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.

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.”

THE CONSEQUENCES

The next thing I know I’m being blasted out of bed by Cat Scratch Fever! Freakin’ Ted Nugent, man.  What are they doing playing that on WABC radio anyway?! Especially at this time in the morning?! I had just intended to lie there in bed for a little bit to rest my eyes. Figure I’ll be way too pumped up to sleep. Instead, I wind up drifting into this freakin’ coma, before Nugent rudely and loudly smashes me into wide-eyed consciousness.  

So now, I’m out of it. Groggy. Headache. Pissed.  Everything annoys me! But there’s no way I’m missing school today - not this day.  Just an hour ago, I was racing down the street against the sunrise, battling to get in before my father gets up. Full of excitement and pride and secrets.  Now, I’m trudging up the same street (3rd Avenue), the morning sun glowing in my face. It’s piercing my eyelids, which are stuck together by what feels like a ton of sand. The ruckus of the cars whizzing by, honking at the rush hour, sends painful shrieks up my spine. It’s all too much. Sensory overload. I just want to get back to my nice dream world.

I’m beginning to wonder if all this shit that happened this weekend…did it really go down? The Savoy? Probably witnessing a murder while in a drug induced state? To say nothing of smoking ganja and drinking, for really the first time in my life?  Breaking into the school?  Creating a mural? Come to think of it - that’s a crime, man. That, and stealing Silverstein’s paints to put up a mural he doesn’t even want. I mean, realistically, the cops could even be at the school this very moment! Jeez.

I step warily into the school hallway - scoping the whole area. No cops, no FBI agents lurking around the doorways, brandishing handcuffs. So far. I breathe easy for a minute. I walk softly towards the art room, slowing way down to take a peek at what might be going on.  Good. Nobody in there yet.  Just Silverstein sitting at his desk, seemingly staring at the mural.  Wonder what he’s thinking? Sitting through that first period waiting for art class is torture.  Agony. It’s like waiting for that guillotine to come streaking down on my head. It’s inevitable. My thoughts then wander back to the French Revolution. I contemplate what those Frenchies might have been thinking about right before the blade descends…in half a second, your head would be rolling down the platform. Nasty. What would it be like to think in French, anyway? Would they be the same kind of thoughts English-speaking people had? Or would they be thinking about flamboulie, or pate, or whatever?

The bell for next period mercifully rings. Time to face my destiny. Again. As I shuffle half-hesitantly, half-anxiously, down the hall towards the art room, I hear this major commotion.  

What the hell is going on?

A FINISHED PRODUCT

This Sunday night is our last one, and we’re back in the art room. This is it - nights to put the finishing touches on our masterpiece!! Rummaging through his huge ring of keys again, Na-Na picks out a distinctive looking gold one, the smallest key in the pack, and heads over to Silverstein’s art closet. I’m puzzled, because I know that nobody has that key. Silverstein was the only one who had that, and he guarded it like Zell, the Nazi dentist from the movie, The Marathon Man, guarded his diamond stash. Maybe that’s what I’ll call Silverstein from now on - Zell.  Ha, yeah he’d like that. Zell.

Na-Na opens it up, the closet - and I can’t believe what I see! More colors than I could ever imagine. Some of which I had never seen or even heard of before. Bright colors.

Tangerine. Sky Blue. Burnt Auburn. Teal.  Bright pink, and that’s just to name a few.  Cans, and tubes and tubes of brand new paint. What the hell was Zell doing? Hoarding paint for his old age, or something?! This is ridiculous. I look over at Na-Na. He’s smiling like he’s just scored a pound of heroin. For free.  We set up everything, and hungrily divide up the paint, like we’re gangsters from those old, Superman TV shows, after a bank heist.

“Listen, Peanuts - one for you and one for me, see?”

We do our spliff thing, and I get up on that ladder feeling giddy and free, a myriad of fresh paint at my disposal.

Etta James is again wailing away in the background, and everything eventually just morphs into a sea of bright colors. It becomes almost psychedelic, the high from the ganja turning it all into a dreamy ambiance.

In my imagination, I’m one of those hipster artists from, like, the 1920s or 30s, wearing a beret, and hanging in the Cotton Club, or one of those funky speakeasies in Harlem. Great black musicians jamming, the energy wild, intense, and cutting edge. You feel, somehow, like you’re either watching history - or making it.

I don’t even know where all these images are coming from. Maybe from some of those old photos I saw in that jazz book the Professor was showing me a while back? All I do know is that I am so locked in. What had before just been outlines and forms, are now coming to life with depth and clarity. As I mix the array of paints, I find just the right shade for Esperanza’s skin tone

Again, we work through the whole night, and when dawn hits, we know we got to get out of here. It’s Monday morning, and the staff will soon be arriving. We finish up as best we can - mine all bright colors and flash, a testimony to love and beauty. Na-Na’s masterpiece recreating the darkness of that night, of that world. Violent, muted colors, with brilliant splashes of red creating a metaphorical contrast. Somehow, though, it meshes - the two pieces. The opposites say something, are connected in a sort of profound way. Although, it is far from perfect. I mean, I don’t think you can ever be totally satisfied, but I believe we both came away with a deep sense of achievement. We’ve created something meaningful in only about eighteen intense hours. Yeah.

I leaf through, The Prophet, which I had brought along with me this time, and I begin searching for something to jump out at me. Something that would tie up the significance of the whole thing. I find something interesting under the heading, Speak To Us of Beauty.

“Where shall you seek beauty, and how shall you find her, unless she herself be your Way and your Guide?

 And how shall you speak of her, except that she be the weaver of your speech?”

I ponder that for a few minutes, letting it soak in, and circulate through me. Alas, it doesn’t strike me in a way that really summarizes what I’m trying to say. It just doesn’t hit it. With dawn pouring in, I decide to put down the first words that pop into my head. It’s a phrase that comes from an Etta James tune, one that really touched me.

At Last, I Found a Dream That I Could Speak To.

Na-Na writes down:

By Whatever Means Necessary.

I don’t know where he gets that from, and have no inkling how much I will become connected to it later on.

“Hey Na, man, check it out - should we sign our names?”

He stares at me for a couple of seconds.

“I mean, we’ll be totally busted if we do.”

A defiant smirk crosses his face.

“Let’s do it.”

We sign, clean up the paint, I snap a few pictures with my mother’s Polaroid Instant Camera I had carried with me. Then we gas out of there, to get maybe an hour of sleep before I have to return. No way I’m going to miss this morning.