People kept asking me whether I was ok. Patting me on the head, patting me on the shoulder, grabbing at my hand, smoothing down my shirt…people just wouldn’t stop touching me. A little annoying? Heck, try mucho annoying.
Even more annoying though was the fact that I was ok. Sure, my elbows felt a little raw but it was a couple of skinned elbows. I wasn’t about to cry over that. That would be wussy. And if there’s one thing that an increasingly self-conscious twelve-year old boy can’t stand, it’s being called a wussy. Or a wimp. Or, when no teachers are around, a bitch. Those kinds of things followed you. And with junior high just around the corner, the last thing I wanted to be known as was a bitch.
What I didn’t quite understand though, was why everyone was so concerned in the first place. It was just a word. I mean even Mr. Grimm, the assistant principle, came to make sure I was still in one piece. He even went as far as bringing the school councilor, Mr. Binder, along with him.
I was fine. Really.
After a while though, all of their prodding and walking on eggshell cautiousness got me thinking that maybe I shouldn’t be feeling ok. That maybe there was supposed be something wrong with me.
Sitting in Mr. Grimm’s office, the toupee’d principal asked me to tell him what happened one last time.
Knowing there was no getting out of it, I shrugged and did as I was told.
It was recess and we were playing ball. Half court. Three on three. It was me, Chris Kickline and Shawn Rooney against Shawn Nagy, Nigel Balmat and David Budinas.
Budinas had just made an easy lay up making the score 19-17; us. With only a few minutes left before the bell rang.
For some reason the game had drawn a crowd and every time a basket was made, a shot blocked, a ball bricked or an ankle burnt there would be a shout, a cheer, a boo, an “awww” or a holla from the sidelines.
I checked Budinas the ball. He bounced the ball once, twice then made a break for the basket. I Cut him off and made a swipe for the ball. Anticipating the cuff Budinas crossed and my hand hit nothing but air. Before I could recover he crossed again, turned his back to me and passed the ball to Sean Nagy. As soon as the ball left his hands Budinas made a dash for the baseline. The ball reached him before I did.
19-up.
It was “Make it take It.” and so I was graced with the task of checking Budinas the ball again.
BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGG!
That was the warning bell. Two minutes. Just enough time for one more play. I was poised and ready for him. He wasn’t going to get past me this time.
Instead of running the play though, Budinas passed the ball to Nigel Balmat and zigzagged his way up the key toward the basket. I was on him like glue.
“Ball!” Budinas shouted holding up one hand. Balmat lobbed it in his direction. I waited until Budinas went up for the lay up before I made my move.
We left the ground at the same time. Raised our arms at the same time. Our bodies brushed and then…
SLAP!
My palm made contact with the ball, sending it flying across the court.
A roar ripped through the crowd. People were going crazy.
Before my feet hit the ground though I felt a beefy hand grab a fistful of my shirt and tug, sending me sprawling onto the asphalt.
The versions as to what David Budinas actually said vary greatly but in every single one of them it is agreed that whatever he did say, it had ended with a loud and resounding,
“Nigger!”
It was at this word that the entire court became silent. No body moved. No body said a word and then,
BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIINNGGGGG!
Recess was over.
“Can I go now?”
I shifted in my chair uncomfortably. In trouble or not, being in the Principle’s office made me a little anxious. Plus I was missing English. We were supposed to get our short stories back; I was dying to see what I got.
“I just need to make sure that you’re okay Lloyd. That this little “incident” will stay exactly that, little.”
“I’m fine Principal Grimm.” I held up my elbows, “I’ve got band aids.”
“I just hope you understand that we do not, under any circumstances, condone the use of the N word here. It is deplorable and we will be having a word with Mr. Budinas’ parents.”
“Honestly Mr. Grimm, I don’t care about Budinas. He’s beefcake and a bully. And the “N” word? As my mom puts it, we’re African, not African American. Our Ancestors were not slaves and so that word has no power over us.
“It’s not the first time I’ve been called a nigger Mr. Grimm. And it won’t be the last. You have nothing to worry about. Now can I go?”
Nodding, Mr. Grimm wrote me a note to explain my tardiness and sent me back to class. I found my story face down on my desk. And just in case you were wondering, I got a 95 Percent.
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