Monday, October 19, 2015

Boys Will Be Boys (a true story)



Israel Cohen and Ali Ben Ishmael were high school classmates and mortal enemies. Izzy occupied the desk in front of Ali, at the back of the room, and was a thorn in his side. Pollyanna Du Goodeur, a fresh-faced exchange teacher from Venice, California, was their homeroom teacher and fair-haired, freckle-faced Izzy Cohen was the apple of her eye. He was at the top of the class, captain of the wrestling team, and editor of the yearbook. One of only half a dozen Jews at Omar Khayyam Academy, this pushy newcomer acted like he owned the place. When he wasn't in the library, hogging all the books, or showing off his virtuosity with the school orchestra, he was in the gym, flexing his abs.

Ali was slightly bigger and rougher but Izzy was a black belt so Ali gave him a wide berth in the schoolyard. He vented his spleen by trashed him to anyone who would listen. He made sure Izzy was within hearing distance when he hurled his favorite epithet ("son of a pig") but it rolled off Izzy's back like a water droplet. The arrogant Yid obviously thought he was too high and mighty to pay attention to a lowly "raghead." So, one day, while the teacher was writing something on the blackboard, the raghead decided to make the son of a pig aware of his existence.

"Cut it out," Izzy said, turning around.

Ali smirked.

Izzy sighed, shook his head, and turned back to the front.

Ali slapped him in the back of the head again.

Izzy turned around, scowling. "I said cut it out!"

Ali laughed.

When Izzy turned his back again, Ali slapped him in the head twice, forehand and backhand.

Then the bell rang.

Next day, the performance was repeated, with increasing frequency and force. This went on, day after day, week after week with annoying regularity. Since it was to no avail, Izzy stopped turning around and telling Ali to stop. He merely tried to anticipate the blows and deflect them with his upraised hands. Occasionally he succeeded. Then, one scorchingly hot summer afternoon, after an exhausting football practice, and enduring a series of five stinging slaps, only one of which was partially deflected, Izzy lost his cool.

"Miss, DuGoodeur, Izzy hit me," Ali cried out, in pain and indignation.

Pollyanna Du Goodeur couldn't believe her eyes. Blood was running from Ali's nose and spilling onto his checkered headscarf. "Did you do that, Israel" she asked her star pupil, incredulously.

"I'm sorry, Miss DuGoodeur," Izzy said. "Ali slapped me in the head and I lost my temper."

"I was just trying make him put his hands down," Ali protested, his voice muffled by the headscarf he was now holding to his nose. "I can't see the blackboard."

"He's lying," Izzy said, evenly. "He's been slapping me in the head for weeks. When I ask him to stop he just smiles. I only put up my hands to protect my head."

Pollyanna Du Goodeurbit her lip in frustration. In her gut she knew the solution to this chicken and egg dilemma but didn't want to rush to judgment. When she had arrived at Omar Khayyam, a veteran teacher had told her to never trust the word of an Arab student. But it was her job to combat racism, not succumb to it. If Ali Ben Ishmael wasn't quite as conscientious a student as Israel, who even tutored some of the slower African students in his free time, it was because he hadn't had advantages of a stable middle class upbringing. The poor Palestinian toddler had been orphaned at the age of three. Both parents were killed by an explosive device his mother had accidentally triggered when she was strapping it to the body of Ali's teenaged brother. No, Pollyanna Du Goodeur wouldn't let her emotions color her judgment; she would let each student plead his case before a higher tribunal.

"That doesn't sound like you, Israel," Principal Moon said, quizzically. He tried not to let his face betray his emotions. This might be the straw that broke his back. In the wake the 9/11 disaster Kah Ki Moon had made a midlife decision he had come to regret. The renowned brain surgeon had taken a huge cut in income and prestige, hoping to bring peace to the halls of Omar Khayyam Academy. It was a delusion. His lenient, non-judgmental approach had merely caused the violence to escalate. The schoolyard was a war zone. Several students had actually lost their lives; and no one had been held accountable. Every "witness" told a different (and contradictory) story, depending on his gang affiliation. The students at Omar Khayyam didn't know the meaning of the word integrity. Or industry. Or honor.

With one shining exception. Israel Cohen was a tiny point of light at the end of Principal Moon's long dark tunnel. The new arrival was not only a model student but strong enough to withstand the slings and arrows of this nightmare world. When Israel proved that he could hold his own in a fist fight, even against superior numbers, the confrontations had become strictly verbal. The troublemakers kept up their taunting but Israel refused to retaliate. Until now.

"I was merely defending myself, Mr. Moon. Ali has been slapping me in the back of the head for weeks. I've tried to ignore it, but I can't concentrate on my work. And I've developed a chronic headache..."

"A headache," Ali interjected, with a derisive snort. "Poor baby! My grandmother slaps me, maybe I should punch her in the face and break her nose. If he's such a sissy, Mr. Moon, maybe he should transfer to a Yeshiva. This is our school; he has no right to be here."

"My great grandfather built this school," Izzy said, with turning. He was directing his remarks at Principal Moon. "The members of my family were attending Maimonides Torah Institute before Ali Ben Ishmael was born."

"That's ancient history," Ali shouted. "New York used to be New Amsterdam. But you don't see the Dutch claiming it belongs to them. This is a Muslim school; if he can't live with that, he should go back where he came from."

"And where is that?" Izzy said, turning to him.

"Poland! The big bad wolf is dead, you can go home now, little piggy."

"Now, now, there's no call for that kind of talk," Principal Moon said, sternly. "The holocaust is nothing to joke about, young man. It was one of the worst atrocities in human history."

"Worst fairytale," Ali muttered.

Pretending he hadn't heard, Principal Moon rose from his deak, took Miss Du Goodeuraside aside and lowered his voice. "Can't you separate them; move Israel to another desk?"

"I've tried," Miss Du Goodeur whispered. "But I had a revolt on my hands. The other students refused to come to class, if they had to sit anywhere near him."

Judge Moon heaved a sigh and turned back to the two defendants. "Okay, gentlemen, it's time to grow up and face reality. Regardless of what this building was in the past, it is now a public school. And you are both entitled to attend. So you're just going to have to learn to get along. Ali, if Israel promises to never raise his hand to you again, will promise never to raise your hand against him?"

"Only if he returns my pencils."

"Your what?"

"He stole my pencils. Now I have nothing to write with. And he doesn't even need them; he just keeps them locked up in his desk."

Principal Moon frowned. "Is that true, Israel?"

"I didn't steal his pencils; I confiscated his weapons." Izzy stood up, turned around and raised his shirt.

Principal Moon stifled a gasp. Izzy's back was pitted with tiny bloody scabs; he looked like a small pox survivor. Principal Moon turned to Ali. "Are you responsible for that, young man?"

Ali didn't reply, merely smirked.

Principal Moon made a conscious effort to speak calmly. "Why on earth would you do such a thing?"

"Because he's sitting in my desk," Ali said, sulkily. "My older brother sat in that desk. And my cousin Mohammed before him. It's a family tradition. We all have our initials carved in it. Then this newcomer waltzes in, in the middle of the term, and the teacher gives it to" he pointed his forefinger at his classmate, thumb cocked, simulating a handgun "him."

Miss Du Goodeur flushed. "That's not completely true, Ali. I assigned Izzy to the last desk in the row. But you said you didn't want him to sit behind you. That you didn't trust him."

"And I was right," Ali shouted. "He stole all my pencils. He's a thief. And a pig..."

"Alright, young man, this name-calling has gone far enough," Principal Moon said, sternly. He turned to Izzy and made him an offer he couldn't refuse. "Will you return Ali's pencils, if he promises to only use them to write with?"

"I did return one of his pencils," Izzy said. "Weeks ago. And as soon as I turned my back he stabbed me with it."

"Because he wouldn't return the rest of them," Ali protested. "Confiscate," he snorted, breaking the clot in his nose. "What right has this Jew got to confiscate anything?" he continued, as fresh blood began to gush down his lightly bearded chin. "I've been going to this school since kindergarten. He got here the day before yesterday. And now he's trying to run the place. Editor of the yearbook, self-appointed substitute teacher...next he'll want to take over your job, Mr. Moon."

He's welcome to it, Kah Ki Moon said to himself. He heaved a resigned sigh, "Recrimination will get us nowhere, young man. Besides, there are more urgent matters to attend to. You have to see the school nurse." He turned to Izzy. "Can we agree to a truce while Ali gets his nose attended to?"

Izzy nodded. "As long as he doesn't bother me, I won't bother him."

"And you, Ali. Do you agree to a truce?"

Ali scowled. "Only if he returns my pencils."

"Oh, for goodness sakes, we'll worry about that after you get your nose fix. Okay?"

Ali nodded, grudgingly.

Principal Moon smiled. "Fine. Now you two scallywags get out of here and let me get back to work." He turned to Miss Du Goodeur. "Please don't leave, I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

Izzy and Ali turned to the door. Izzy opened it and stood aside.

Ali didn't budge. "You first."

Izzy heaved a sigh, and walked out.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Ali slapped Izzy on the back of the head, with all his might.

As he surveyed the horror in front of him, Kah Ki Moon felt like pulling out what was left of his hair. Ali Ben Ishmael and Israel Cohen were sitting in two chairs, placed several feet apart, facing his desk. Ali had two black eyes, a broken nose, and a swollen lip. Israel had abrasions on the knuckles of his left hand. Miss Du Goodeur had fled back to the classroom, in tears.

"Alright, gentlemen, it is time to take off the kid gloves," Principal Moon said, frowning. "You are obviously determined not to live together in peace, so I am forced to teach you a lesson you will not soon forget. You aren't naughty children; you are young men on the threshold of adulthood. To have any hope of succeeding in the real world, you will have to learn that actions have consequences." He turned to Ali. "Young man, you have a week's detention. Go back to your room."

When Ali was gone, Principal Moon turned to the shining light that had gone dark, and softened his tone. "I'm sorry, Israel, but you've left me no choice. You are expelled from school."

To be continued (unfortunately). 


William Marantz is author of the mystery thriller Christmas Eve Can Kill You and short story collection The Convert, both available at Amazon.com.


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