in fewer than 140 characters: Join the march against homework. 8 a.m. Friday. Lafayette park.
Guess who lives across the street from that park. The president!
We boost our advertising with a new YouTube video, which we shoot at this jazz bar Mr. Kalman knows. I play Bob Marley’s “Get Up, Stand Up” on the piano while Sean and Jaesang make up new lyrics: “Get up, stand up, it’s in the Bill of Rights. / We got to gather, together. In peace to show our might. / So stand up, boot up, join the Homework Fight.”
All across the country kids post a single word on their Instagrams: “March.” Brothers and sisters work together on handmade NO HOMEWORK signs. Kids close to DC hop on bikes, boards, and blades. Their parents have no choice but to follow. On CNN we learn that a girl from Pennsylvania hijacked her school bus and they’re on the way.
On Friday morning we come up from the subway station near Lafayette Square. I feel like we’ve just entered a football stadium packed with fans. Suddenly I’m hoisted up in the air like I’m the coach of the winning team. I look down and see I’m on Sean’s shoulders. I look out and see an ocean of color—jackets, scarves, banners, and caps.
“Yowza!” Catalina says. “That’s a lot of people.”
Sadie hands me a bullhorn. “What’s this for?”
“They’re here for you, Sam. You have to lead the march.”
Kid leader. I’m pretty sure that’s an oxymoron.
My stomach flips. In my head, the Guided Meditation Lady reminds me to breathe.
Mr. Kalman reaches up and puts his hand on my arm. “It’s always nice, Sam, to say thank you for coming.”
The bullhorn is heavy in my hand and looks like the bottom half of a trumpet. I wish it were a trumpet. Then I’d know what to do.
“Sometime this century, Sam,” Sadie says.
That’s worse than an elbow. It works, though. It gets me to talk.
“Hello? I’m Sam Warren.”
A wave of sound rises and almost knocks me down.
“Um,” I say, and right away I feel stupid. What kind of leader leads with an um?
So I take a minute and think it through. What do I want to say? Why am I really here?
“I’m just one kid,” I say, “who got fed up with what’s happening to us all. We’re not against school. We learn a lot in school. We’ve learned about people who changed things. But the textbooks don’t say enough about the people who helped them. There is no way I would be here without all of you. So thank you for coming. And now we’ve got to let the Supreme Court know we’re here. So come on, everybody, let’s march!”
An even louder roar flies up from the crowd.
Sean sets me down and we start to walk. The Capitol police were worried about the size of our crowd, so they’ve routed the march along Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Peace Monument, then around the north side of the Capitol to the Supreme Court. Along the way, Catalina calls out names of important historic sites, while Alistair calls out names of restaurants. After a few blocks, I know where the FBI headquarters are, Fogo de Chão Brazilian Steakhouse, Ford’s Theatre where Lincoln was shot, Central Michel Richard, the National Archives (home to the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights), and the Capital Grille, which Alistair heard has the best ribeye in town.
Soon I see four men in dark glasses and suits making their way toward me. My first thought: we just passed FBI headquarters and they’ve sent a few agents to arrest me for inciting a riot. But it turns out they’re Secret Service agents guarding the president’s son, who wanted to come over and say hi.
“I think what you’re doing is awesome,” he says. “But don’t tell my dad.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I never saw you.”
Then Alistair turns to a big, beefy Secret Service agent. He jerks toward the man but stops short. The agent leans back.
“Two for flinching!” Alistair says. And he punches the Secret Service guy twice on his right arm! Not hard, though. Alistair’s crazy, but he doesn’t have a death wish.
Jaesang just rolls his eyes, and we march on.
It’s a little over two miles from the White House to the Supreme Court, but with so many people marching, no one gets tired. Along the route, lining both sides of Pennsylvania Avenue, crowds of people and their signs cheer us on:
MOMS AGAINST HOMEWORK
SOS—SAVE OUR STUDENTS
NO CHILDHOOD LEFT BEHIND
One of the moms offers our mom a sign. She holds it up like she’s the Statue of Liberty.
I’m worried about Mr. Kalman, though. The longest walk he’s taken lately is from his mailbox to his front door. This much exercise might land him in the hospital, and then we’d never get to stand before the Supreme Court. I glance over at him, and to tell you the truth, I don’t much like his color. A little gray. Not from the parka he’s wearing, either. It’s a gray from the inside.
“Mr. Kalman, how about sitting down for a minute?”
“I can make it, Sam. And if I keel over, think of the publicity we’ll get. The justices will have to take our case.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to argue it?”
“Good point. I’d better stay on my feet.”
Sadie and Sean each take one of Mr. Kalman’s arms to steady him, and we march on.
We’re almost at Columbus Circle when I hear a voice call out.
“Mr. Kalman! Mr. Kalman!”
We all turn and see a woman squeezing toward him through a wall of people. At first Mr. Kalman doesn’t recognize her, but when she says her name, he sure does.
“Sul Jung Lee.”
“Oh, my goodness! Sul Jung!”
She tries to get closer to him, but the wall of people is too thick. He calls to her over their heads.
“How are you? What became of you?”
“I’m the assistant band director at Stuyvesant High School in New York. We heard about the march. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
That’s when I realize who she is. The girl whose case he argued before the Supreme Court. He reaches out to her, and their hands touch for just a second before the crowd pulls them apart.
“Hey, Mr. Kalman,” she calls out.
He turns back.
“Second time’s a charm!”
Then she raises a baton to a row of white-feathered hats behind her. She’s brought her school’s marching band to DC, and as the brass starts blowing, I swear Mr. Kalman is walking like he’s twenty years younger.
We pick up Constitution Avenue, which takes us around the Capitol, and with all these historic buildings going by, it occurs to me that Mr. Powell and Miss Lopez should have brought the whole class on the march, because they’d learn a lot more history right here than they ever could from a textbook.
And guess what. The whole class will get to see. We just walked by a CNN news van. They’re broadcasting live.
We come around to the east side of the Capitol, and I recognize this place. It’s where the helicopter takes off from when the old president leaves office after the new one’s been sworn in. I wonder what that feels like, flying away from such a powerful job.
We cross First Street, and step onto the marble plaza of the Supreme Court.
Where ten Supreme Court police officers form a wall we can’t cross.
“Hold it right there, Sam,” Mr. Kalman says.
“We can’t go onto the plaza?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What about the First Amendment?” I ask. “It says that ‘Congress shall make no law . . . abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.’”
“Yes, but in 2016 the Supreme Court let stand a lower court ruling in Hodge v. Talkin that said we have to stay on the sidewalk.”
“That’s crazy! How can the Supreme Court, which defends the rights of citizens to raise their voices in protest, say they can raise their voices everywhere but in front of the Supreme Court?”
“It’s what you might call a paradox, Sam. And yet, it’s the law.”
“How will they hear us all the way from the sidewalk?”
“Oh, we’ll make them hear.”
And then, in his raspy old man’s voice, Mr. Kalman shouts:
“What do we want?”
“Free time!”
“When do we want it?”
“After four!”
Mr. Kalman said it’s up to the court whether or not they want to hear our case. With over a hundred thousand kids and their parents standing on their front sidewalk right now and spilling into the park across the street, do you really think they’re going to turn us down? I mean, Chief Justice Reynolds has kids. And if the homework in his family is anything like the homework in ours, I’ll bet they’re texting him right now, begging him to take our case.
An hour goes by, then two. It’s late in the afternoon when we get word from Sean, who’s been streaming CNN on his smartphone, that Chief Justice Reynolds has called a special conference. Just before the sun sets, the bronze doors of the Supreme Court building open, and the clerk of the court steps out.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez!” he says into a megaphone. That’s the Supreme Court’s way of saying “listen, listen, listen.” “The matter of Warren v. Board of Education will be heard.”
The crowd behind me roars. Mr. Kalman doesn’t miss a beat.
“Back to the hotel,” he says. “We’ve got work to do.”