be an Africa with all them diseases,” Bobby Newmark declared, his flabby cheeks wiggling as he spoke.

    After his insight, the whole class flurried with whispers. James was outraged. Arguments flared up, growing loud and anxious. Voices fought voices. Todd Billow’s pubescent pitch reigned over them all. Like a teenage melting pot, everybody’s two cents ended up making no sense. A concert hall of words filled the air. Egos escaped mouths; when annoyed by rubbish, eyes rolled; closed ears blocked the blaring pride of cocky words and quick tongues. Reclusive and silent, Emmanuel’s deep, brown eyes darted around the classroom. He noticed only two minutes passed; already the class was in an uproar. Mrs. Knox frowned, as one of her prickly blonde hairs swiftly fell to the ground, matted by puke-green carpet.

    “Ok, class!” Mrs. Knox boomed. Softly treading across the front row, the words American History, written in dusty white chalk, appeared on the blackboard behind her. She continued her inquisition, “What is a melting pot?” she asked sternly, regaining their attention. Slowly, the kids quieted down.

    Emmanuel scribbled out an answer, for notes. He knew it to be a tool of progression; those who marry outside their race are battling society’s constant pull towards racism. For every race a child inherits, another point of view is born, but, this time, he wouldn’t share. He wasn’t alone.

    “Volunteers,” Mrs. Knox rallied, “Victims?”
“A melting pot is a salad or soup of people!” One kid joked, catching a couple laughs.

Emmanuel couldn’t dodge Mrs. Knox’s expecting glare. (Dang!) He took a small breath, hoping the guillotine of approval wasn’t lounging above his head.

    “Uh,” he said, searching around, “a melting pot is a bunch of different cultures living together in the same place, like America. New arrivals gather into pockets filled with their own people and heritage.” A little awkwardness stained the air after a serious response, but no menacing looks or snide remarks came back.

    Sally Atchen scraped Bazooka Joe off her gum-plastered face. The girls surrounding Sally giggled, as she struggled with the sticky substance. Emmanuel pretended not to notice − and looked away -- but it was entertaining.  

    Mrs. Knox sent a kid outside for speaking his mind. She intended to prove a point about the fist of power, the flux of negative consequences through slavery, and above all, silencing opposition. Emmanuel bent his neck, sideways, left and right, producing a series of cracks. Only he could hear them. Everyone shouted his or her own opinions when Mrs. Knox asked, “How are you affected by slavery.” Bobby Newmark responded sternly, “My father says slavery is just an over-discussed gossip topic from yesterdays newspaper.” Of coarse that meant war. James, licked his lips, lowered his brows, and then proudly declared, “Your father is an idiot.”

     There would be no peace. A slew of angry voices filled the air − reason had nothing to say -- neither did Emmanuel. Fond of a gentle frame, sweet and calm; his lured eyes drooped in sappy love. He hadn’t really met any girls his age yet. She was above them anyway, smart, funny, attractive, and most of all, the most wonderful being on planet earth.

    Thirty minutes later, he snapped out of a daydream about a wonderful dinner date, and wiped the corner of his lip (plotting to embarrass him by drooling). He’d completely missed most of the topic. In the center, Mrs. Knox brought a new discussion to the floor.

    “Ok, class, what’s the difference between a role model and a leader?” she asked, surveying with her hazel contacts for signs of a response.

    Emmanuel looked away, as did most of the class. Mrs. Knox shrugged, and headed for a paper sack by the blackboard. She always kept them on their toes, and the prize for a sensible answer at a moment like this − a Snickers bar.

“Emmanuel,” she queried. “Can you get me an eraser from the office?”
Her mature voice warmed his ear.    
“Uh. Sure, Mrs. K,” he answered back, blinking.

    Saved, he stepped out the door and into the hallway. Rusty silver handles, and old baby blue lockers flaking tiny chips of paint, led the way to the principle’s gloomy private office at the end of the hall. Unfortunately, it was a very short walk − fifteen regular steps. He knew because he’d logged the journey once before. It would, however, stave off absolute boredom for a few minutes.
“Hey Paul,” he said.
“Sup,” the exiled kid replied.
“How long you gotta stay out here man?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yea.”

    A toad green sticker grabbed Emmanuel’s eye while treading through the empty hall. It was one of Phillip’s designs. It read, “I think best with a guitar in my hand.”  He chuckled, “good old Phil.” As the world turned, Phil was on top of it, enjoying a buzz.
   
    Everybody knew Phil: revolutionary, sixty-year-old guitarist, piano player, and spiritual leader/janitor. “You don’t have to know anything,” he would say, “Forget your thoughts, remember your dreams. World peace can be achieved with peace of mind.”  He wore a hippy green beanie, and a silver goatee. Emmanuel had never heard him claim to be smart, though he remembered overhearing that Phil was a Zen master, or a Zen Buddha, or something Zenful.

    He continued on, but slowed his steps. Class was even duller since Milton had been expelled. That kid had views on the world. He never showed off, a bit eccentric too. Maybe, in another world, brilliant kids wouldn’t carry pipe bombs in their backpacks. Plus, the kid made Emmanuel laugh (not easy to do). They would’ve made a good pair of pals, but he guessed it wasn’t to be. Sometimes, he secretly wished a pocket of his own people would appear, or at least a group of friends he could melt into. He didn’t really fit in here. Of course, that could just be his imagination.

    As he walked, old thoughts faded, and a new idea appeared alongside a drama flyer posted on the student bulletin board. Next year he’d join a club.  




Old version.  

  Mrs. Knox tossed her raccoon hat on top of a neatly piled stack of graded essays. It settled on an A plus. Her wood desk, orderly arrayed, propped up a stuffed mug shaped penholder and a gruesome pile of wordy responses to her question−“Is my America, you’re America?” She enjoyed only one paper. She was afraid this would be the year wrinkles would start appearing. A cold breeze, drafted from an opened window, swooped around her black daisy-covered dress (bragged a size eight), before exiting, stage left, through the open entry doorway. Entering students paired up in dramatic conversation about teen life. Emmanuel Guzman, author of the good paper, sat upright in his chair.
    The blaring bell rung aloud, as Bobby Newmark’s chubby frame quickly hobbled into his seat. He looked around, happy to be on time today.
    “Good morning class, I hope the assignment was challenging,” Mrs. Knox warmly inquired, pacing a little.
    Scanning down the aisles, her sites wandered to the back row where Johnny Rimms stared straight ahead with a black hood on. “Excuse me,” she warned, “headphones off in my classroom−Thanks.” Johnny reluctantly put his ipod away. In the front of the class, Molly Kibben dabbled her face by a pocket mirror. Mrs. Knox motioned with her hands for Molly to put the makeup kit away.
“So, I would like to ask a few questions,” she announced.
A boy raised his hand.
“Yes?”
“Can I go to the bathroom?”
“Sure, why not,” Mrs. Knox shrugged.
    Manny rose up from his seat and headed for the door−a few minutes had gone by, one kid gone, plenty to go, she thought. Molly Kibben finally stopped after a few more strokes of the brusher.
    “Who can tell me why slavery was so important?” Mrs. Knox questioned.
    A hand shot up from the back row, two in the third. Within a matter of a few moments most of the class was ready to participate. She pointed to the young man in the back corner−he had his hand raised first.
“You in the back,” she paused, heels raised, pointing to the back. “Why was slavery so important?”
    Emmanuel looked around the room. First kid picked on the first day of school after the four-day weekend. He wasn’t a teacher’s pet. He felt, in all cases, if people spoke their minds, classes always went by faster.
“Slavery added to the melting pot,” he answered firmly, looking around for approval.
“Blacks weren’t added, they were taken to be slaves,” James Barne−a black kid−threw back at him. He sat in the third row. Emmanuel felt a drift of bad feeling.
“I agree,” said Shelly.
“Me too.”
“I don’t know. If blacks weren’t forced to be slaves they’d still be an Africa with all them diseases,” Bobby Newmark declared, his flabby cheeks wiggled as he spoke.
    After his remark, the whole class flurried with whispers. James was outraged. Arguments flared up, growing loud and anxious−voices fought voices. Todd Billow’s pubescent pitch reigned over them all. Like a teenage melting pot, everybody’s two cents ended up making no sense−a concert hall of words−filled the air. Egos escaped mouths; however, eyes rolled, closed ears blocked the blaring pride exchanged by cocky words and quick tongues. Recluse and silent, Emmanuel darted his deep brown eyes around the classroom. Mrs. Knox wickedly tapped a flaccid frown, only two minutes passed; already her class was in an uproar. It was going to be a long year. One of her prickly blonde hairs swiftly swooped down to the ground matted by a puke-green carpet. It fell silent−unlike her unruly students.
    “Ok, class!” Mrs. Knox boomed. Softly treading across the front row, the words American History written in dusty white chalk appeared on the blackboard behind her. She continued her inquisition, “What is a melting pot?” she sternly asked, gaining the attention back. Slowly, the kids quieted down.
    Emmanuel scribbled out an answer, for notes. He knew it to be a tool of progression; those who marry outside of their race will battle society’s constant pull towards racism. For every race a child inherits, another point a view is born, but, this time, he wouldn’t share. He wasn’t alone.
“Anybody?” Mrs. Knox inquired, eyes narrowed in search of a brave hand.
“A melting pot is a salad or soup of people!” one kid finally shouted.
Her sites set on Emmanuel. (Dang) He took a small breath, hoping the guillotine of approval wasn’t lounging above head.
“Uh,” he said, searching around, “a melting pot brings variety to the nation. New arrivals gather into pockets filled with their own people and heritage. My father immigrated and went to Spanish barrio,” he replied, a little awkwardness stained the air after a serious response. The class stayed quiet, he was safe−for now.  
    A dark shadow of a hawk appeared. Its wings, shaped like boomerangs, must’ve flapped across melting white snow, slushy streets, and busy horns, before the 8:00 AM rising sun projected its grim shadow in the classroom. Emmanuel spotted its cryptic form obscured by sun, flying across Abe Lincoln’s honest face and out of site.
    A turn of his head told him otherwise. His friend stood at the window. A sharp gray beak with a yoke-yellow base, pointed right at him. He gazed at its brown marble eyes, black pupils glaring at him. Its head, resembling a scoop of rocky road ice cream, made sprinkler stops as it twitched around on top of its mocha-feathered body. As it perched, Emmanuel violently resisted the urge to jump up and scream outloud {Save me!}.  
    Mrs. Knox sent a kid outside for speaking his mind. She intended to prove a point about the fist of power, the flux of negative consequences through slavery, and above all, silencing opposition. Emmanuel bent his neck, sideways, left and right, producing a series of cracks. Only he could hear them. Everyone shouted his or her own opinions after Mrs. Knox asked, “How are you affected by slavery.” Bobby Newmark sternly responded, “My father says slavery is just an over-discussed gossip topic from yesterdays newspaper.” Of coarse−that meant war−soon after James, licking his lips, lowered his brows, and then proudly declared, “Your father is an idiot.”
     There would be no peace. A slue of angry voices filled the air, the voice of reason had nothing to say. Neither did Emmanuel, he sat slouched, watching, and silently wishing. A gentle frame, sweet and calm, lured his eyes to follow; a blink would mean missing his only crush. He hadn’t really met any girls his age yet. However, she was above them anyway−smart, funny, attractive, and most of all, the most wonderful being on planet earth.
    Thirty minutes later, he snapped out of a daydream about a wonderful dinner date, and wiped his corner lip (plotting to embarrass him by drooling). He completely missed most of the topic. In the center, Mrs. Knox opened a new discussion to the floor.
    “Ok, class, what’s the difference between a role model and a leader?” she asked, surveying with her hazel color-contacts for signs of a response.
    Emmanuel looked away. He wouldn’t stick his neck out anymore. He knew well the negatives of leadership though. A role model, in contrast, could change the world. It’s like a group of friends, he thought, and only one kid doesn’t drink or smoke; the rest do. The sober one doesn’t speak much, though; he provides a successful example of a cleaner side of life. The other’s free will determines how they should live. Case in point being, an avenue was opened towards the right direction, not forced, but recognized as an opportunity proven to be successful. Should an outside force tempt the ill fated towards demise, perhaps a car accident under the influence, or a loss of one’s parent’s apartment due to noise pollution from excessive partying−the damned will reach rock bottom. Some will continue to dwell in the past, and, without a lesson learned, they will repeat their mistakes. For the others, a yellow brick road was already created by the sober footsteps of a well-known friend. In which case, he’ll provide assistance, remembering a time when perhaps he himself was at a low point, and true progress will be made. In contrast, a leader simply forces his views on others, should he be right or wrong, people will only step as far as he is willing to carry them.  
“Emmanuel,” Mrs. Knox queried.
His heart stopped. He must have drifted off again.
“Can you get me an eraser from the office?” she asked, her mature voice warmed his ear.    
“Uh. Sure, Mrs. K,” he answered back, blinking his eyes.
    Saved−he stepped out the door and into the hallway. Rusty silver handles, and old baby blue lockers flaking tiny chips of paint, led the way to the principles gloomy private office placed at the end of the hall. Unfortunately, it was a very short way. Mrs. K’s class wasn’t too far−fifteen regular steps. He knew because he logged the journey once before. It would however stave off absolute boredom for a few more minutes.
“Hey Paul,” he said.
“Sup.”
“How long you gotta stay out here man?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yea.”
    A toad green sticker grabbed Emmanuel’s eye while treading through the empty hall, it was one of Phillips designs. It read, “I think best with a guitar in my hand.”  He chuckled, “good old Phil,” he softly chanted. Everybody knew Phil: revolutionary, sixty-year-old guitarist, piano player, and a spiritual leader/janitor. “You don’t have to know anything,” he would say, “Forget your thoughts, remember your dreams. World peace can be achieved with peace of mind.”  He wore a hippy green beanie, and a silver goatee. Emmanuel never heard him claim to be smart, though he remembers overhearing Phil was a Zen master, or a Zen Buddha, or something Zenful.
    He pressed on, slowing his steps. The office drew near. Class was even duller since Milton was expelled. That kid had views on the world. He never showed off, a bit eccentric too. Maybe, in another world, brilliant kids wouldn’t carry pipe bombs in their backpacks. Plus, the kid made Emmanuel laugh (not easy to do). They would’ve made a good pair of pals, but he guessed it wasn’t to be. Sometimes, he secretly wished a pocket of his own people would appear, or at least a group of friends he could melt into. Being too opinionated left him on the outside, and not sharing certainly wasn’t helping.
    Emmanuel shook his head. As old thoughts faded, a new idea appeared alongside a drama poster to his right. Next year he’ll join a club.