“Have you seen the Rough Rider today?” Jean asks, when I meet up with her near the water fountain. Shaking my head, Jean hands me a copy of the school newspaper. “Can you believe it? After they printed that nice article on GSA, all hell broke loose. Wait until you read all these nasty notes to the editor about our club.”
“I’ll read them in class,” I say, hurrying off to Senior English. While Mrs. Harrison is reviewing on the board the key elements of our next essay, I pull the newspaper out from under my book and begin to read: I think it’s disgusting that a homosexual club has been formed on our campus. Those people are sick and they need help, not a club.
The next letter is even worse: The Bible says homosexuality is a sin. In Lev. 18:22, it states: “Thou shalt not lie with mankind as with womankind. It is an abomination.” Homosexuality is a sin. Someone is not born a homosexual, but is born in sin. God says continued sin is addictive and is wrong. We don’t need a club on our campus to promote this sinfulness. Come join our Christian group and God will help you change your life and find peace.
Both of the letters are signed, but with no last name. Now I understand why Jean was upset. I’m surprised by the next letter, which is supportive: We live in a country where everyone is entitled to freedom of thought and speech, so I think anyone who is gay has a right to form a club to express their views.
My satisfaction is short-lived, for the next letter presents another vicious attack on our club and anyone who is gay. This one really makes me mad. It blatantly states all homosexuals are deviants that need psychiatric help. Once again, the Bible is quoted to support the idea that homosexuality is a sin. The letter ends by stating that clubs like GSA denigrate the Son of God. Crumpling up the newspaper, I focus my attention back on Mrs. Harrison’s lecture.
At lunch time, I join Tyrone, Maya and Ankiza at Foster Freeze. As soon as we’re seated at a booth with our orders, the conversation turns to the hateful letters. “Man, they’re out for blood,” Tyrone says.
“That’s no surprise to me,” Maya states, glancing at Ankiza. “Remember years back when someone left that hateful letter at your locker?”
“I’ll never forget that,” Ankiza says, reaching for some chili fries. “I guess I naively thought things had improved at Roosevelt.”
“Are you kidding?” Maya says with her usual cynicism. “Ever since GSA was formed, all the bigots have banded together, trying to poison everyone with their hatefulness. I can’t stand it.”
“Hey, Tommy,” Tyrone interrupts. “If anyone tries anything, remember Rudy and I’ve got your back.”
Not Rudy, I think to myself. He hasn’t come to a single meeting. Oh, well, screw him. Before I can respond to Tyrone, Maya says, “That’s all we need, for the Macho Men to start a fight. Ty, that’s not the way to do it and you know it.”
Now Tyrone smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I know, but Jim Reese and some of his buddies could sure use some asskicking.”
“Maya’s right,” I finally interject. “It’s best to stay calm. Use our brains.”
Ankiza pauses from eating her fries to say, “You know, at our meeting last week, Marsea brought up the idea of organizing a forum.”
Maya’s face suddenly takes on an intense look that reminds me of her Professor Mom. “That’s exactly what we need—a forum with speakers. That way, we could address all this anti-gay rhetoric.”
“That’s my babe,” Tyrone says, nibbling on Maya’s ear.
“I’ll mention it to Jean before our next meeting,” I agree, feeling hopeful and more grateful than ever for my supportive friends. Now, if only Rudy could be like that.
At Cesar Chávez Elementary School, I know exactly where to find Mario’s classroom. As I open the door, I can hear excited kid voices. All of the desks have been rearranged in clusters of three and the students are working on brightly colored piñatas of all shapes and sizes. The moment he spots me, Mario rushes to my side. In Spanish, he insists, “Come see my piñata. Mr. Sims says it’s one of the best.”
I follow Mario to his desk where two little girls are working on their own piñatas that are shaped like sea animals. They giggle when I say hello to them. Holding up his odd-shaped turquoise-blue piñata, Mario eagerly explains, “It’s a guitar. My dad loves to play the guitar.”
I compliment Mario on his piñata as Mr. Sims appears at our side. “We’re doing a cultural unit on Cinco de Mayo. We go over the history, then we make piñatas.”
“That’s really nice,” I say, thinking to myself how important it is that kids are learning about the historical significance of Cinco de Mayo. When I was in grade school, it was mostly about George Washington and the pilgrims.
As I follow him to his desk for today’s math worksheets, Mr. Sims explains, “Mario’s stuck on these word problems, but I know it’s only because he doesn’t know English. Would you please help him translate?”
“Sure thing,” I say, instructing Mario to follow me to the same table in the back.
“I got an A on my last multiplication test,” Mario proudly confesses as we sit down.
“Terrific,” I tell him, focusing my attention on the first word problem: A new school bought magic markers for all of the classrooms. There are six markers in each package and each box of markers contains 4 packages. How many markers are there in four boxes?
As soon as I translate the problem in Spanish for Mario, he gives me the correct answer. Next, I ask him to read the problem back to me in English, which he does, but not without struggling with the pronunciation. “Why don’t you write some of these words down so that you can practice them at home?” I suggest. I wait until Mario’s finished before I move on to the next word problem. This one is about counting plastic straws, only I don’t know the Spanish word for straws. When I explain this to Mario, he repeats the word, “popotes.” I can tell he’s pleased to teach me a word in Spanish. Once again, Mario gives me the correct answer to the word problem. After he reads the problem out loud, I have Mario repeat a few key words and phrases like “How many?” I then have him write out the words in English.
“My mom has straws at home for my baby sister,” Mario shares, as he writes the word “straw” in his notebook several times so that he won’t forget it. “Do you have a baby sister?” he asks, gazing up at me.
“Are you kidding? I have two. Amanda’s the baby, she’s nine and María is an eleven-year-old monster.”
Mario chuckles, admitting he also has a brother, who is in first grade.
By the time Mr. Sims announces that it’s time to go home, Mario and I have completed the last worksheet. Reminding him to practice his list of English words, I say goodbye to Mario. I hurry out of the classroom before I get trampled on by the little people who are racing to put their things away. As I head back down the hallway, I think about how rewarding it is to work with young kids, especially with someone like Mario who looks up to me. All of a sudden, I find myself wondering if maybe I should become a teacher. The thought never entered my mind until today. I always thought I wanted to be an architect or a graphic designer. Now I’m not so sure.