THE SHOWDOWN

There is a stunned silence in the artroom when it is revealed the mural was done by Na-Na and Joey - a sense of disbelief and the tension of escalating violence permeates the room.

Then there’s a laugh, and another, and another. Now, the whole room combusts into a festival of merriment, palm slapping and congratulations.

“My man be a wild mofucka an’ shit!”

Yo, Na-Na, the man, G! Yeah, go ‘head wit it, brother!”

“Mmm-hmm! Dig that!” the chorus exploded.

The white kids peek at each other in strained silence, more in the dark than ever. In the space of about ninety seconds, the tension has now transformed into a kind of - celebration. Now the whiteys start laughing this sort of forced nervous laughter. Maybe, subconsciously hoping it would appease the black kids.

Silverstein, who’s been watching this whole drama in an apparent silent and simmering horror, now seizes the opportunity to assert his authority.

“Ok, alright - everybody’s had a good chance to admire the mural already, right?  So let’s all just move to our appointed rounds now, ok? If you want to come back again after school, fine, but (at this point he shoots me a nasty glance), it will be being replaced very shortly, for another project that had been previously planned for this class.”

I close my eyes. Oh no, Silverstein! What are you doing?!

An immediate hush, as the black kids stare at Silverstein aghast, then among each other. Stanley Hayward is the first to threaten.

“Yo, you best keep that shit up there, white man, less you want some fired up niggas ‘round here!”

That was the catalyst. Now everybody starts protesting and yelling, as the once-again angry mob turns on Silverstein, who it seems is just now realizing the full gravity of his idiocy.

WHAM! Somebody turns a desk over.

CRASH! The big table is overturned.

Now the whole place is getting smashed - and we know we’re fucking doomed. Noise, chaos, cussing and screaming ensue.

At that exact second, Mr. Rice, the principal, and Hoss, the security guard, come rushing in. They are quickly followed by this wiry, light-skinned black guy, someone I had never seen before.

Amidst all the madness in the room, he stands up in front, calmly puts up his hands, and in this intense, yet somehow soothing voice, says:

“My brothers, my brothers, cool out now, let’s cool out.  Tell me, what’s going on?”

Miraculously, the black kids just totally abort their rampage, as if some giant plug has just been pulled out of the video arcade.

Then a few seconds later, somebody puts the plug back in - they all start hollering and cussing again.  Some want to push on, and complete the destruction of the room. Others just want to destroy the cowering white kids.

“OK - which one of you intelligent brothers wants to represent?”

Rodney Slaughter strides forward, and points up at the mural.

“Yo, this was painted by a brother, for the brothers! For the black man’s culture. Black man ain’t got nothing in this school, man…they got paintings of all these white men, slave owners, all over this mothafucka! Dig, check it out, man, look around you…slave days be over, brother!”

A wave of cheers and anger surges out over the room.  

“Dig it, brother!  Right on!” Aiight Rodney!”

Michael Taylor steps up.

“Now, this white man wants to paint over our painting, wit’ mo shit for the white boys! Ain’t gonna happen this time, blood! Black man done had enough!

 Sho’nuff! adamant hollers back him up.

The mysterious yellow-skinned guy glances over at Mr. Rice, who quickly replies.

“Nobody is going to paint over that mural - nobody! You have my word on that. My promise. This is here to stay.”

“Word is bond my brothers. Now let’s everybody go back to our classes,” assures the mystery man.  

A tense minute follows. The black kids are collectively eyeing each other with measured glances. They’re probably trying to figure if they should trust this guy, trust again after many broken promises. In an instant, they start milling out in unison, hugging and slapping palms, joyous over their apparent victory. They’ve won the stand-off.

I can’t believe it, but on the way out, a few of them even pat me on the back and slap my shoulder, nodding approval of my work. Then they are gone. Just like that, it’s if the whole incident had never happened. The room is moribund. I scan the area. The white kids are wearing expressions like people who’d been aboard the Hindenburg, and had just, somehow, escaped with their lives.  

As they gaze up at the mural and back among each other, a sudden flash of insight pierces through my consciousness. Perhaps, it is that they’re actually more disturbed by the realization that it is Na-Na Johnson who’s created this mural. More than that they were just about to be trampled upon just now. I mean, Na-Na Johnson? To them, I guess, he’s just some crazy spook you have to watch out for in the hall. The one that stabbed you with his umbrella. They didn’t take him at all seriously, otherwise.  

Now, is there no sacred space left untouched? I just know they felt that. The art room had been the only place, the last bastion of art, civility and humanity, against the onslaught of the black kids. To think that a maniac such as Na-Na Johnson, had busted in this last pristine remaining territory was discouraging. What was probably even more disturbing to them (though I’m sure nobody would consciously admit it to themselves), was that not only had he trespassed into this sanctuary, but that he also had created something that far surpassed what they could even conceptualize. Let alone execute. They just kind of had to sit there in a kind of stunned, horrified resignation.