THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION

So it’s the next morning after me and Na-Na put the mural up over the weekend, and I’m just waiting for the INEVITABLE reaction.

I step it up, entering the art room to find this crowd of kids all gathered around the mural, gazing up at it in astonishment. Not only the kids that were regular students in the class, but all these other kids too, including a number of black kids, who I’m sure had never even set foot in there before.

 They’re all gawking at it like they’re witnessing The Immaculate Conception, or something. Completely puzzled about how this could have suddenly appeared over the weekend.

The black kids are screaming out to their friends in the corridor, to come in and check out “the brothers” up on the wall. And now the din is really growing raucous. They’re even more confused than the white kids about the whole thing, because they can’t figure out how some white boys could have possibly painted this.

Silverstein is glaring at me in this stern silence, obviously annoyed by all the buzz. He really dislikes it when the quiet routine of class is disturbed, and I know he wants to come down on me - hard.

“Alright, alright, everybody! This is a classroom, please!” He’s shouting, in that pinched nasal voice of his.

“Let’s all calm down now, and go to our classes - I’m sure you all have other assignments to attend to!  You can come back after school today if you want to see it, but let’s move on! C’mon! Let’s go! Vamoose!”

He’s trying to make himself heard over the mess, but nobody is listening. Now, he’s becoming extremely red.

The black kids continue bounding in, hollering about this monument to “their culture.” There had never been anything like this in the school before. No tributes to black folk, famous or otherwise. While there were plenty of paintings and portraits of people like George Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and Kennedy. This is a first, no matter how it’s gotten there, and they’re all vocal about that. Suddenly, from out of the chaos, a loud shriek rings out.

“Oh shit! Thass Duke in that mofucker! Thass my uncle!  Mofuckers done kilt my uncle!”

“Oooh, Bobby - thass true! That be D’s face an’ shit!” exclaims the distinctive voice of Chuckie Jefferson, who sounds just like a crow.

Abruptly, the mood turns from a spirited curiosity, to one of rapidly brewing violence. You could just feel the seething tension rising up. One by one, other confirmations loudly join in, till a chorus of echoes spreads through the room.

“Yo, they fragged Duke!”

“Sure ‘nuff! That be his face!”

“Yeah, Bobby, thass him.¨
      ” Oh shit!  Some mofucker gonna pay for that - big time!”

I don’t really understand what’s going on now, you never really know what would set the black kids off. I mean, was this guy Duke everybody’s uncle, or what?

The suddenly outnumbered white kids have even less of an idea of what’s going on. Only that they’re reluctantly involved in something that they want no part of. Their bulging eyes vainly scope about for an escape hatch.

The black kids are howling now, working themselves up into some kind of tribal frenzy, as they advance on the flustered honkies. Just as it appears inevitable that a riot is about to break -

“Yo, yo, hold up, y’all!  Hol’ up!  Says here Na-Na Johnson painted this!  Yo, look, check it out! That be his signature an’ shit!”

Haley Cummings, one of the calmer of the black kids, detects our John Hancock’s up there, and is pointing up at them. For a minute, everything halts.  People even stop breathing, as it seems we all go into a kind of suspended animation.

“Say what?”

“Na-Na? Na-Na Johnson?!”

“Yo Chigger, you mus’ be buggin, man! Ain’t no mo’fuckin’ Na-Na Johnson paint this shit!”

“Yeah! Nigger, please!”

“Nah brothers, check it out!  Check it out!”

“Oh shit, J.B! Thass what it say right here! Nigga be right!”

“Nah, dig it man, thass them white boys, tryin’ to be fuckin’ wit’ our heads and…”

“Homeboy - ain't no white boys could paint that shit!”

They return their stares over to the frozen white kids, who are even more bewildered now than before, as they huddle together, and try to retreat.

“Dig it, blood, that shit be just too fierce for no white boy to do”

The white kids agree heartily, some of them even nodding in agreement.

“Some other name be up here too…Joe Mon-t-aperto- Mon-t-aperto - who that be?!”

All the white kid’s eyes turn immediately in my direction, relieved to be shifting the burden over to me.

“That mo’ fucka?”  A few blurt out in unison.

“Yeah…its – it’s me…”

“Say whaaat?”

“I’m… um - Joe Montaperto (I tried to sound calm and steady). Yeah, Na-Na and me - we came in here over the weekend…we did this mural. But I don’t know nothin’ about that guy…I just painted that girl over there on the other side.”