To My Brother Tom

A post-it note in our elevator:
DO NOT GO INTO THE RICHARD CHUTE SQUARE!
It could be you, Tom, they will mistake for
homeless, you with scruffy beard, unkempt hair,
digging in your pocket (a gun?!) for gum
to offer all the condo defenders
buzzing about attacks, knives, hold-ups. Scum.
It could be you, Tom, who’ve suffered so much,
with silence or speech with a manic rush.
They will panic, high on adrenaline.
of delusions. And Chute Park—don’t go there.

Oh Happy Day

Central High School, St. Paul, Minnesota, 1969

“Bitch, we’re not sittin’ down.” I shrug, “You have to be here. You might as well use me. I can help you learn to read and write.” Seniors in high school, Melody and her friend, already mothers, take stock of me, a young rookie teacher. “Why do we care about that?” Melody asks. “Because it will help you get a job, take care of your children, find some enjoyment for yourself.” Melody glances at her friend, nods. They sway to the back of the class, glaring at the other students, “Whatchalookinat?” They plump themselves down into dirty desks, ones they’ll claim day after day. They’re giving my class a chance. Our school is an aged Gothic castle with faculty attempting these days to defend its borders and protect its students. In late September, the first all-school assembly convenes in the grand old auditorium. As homeroom after homeroom storms in, the noise level climbs wildly, riotously. Out of control. The principal and vice-principal rush up and down the aisles ordering the teachers, ”Keep your kids in their seats.” Melody, onstage for the opening act, begins singing softly, “Oh happy day . . . ” The hall quiets down, eventually there’s not a sound, all eyes and ears focused on this beautiful woman cradling the mike. “Oh happy day (oh happy day) When Jesus washed (when Jesus washed) He washed my sins away (oh happy day) Oh happy day (oh happy day)  . . .” She starts clapping, her voice rising in key and volume. Kids jump up out of their seats. Another key change, Melody now shouting. With their hands in the air, students leap into the aisles dancing, chanting. Suddenly, Melody walks off the stage, calling out, “He taught me how to watch, fight and pray. And live rejoicing every, every day.” She strides straight down the center aisle. A siren. Pied Piper. Moses. A Mahalia Jackson, Mavis Staples, Aretha Franklin. Kids follow her, answering, “Oh happy day.” “(oh happy day)” “He taught me how.” “(he taught me how).” Assessing the volatility, I move toward Melody, catching her eye. I hope she’ll read my mind, my lips, Lead them to the Martin Luther King Center. And she does, steering the students through the huge double doors down the worn concrete steps out onto the sidewalk into the blazing sun, headed toward the Center. On this day, Melody saves the school.