Margins

Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, people, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to a real event, place, or person, alive or dead, is a coincidence. [ii]

      One week after the fire: Senior administration and the board had met, and they had decided to "take the bull by the horns," to quote Geronimo. "The Ministry of Education has been telling districts for years to set up programs that work for at-risk kids. So let's do Don's program justice." That was Geronimo's theme for the meeting.
      He had normalized his sugar levels. He looked well again as we waited in the newly painted portable--beige walls, white window and door trim, and two oddly yellow entrance/exit doors--that had sat as a dusty warehouse for junk for years. Discarded driver training simulators. Scaffolding pieces. Bags of fertilizer. Worn-out desks. Ancient-looking window frames leaning against one wall. Cyanide-treated lumber. Et cetera. All removed. This was Monday morning. The portable had been moved from the district maintenance yard outside of town to this location on Mergenstern High "property," but far enough from the school to give our students "'breathing room,'" Geronimo said, quoting Jeffrey of all people.
      "Jeffrey said that?" I asked, as we moved about the room, inspecting the surprising newness of the desks, my own desk, the rug, empty shelves ready for actual textbooks that had been ordered. "I'm surprised he said that."
      "I think he was constipated too long, and now he's had a bowel movement."
      "I'm glad to hear that." I stepped toward my large wooden desk. The voice mail machine was blinking red. "My phone number hasn't changed," I understand. I pushed the "Messages" button:
      "Heyyyy. Donnnn. Sorry I'm going to miss the first day in our new classroom, but I'm drunk. Ha! Aye? See you Tuesday." The boy spoke as if he had a bulky sock in his mouth
      "That's a first," I said. "They're supposed to phone in if they're going to miss school. But that's a first."
      "At least he phoned," Geronimo said. "Who was it?"
      "Couldn't recognize the voice."
      "Well, he sounds trained, even when he's drunk."
      I wondered whether that were a triumph.
      I gazed up, pleasantly awe-struck by my surroundings, even if the portable was a couple of decades old. "You say we're getting a youth care worker to help the kids, to help them with their--"
      "Issues. These kids have issues, and now they'll get some help beyond math and science and English and socials."
      "Actually--"
      "I know you tried, Don. But now you'll get some help too."
      "Who's the youth care worker?"
      "I don't know. But Robert and Jeffrey scored a deal with the Ministry of Children and Families, and between them and the district, they came up with enough money to hire somebody. Apparently he's part Native, too."
      "That's going to help us encourage Native kids to attend?"
      "We visited enough chiefs and elders and families last week. Something's gotta give."
      "I wonder who this youth care worker is?"
      "Robert said we should be here at 8:00 to meet him."
      "Him."
      "Yes. And to discuss how we're going to run the program."
      "Yes. You're feeling better."
      "Yes. I'm not allowed to eat do-nuts anymore. White man's food. Poison."
      "They're bad for white people too."
       "Of course they are."
      In one corner, the portable actually had two bathrooms--each very small, but functional. Each had one toilet and a fan that vented to the outdoors. Progress! One bathroom for the boys, one for the girls.
      One of the two yellow doors opened. In walked a man I knew. Muscular. Dark-skinned. Thin lips.
      Geronimo introduced himself and then me.
      "We've already met," I said.
      "Yeah. We already met."
      "Your name?" Geronimo asked.
      "Tree. My name is Tree. And there's one thing I want to get straight before I start this job. If any of these kids want to know anything about my past, you can tell them it's none of their #%&6@!!! business."

Epilogue

      Ten years have passed since the fire.
      Geronimo didn't retire after all. "Somebody has to help the white man," he told me eight years ago, after I'd asked him, "What are you still doing here? I thought last year was supposed to be your last year."
      Tree worked with me for just over a year. That year is another book. The Book of Tree: Descent Into the Normalcy of Conflict. Then he died, wiped out his Harley one frosty morning, and slid into a truck hauling a tailor full of live chickens. The driver swerved to avoid Tree, jackknifed, and took out one corner of a fast food restaurant called The Burger Joint, Eat Til You Bust. Fortunately, neither people in the restaurant nor the truck driver got seriously hurt; unfortunately, Tree died of head injuries. He wasn't wearing a helmet, but people said his wearing one wouldn't have made any difference.
      Chickens invaded the restaurant, the parking lot, the highway. Chickens got run over. I hear that some headed into the forest behind the restaurant and eventually starved or froze to death.
      Anyway, Tree died.
      I've learned a few ropes, an old salt might say, about teaching troubled teenagers. The Academy of Alternate Teachers has invited me to run two workshops at its annual convention this winter in Vancouver, BC. I'm basing them on two articles I've written (Appendixes G and H). I'm a little anxious about the task. I hope I don't end up sounding like an idiot.
      Jacobina took four years to complete her final year of her social work degree, and now she works half time for The Ministry of Children and Families. Once a month she's on-call for one weekend to deal with family or child-related crises that come up.
      Actually, this sun-fired June afternoon, she's running a workshop herself. She's amazing. This very minute she's teaching other social workers about the need for them to set a good example for their clients. I can't quite believe she's basing the workshop on 1 Peter 2:21.
      "We need to model responsible behaviour," she told me last night, as we enjoyed the quiet of the evening, meaning the girls were asleep. "If we're going to help people live better lives, we need to live what we say."
      "You're actually going to tell your fellow colleagues that if they smoke they should quit because smoking sets a poor example?"
      In our background a late-night newsman spoke about a hurricane that was one hour from Florida.
      "Yes," she said. "Why not?"
      My wife has guts.
      Darlene's friend, Beatarillino, I'm sad to say, died. An anorexic-induced heart attack, we heard. I still see her riding about with us in our Oldsmobile ten years ago, heading to Grandma's house. Her story is another book, but not one I'm going to write. I'd have to immerse myself in too much sadness, I'm afraid.
      Darlene is studying chemistry at The University of Central British Columbia. Karen, now in grade twelve, might go into social work, like her mother. Clarissa hates school, says "It's stupid," but won't elaborate; and Machteld, well, she's in grade seven, and her favourite subject: peer tutoring. She loves helping younger students with their reading and math. But her favourite students to work with are the kindergarteners. She's helping the kindergarten teacher at her school manage a toyless classroom. Apparently a number of psychologists and educators in Austria, Germany, and Switzerland believe the sooner people learn social skills in life the less likely they will develop food, tobacco, drug, or alcohol addictions later. Without toys, the kids treat each other as resources, and what do you know, they learn social skills. Interesting. Machteld finds the concept fascinating.
      Maybe she'll become a teacher, maybe a psychologist. We'll see.
      She got through that call-me-Nancy stage. Thanks to Jacobina. She spent a lot of time with Machteld.
      I love my wife.
      I said ten years have passed since the fire. One hundred and thirty-five kids have graduated from my program in those years. I'm happy to say that meeting the academic and socio-emotional needs of troubled students works. Most of them graduate. Five years ago the district drew together all the local secondary alternate programs, and now we work in one school, a renovated recreational centre: one principal (Geronimo), one half-time secretary, four teachers, four youth care workers, and one part-time custodian. The district calls the school The Shyswamik Valley Alternate Centre. I guess I can't really say "my program" anymore. We're a team, our staff. I should say one hundred and thirty-five kids have graduated from "our program."
      Presently, 62% of our student body is Aboriginal. The word Aboriginal, I might add, doesn't seem to offend any of them. Geronimo and I, before the alternate centre opened its doors, had frequently visited chiefs, elders, parents, and Band Office workers, to encourage confidence in our program. Geronimo did most of the talking. People we met usually looked unsure about whether they trusted me.
      One chief, an old man with eyes that twinkled, asked Geronimo, "Is this white man your cousin?"
      I grinned inside myself, wondering what Geronimo would say.
      "If this white man were my cousin," he said, "he'd be your brother."
      The old chief almost smirked. "If you're my brother, then you'd better stay for supper. Enjoy our reservation's hospitality. We have a new shipment of fresh beef
jerky from Los Angeles."
      Geronimo asked if it had good preservatives.
      The chief said they were white man's preservatives, so he couldn't be sure.
In the first year of our secondary alternate school's operation, a few First Nations students entered the programs, here and there, and the success of some of them gave our school some, although not a lot, of credibility in their social and family circles. Then The Shyswamik Valley First Nations Centre (Appendix F) opened. The Centre provided First Nations youth care workers, First Nations support workers, and traditional activities such as the powwow, potlatch, sweats, smear, and peace pipe. The staff addressed personal and family issues, making home visits, even to the local reservations to work out academic solutions with students' families. The school began, on day one, with First Nations students occupying seven percent of the student population. Now, Aboriginal students see fellow Aboriginal students in mass. They have a voice in how the school is run: Some sit on the school council. Most stay until they graduate.
      That paragraph is another book, with some sad stories, but with some wonderful ones too.
      And some humorous ones. Yesterday, Constable Artworth, a young woman with a furled brow, visited each classroom. Geronimo introduced her to my class as "the liaison officer for the school. If you have any problems, any legal problems, that you want to talk about, this young woman will help you out."
      Constable Artworth swallowed.
      Richard, an 18-year-old Aboriginal student with long braids and reading comprehension at about a grade two level, who nevertheless seems happy about who he is, said, "Did you know that somebody's hot-boxed the boys' bathroom?" His mischievous eyes watched her every gesture. "Yeah, you and the principal should go down three, gather some evidence. Maybe you can arrest some students. Ha!"
      Constable Artworth appeared stiff. She looked at Geronimo, and she was going to say something when Dusty, chewing on a potato chip, said, "Maybe somebody took a crap. Sometimes when I take a crap it smells like marijuana."
      "Yeah," Richard said. "Sometimes when I take a crap it smells like marijuana too."
      Geronimo put up a good front for the constable. "Dusty and Richard, those are inappropriate comments, but thank you for using a synonym."
      Dusty stuck up his thumb. "You know it, Mr. Geronimo. I'm here for the synonyms."
      "Sometimes my crap does smell like pot," Richard said, playing with one of his long braids.
      Constable Artworth said nothing. She blinked and swallowed.
      At my desk, I hid my face behind a book called I'm Okay, But You're not so Hot. I hid because I didn't want anybody to see that I was losing myself to laughter.
      Arlene ran through the ranks of The Student Support Department, which she now heads. We occasionally see each other at meetings, sometimes chuckling about the good old days, like the day someone jumped on her car hood, and the day Xurxo and his parents brought his dead grandpa to school. But we don't mention that other day, the day of the arrow and fire.
      Tom quit. I'm not sure Robert could have fired him, but he quit anyway. I heard he joined the Hari Krishna movement in Vancouver, BC.
      Sylwia, I heard, was arrested after Tom's house had mysteriously caught fire, shortly after The Barn had burned down. Apparently, she set his--it was hers, too, I guess--house aflame, fortunately while he was not at home. Although firemen saved the house, Tom's talking parakeet died of smoke inhalation. I heard that Sylwia was arrested at The Casino Palace Beer Parlor, where she, drunk, had been bragging to anyone who would listen that she had set her husband's house on fire and that she was going to burn down his "bitch girlfriend's house" before the sun rose.
      As for Pavlos, I never saw nor heard of him again. I frequently feel sick about his leaving town--escaping town, really. I hope he is alive, but I hope more that he is doing something useful with his life.
      I'm seated in the recliner, using my laptop, my very old Toshiba 225CDS, putting together an outline for the workshops. I'm alone. Hurrah! The girls will all be home from school soon enough. Jacobina will be home soon too. I love them all, of course. I still joke with them that when the last girl leaves home that I'm going to a de-tox centre to get de-hair-sprayed. They still roll their eyes at me a lot. But I guess if they can put up with me, I can put up with them.
      Anyway, a little aloneness feels good at times.
      Hurrah!
      We're all heading to Jim's for supper tonight. He and Lois, his wife, invited us over for a barbecue. I have to admit we're all a little nervous. But all the girls agreed to go, even Darlene, who has plenty of studying on her plate.
      Yesterday Jacobina said, "I hope these people don't think we're joining up."
      "I don't think they let people just join up," I said. "Anyway, it'll be an adventure."
      "Don't you have enough adventure teaching those students of yours?"
      "I guess not," I said.

Post Script

Post Post Script

      I am just about to leave for work, at 8:00 a.m., and the phone rings. "NAME UNKNOWN" and "NUMBER UNKNOWN" read the call display.
      "Hello," I say.
      "Don? Don Landers?"
      "Yes."
      "Uilliam. Do you remember me? Uilliam."
      Uilliam who had enormous lips and whose cabin blew up. "Yes, Uilliam, of course I remember you. What are you doing these days?"
      "I'm a pilot. I fly freight all over BC, even into the Northwest Territories. I'm flying to Kamloops this evening, and then back early tomorrow. Maybe you'd like to come for the ride. I'll let you sit in the co-pilot's seat."
      "You're heading to Kamloops, today?"
      "Yeah. You wanna come for the ride? Bring a bottle of whiskey. We'll party in Kamloops. Ha! Whatta you say, teach?"
      "Uilliam, thanks for the invitation. I think that's wonderful that you're a pilot. But I can't make the trip."
      "You'll have a blast. Come on. You can see how good I can fly a plane. I've flown thousands of hours, you know."
      "That's great, Uilliam. I'm happy for you. But I can't go. Really, I can't make it."
      "You're missing out on a good time, Don."
      "I know."
      "A really good time."
      "I know."
      "Your loss."
      We say good-bye.
      "Who was that?" Jacobina asks, peering out the bathroom while still brushing her hair for work.
      "A student from ten years ago. He's a pilot. Wants me to take a plane ride with him in a freight plane to Kamloops and party tonight and drink whiskey."
      "Are you going?"
      "Yeah. I'm going."
      "Well, I guess that's your choice, party animal."
      "Whose a party animal?" Machteld asks, exiting the girls' bedroom. Four girls still share one room.
      "Me, apparently. Let's get you to school, beautiful, so I'm not late."
      Darlene, Karen, and Clarissa have already left in Darlene's twenty-year-old Toyota. I look forward to their return, so we can continue our Monday night writing hour. Jacobina, the girls, and I spend a little time brainstorming story ideas for children's stories each Monday evening. So far I've written up six of the stories (Appendix I). Author: Et al. We sip Earl Grey tea, like Captain Picard of the USS enterprise, and dream up scenes, half scenes, plots, themes, and characters. Even though they often laugh at my "crazy" ideas, I find the lateral-thinking ecstasy of the time together exhilarating. I think they find the time hysterically ridiculous.
      "I get to work with the kindergartens this morning."
      "They're lucky to have you."
      "Yeah. Right, Dad."
      I kiss Jacobina good-bye for work.
      I love my wife. I love my girls.
      I love Monday nights, and I love my job.

Book IV: Marginalia

Appendix F

First Nations Education in Shyswamik Now,
Cultural Genocide in Canada Then

Appendix G

What Can the Student Imagine?

Appendix H

The Master Teacher

Appendix I

Six Children's Stories

Copyright © 2005. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without written permission from the author. You may contact the author at landersdon@hotmail.com. <Back>

Footnotes:

Academic Exchange Extra invites reader response to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.

------------------------------ Page Citation Reference:
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Margins © [i]

30

THE TOLL BRIDGE

Epilogue

THE THINKER