Antrim, Donald - Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World

Well, the children did listen. They craned forward on their storage trunks. Their eyes opened wide, their weeping diminished; they wore studious faces. Sarah, her face to the wall, even little Sarah seemed to tune in — you could see it in her hypererect posture. Of course, that might’ve been the chair. For my part, I was in the groove, gathering steam and rolling through the terrible centuries, telling tale after tale to the finest audience in the world.

“And then what happened?” the kids would eagerly demand whenever I paused for breath.

“He received the tongue screws and never was able to utter a word again, but using blood as ink, he wrote a diary of his dying days in a worm-plagued prison cell, and was declared a martyr,” I would tell them.

Or:

“They took hold of her and viciously tore the flesh from her sides, only to discover that her smile grew, and she was in ecstasies for her pain.”

Or:

“Flames leapt into air, licking the tender soles of their feet, and yet they sang on, a great chorus of voices offering exaltations on high.”

Later, during a generalized discussion of fortified castle keeps, I brought forward the 1:32-scale model, which I carefully showed around, in order to point out salient features of bastille design.

And when we got to the rack — when we got to the rack, I knew, before the familiar queries had barely flown from those six-, seven-, and eight-year-old mouths — I knew the very questions the students would ask:

“Did the torturers leave the people on that thing for a long time?”

“Did you get taller?”

“Could you get torn in half?”

“One at a time,” I implored, raising in the air a steady if scarred hand. I wanted to savor the moment. Those upturned faces before me seemed the faces of angels; pure and spirited, they radiated light. It’s a light every teacher lives to bathe in: the luster of the young soul.

“Mr. Robinson?”

It was Sarah. She was sitting in her chair, forsaken. She seemed so far away. Her head was turned to face her peers, and her eyes were full of longing.

“Yeah, Sarah?”

“I think I’m ready to join the class now.”

“Are you?”

“I think.”

“And what makes you think you’re prepared to come back and be one of us?”

All eyes regarded her. We waited. It was a tense moment before Sarah, whispering, explained, “It’s dark here. I don’t like it.”

What we were witnessing was nothing less than a practical demonstration of the plight of the pariah. I took the opportunity for a brief discussion of caste, class, and the thorny social problems surrounding taboo violation and the exclusion and/or integration of individuals and groups according to religion, ethnicity, and “lifestyle.”

After which Susy raised her hand and suggested, from the front row, “Make her prove she’s ready!”

She was so excited, she inadvertently (or so it seemed) struck her brother in the side of head with her elbow. Brad screamed, pitched forward from his seat, and collapsed to the floor. Susy gazed coolly down at her brother and said, “Stop crying, baby.”

And to me, she explained, “He pulls this all the time at home, Mr. Robinson.”

I wasn’t sure. There are widely ranging schools of thought concerning children who act out dramas of suffering. Do you hasten to their aid? Or do you leave them to sort themselves out, dignify them with the autonomy necessary for growth and individuation? I elected to follow the boy’s sister’s lead. Fortunately, the distressing noises of Brad were soon drowned by hearty cries from the Harris twins: “Let’s see if Sarah’s ready to be one of us!”

Up went a chant: “See if she’s ready. See if she’s ready. See if she’s ready. See if she’s ready.”

It was like a pep rally, or a political convention: total group dynamics, increasing frenzy, catcalls from the ranks of the class. Even overweight Steven got caught up in the excitement of the moment, stamping his feet and motioning with a fist in the air. In the back of the class David, the better to wave his own arms, plunked his infant brother belly-up on the leather edge of their trunk.

Then Susy was on her feet, standing tall before her classmates. Light from the overhead bulb made a shining halo of her hair. And down at her feet: her brother, one hand holding his head, the other reaching out to touch the hem of his sister’s dress.

Susy waited for the ruckus to die down. She rested her gaze on Sarah. And said, simply, “The rack.”

Well.

I’ll admit I was feeling less than one hundred percent that Monday morning. There were, for instance, those sprouting purple welts; no telling the effect, on the brain, of these venomous blemishes. I’d gone without sleep, and it’s a sure bet I was running a fever, even a considerable one. Should I have seen it coming, that inaugural — and, as it turned out, final — session of the Pete Robinson Institute, when all the kids (injured Brad excepted; he continued to worm around on the floor, like a hurt animal) turned to see what I would do?

Likewise, how much responsibility must I bear, for what eventually, inevitably occurred, simply because I suggested using the flat, hard surface of a leather-decorated steamer trunk, and Matt and Larry Harris’s strong young arms and backs, in lieu of a real rack?

“Go ahead, boys,” I said. They didn’t need to be told twice. Matt and Larry dove on Sarah like football tackles. Sarah let out a series of impressive screams truly painful to the ear. Finally one of the boys got wise and stripped off his shirt (a “rugby” stretch-knit pullover) and stuffed it in her mouth. “Way to go, Matt. Way to go, Larry,” cheered Susy, obviously suffering a wicked crush on one or both of the twins. Other voices shouted more specific encouragements. David, who seemed to appreciate the symmetry between the shirt in Sarah’s mouth and the latex pacifier he’d used earlier on Tim, side-coached, “Pick her up. Get her off her feet.”

Get her off her feet they did. They hauled Sarah like plunder to David and Tim’s trunk. (It was closest.) “Get the baby off there,” a Harris shouted. No one wanted to touch Tim. He’d wet himself. It fell to David to scoop him up and carry him, wailing, back to the furnace for another changing. Meanwhile Matt and Larry drop-loaded Sarah onto the trunk. She kicked like a genuine victim of oppression, and it took many hands to restrain her. It was something to see. And to hear, too, when the wadded-up shirt fell from Sarah’s mouth, and her shrieking began again, as, from upstairs, the clamor of Meredith’s entreaties poured down upon us: “Pete! What’s going on down there? Is everything okay? Open this door! What’s happening down there? Pete?”

“Ignore that,” I instructed the students.

And to my wife: “Hey, stop bothering us. We’re trying to do some in-class playacting down here. We’re doing an Improvised Creative Activity!”

Eventually the twins managed to get Sarah’s mouth replugged. This was a good thing, because Jane was presenting symptoms of really grave nervousness, fretting and trembling. I reminded Jane of her humiliation by Sarah, at the outset of class, for having a straggly little pathetic twig as a toy. This only seemed to confuse her. I still clutched the curled, dripping plumber’s snake in my hand; now I offered it to the maudlin girl. “You’ll feel better once you get involved in some activities with your friends.”

“Mr. Robinson?”

“Yes, Jane?”

“Didn’t you say something about people who would kneel down and pray for the people who were getting persecuted?”

“That’s right, Jane. The prayers of the faithful accompany the souls of martyrs to the gates of heaven.”