The Day After Labor Day

21.

One more point about the zone of proximal development before I resume the memoir narrative: it is importantly that zone where a student can grasp the concept with a little help. Optimal learning is not a one-person endeavor: it requires a relationship with at least one other person.

Now then, back to our story. From the novel, White Knight, again:

September 5, 1978, the day after Labor Day, begins with a soft orange glow from the Oakland hills. Unlike most days, I have no difficulty getting out of bed. The adrenalin pumping through my system sharpens the senses and clarifies the mind, as cloudless as the sky.

When [Earldean] and I reach the center at 7 A.M. to open it for the day, there are already people milling about the entrance. The plan is to run a "normal" program with whatever children come and to have our allies from the Towers stand around as a vague threat to any movers that might show up. Meanwhile, we've called a press conference for 10 A.M. As I enter the front door which opens onto the large plaza between the two perpendicular towers, I declare, grandly, imagining myself as Fidel entering Batista's office: "This is now liberated territory."

The phone is already ringing. KCBS tapes an interview. The adrenalin loosens my tongue which in other circumstances might be stuck. "We intend to occupy the center for as long as it takes until the school district changes its mind," I tell them.

Children trickle in for the first couple hours, as they normally do. By 9 o'clock, we have about half the normal enrollment, sixteen children, a bit disappointing, but certainly a more than adequate showing. I am of course the only teacher (Leonora being busy preparing to move to Guyana). I call the children to the rug for circle time. I read them "The Rosa Parks Story," written by myself, about the Montgomery Bus boycott. Children seem to understand about buses. We talk about our struggle. "What special day is it today?"

"Halloween," somebody says.

"Christmas."

"August."

Little Barney says, "They close our school."

"Aha. Give that man a million bucks," I say. "Why do they want to do that?"

"No money," shouts Darnell, drooling, not to be outdone by his brother.

"Right! And do they have the money?"

Silence. Latricia's son Ronnie finally says, "Money for war. Not for black people."

"Ten million bucks for Ronnie! Good answer." Some of the children get restless.

"All right, Clarisse. Look at how nicely Dathan is sitting. Now. Do you know why they have money for war but not for black people?"

Ronnie pipes right in, "Black people too dark. They have to sit in the back of the bus because they too dirty."

"Um, not quite, Ronnie."

"'The law's unfair,'" Barney quotes from the story.

"That's good, Barney. They did pass a law, Proposition 13, which was unfair, and that's why they say they're closing our school. But are we going to let them do it?"

"No!" all the children scream together. This part they get.

I start the song. "We shall not, we shall not be moved."

I explain further: "Today, we're going to be on television. People all over the city will be watching us. How do we want them to see us?"

"Good," says Clarisse.

"That's right, Clarisse. We want to show them that the children of [Geneva] Towers Children's Center know how to act. What does that mean?"

"No fighting," says Ronnie.

"No running inside," says Barney.

"No spitting," says Darnell.

"You got the idea," I say. I am nervous that the adult chaos will mirror itself among the children, and what the television people will pick up is how incompetent we are to run our own school. I bite my scruples and resort to the kind of teaching I generally try to avoid. "People who act nicely while the visitors are here will get a cookie. But, if you do act up, you'll sit all afternoon, got that?" I'm taking no chances.

[Tessie] flies into the room. "They're here! The movers are here!"

"Oh shit," I say out loud, forgetting where I am.

"Ooooo," say the children.

"Shoot, I mean." I leave the children where they are and rush to the door. There's about twenty people from the Towers… all standing in front of the door with their arms folded, glowering at two white men in blue coveralls, themselves looking bemused.

I gently elbow my way through the crowd to talk to the movers. "The people here don't want the center closed down," I explain.

"Hey, no problem, man," says one of the movers, a red bearded man with a pot belly.

"We get paid anyway. We'll just tell them we didn't want to start a riot."

"Just tell them the people wouldn't let you in."

"Great. Fine with us." The movers turn on their heels and return to their truck.

The crowd applauds them. First victory of the day.

By the time I get back inside the center, the children are all over the place, writing on the wall with crayons, spilling paint, riding the tricycles, and two TV stations have arrived with all their equipment. Fortunately, the press and the children are in separate rooms, though the rooms are joined by large open doorways. The parents -- [Tessie], Latricia, Charlene, Alice, Sue Ann -- are all just standing around in awe of the two celebrities, live on the scene reporters well known from the local news shows, one of them a weekend anchorman. I do my best to contain my fury. "Could you help with the children please?" I say to Charlene, my eyes flaring.

She flares her eyes right back at me and says, "I'm not your slave," loud enough for the news people to hear.

The others, who've heard this exchange, suddenly busy themselves talking with the press.

In desperation, I retrieve [Earldean] from the kitchen, where she is busily preparing spaghetti for the children's lunch. "We need some help with the kids," I say.

"Where are all the others?" she asks.

"Busy with the news people."

[Earldean] clicks off the stove and enters the room where the children are. "All right, you guys," she says in a tone which is at once scolding and friendly. "It's time to come to the tables. Let me see who can sit down quietly by the count of three. 1...2...2 1/2...2 3/4...3! Very good, you all made it." In no time, she has the children sitting nicely at the tables, playing with Leggos, playdough, or coloring on paper. Once again, she has saved the day.

In the other room, a third TV station has arrived with its people, and the press conference is about to start without me. Latricia reads the press release we finished last night. She stands tall, dressed in a tailored beige pants suit. She finishes: "The parents are determined to occupy the center until the school district changes its mind. This is our center. This is our community. We will not close." The other parents applaud.

There are questions. "Isn't it true that all the children have been transferred to a nearby center?"

I answer, "That center is nearly a mile away, up hill, through some one of the roughest public housing projects in the city."

Another newsman asks, "How many of the children have stayed behind? It doesn't look like you have a full house here."

I answer, "About half the children came to this school today. We don't know how many went to the new school. Some parents may be waiting to see what happens."

A third reporter asks, "The district says its short of money because of Proposition 13, and you people should be targeting Sacramento instead of them. They say their hands are tied."

I start to answer, "We think they have the money..."

Latricia interrupts me. "[Henry]! Let the parents speak."

"...but you should hear from the parents," I smile, aware I have once again made a mildly racist faux pas, but I'm used to being chastised for this domineering habit and give in good- naturedly.

Latricia speaks sharply, "Let them go to the state for money. We don't care where they get it. We see our job as demonstrating to the whole state that no matter what cutbacks they've perpetrated by passing their racist tax law, we are determined that this center will not be one of them. How many black people do you think benefitted from this so called 'tax relief' measure? How many blacks are homeowners? Ten percent? Twenty percent? How many landlords will now reduce rents? Somebody's got to draw the line somewhere, and we're drawing it right here. We're just saying 'No, you can't do this.'" Again the other parents applaud. Latricia has been brilliant.

"What's the next step?" another reporter asks. "Suppose the school district refuses to back down?"

[Tessie] grabs the floor. "There is no next step. This is the last step. The parents will occupy this center until hell freezes over if necessary. This is our center. This is our community." She tries to take her line back from Latricia, but she is nervous, and her oratory falls flat.

The cameras pan around the center, take a few shots of cute children working intently with the playdough, and begin to pack up their gear.

"What time will this be on?" Alice asks in her gruff voice.

"Probably 6 o'clock," says Channel 5.

"6 o'clock," echo the other two channels.

The rest of the day runs smoothly, powered by our elation at the mornings' victories with the movers and with the press. At 6 o'clock, we all crowd around the TV in Alice's messy apartment, flicking through the channels, looking for ourselves. Alice's walls are painted dark brown with an eye level strip of mirror tiles, numbers of which have fallen down. The formica table -- just like ours -- is covered with dishes full of breakfast's leftover Fruit Loops. Her dirty laundry is piled on the orangish (once orange, now brown) couch. She doesn't bother apologizing.

There is news of Carter meeting with Sadat at Camp David, news of another point increase in the cost of living index, up to 12%, news of a new detergent that can make your clothes whiter than white. There's news of some disgruntled people complaining that Jim Jones is keeping their relatives in Jonestown against their will. Finally, there we are, on all three channels at just about the same time, each for about 15 seconds. Flicking rapidly back and forth, we see that one channel shows the children and remarks at our stubbornness, another has me being interrupted by Latricia, and the third shows most of Latricia's fine speech.

"Shit, is that all?" Alice complains.

"Hey, that's a lot," I say. "We did good. We're gonna win this."

My words are punctuated by a short group sigh which mixes people's various levels of hope and skepticism, and translates to a highly tentative "maybe."