My Reents’ classroom feels like a compendium of philosophers and artists gathered beneath the Doric penumbra at Parthenon. We are arguing . We are encouraging Debate. Today we talk about Gay rights. We discuss the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy currently evolving in the military. Kim Robinson whom I attended grade school with says it is vital to note t hat God created Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. In Mr. Reent's class we are getting ready for the first debate. We are breaking off into groups of four. We are to learn the issue and argue pro or con against the issue at stake. It is a mock courtroom. At the end of the Debate often the teacher will have the class vote, as sort of a jury, to see who wins.
I have already called my topic. It is censorship, primarily culled from when I was interviewed last summer outside co-cop records during the Ice-T cop killer fiasco last summer.
Mr. Reents keeps telling us that we need to get to Bradley library. He talks about how it has been refurbished. He talks about how public friendly it is. He tells us again to get to Bradley library to do research. We are breaking off into teams. I have Amy Gorman and Amy Wherli and a football layer who is taking our class even though he is a sophomore. We are finding a time in the middle of the week to go.
We are going to meet there.
I nod again. I have not seen with Renae since my father told me we were no longer allowed to see each other. I keep the picture of Renae in my wallet, on me full time, as if it is some sort of pictorial identification, as if she is a drivers license, a passport, I tell peers that I am dating a woman who goes to Limestone, who attends the school cross town that is purportedly fraught with promise, that is almost 96 percent Caucasian, that the kids have blonde hair and for some reason futures. The school where none of the kids go who have babies.
At lunch Patrick is still spending every waking second talking about Amy.
“It’s going to be so cool, I’m going to be going to Limestone and I’m already dating a hot girl.”
I nod.
“I mean, dude man, she’s not as hot as Renae but she’s still pretty smoking. You and Renae really have something special.”
I nod again. I have not seen with Renae since my father told me we were no longer allowed to see each other. I keep the picture of Renae in my wallet, on me full time, as if it is some sort of pictorial identification, as if she is a drivers license, a passport, I tell peers that I am dating a woman who goes to Limestone, who attends the school cross town that is purportedly fraught with promise, that is almost 96 percent Caucasian, that the kids have blonde hair and for some reason futures. The school where none of the kids go who have babies.
No comments:
Post a Comment