Postcard From the Dead

The first words I heard that day were “Smell this!” It was 8:45 am and I had just walked into the office. Mr Green, the head of security, was holding out an Arizona Ice Tea bottle. It was clearly something he had confiscated from a student, so I grabbed it and took a whiff – expecting vodka or something. What I inhaled instead was a corrosive vapor that screamed to the end of my limbs and back to my brain  before smoldering behind my eyes for a few seconds.

“Whaddya think?” Asked Mr Green. “Bleach?”

“Hmm..” I said, as I looked into the bottle and suppressed the urge to throw it in his face. Flaky particles floated atop a viscous liquid. “No, it doesn’t smell like bleach to me,” I said, still blinking in pain.

“Ammonia?” Added Green.

“Maybe,” I said. “Who brought it in?”

“The Bat Brothas did, of coahse,” he yelled, referring to two Guyanese kids whom we last heard from when they attacked a member of the Cr!ps on the street outside the school with baseball bats.

“Are you serious?”

Green stretched his neck towards me like he was daring me to punch him. “As fockin’ cancah,” he growled. “They’re ovah theah right now gettin’ their asses beat by tha cops.” He made a dismissive gesture towards the other section of the office.

I turned my head to peek through the window that separates the two sides of the office. “I guess they’re the Chemical Brothers now,” I muttered to myself. “Hey, you think they planned to use it as a weapon?”

“You tell me,” he shrugged. “They’re definitely gonna need somethin‘ to protect ’em, that’s foah shoah. But they’re gonna need a hell of a lot moah than some fockin’ Pine Sol or whatevah tha fuck that is.”

He was referring to the all-but-guaranteed vengeance they would get from the all-powerful Cr!p contingent at Patriot in response to the bat attack, which had itself surely been a response to something else, etc., etc.

“Maybe it’s flammable, and they were gonna throw it on someone and then light it,” I offered.

“One of ’em did have a lighta,” said a frowning Mr Green.

I decided to go over to other side of the office where my desk is and where the interrogation was taking place. The door creaked loudly as I entered. There were 3 cops standing around the Bat Brothers, and they all turned and looked at me like I had just caught them with their hands in the cookie jar. I nodded uncomfortably and scurried into my nook a few feet away and pretended to do paper work as I eavesdropped.

The cops were all familiar to me, as was every cop from the local precinct. I get the feeling that Patriot High provides them with most of their business.

“We’ve nevah found nothin‘ on any Cr!ps,” barked a young, tough, Irish cop named McMahon, who always takes the lead when he comes into the office. “But YOU guys. Yoah comin’ inta tha buildin’ with AMMONIA, and drivin’ around with a car fulla fockin BATS.”

Two other cops, one Italian and one Hispanic, stood glumly behind McMahon, their hands resting heavily on their gun belts.

One of the Guyanese kids, named Gujarat, was leaning back in one of our office chairs – his long skinny legs splayed wide open in front of him. He was baby-eyed with unruly curly hair, and he was constantly flashing a rabbity grin that he spiked with a bizarre bravado and incessant, spooky giggling. You wouldn’t say that Gujarat struck a particularly intimidating figure, but he made up for that in spades by being bat-shit crazy. He always seemed to be having a lot of fun, but his actions were so illogical and self destructive that it seemed pretty clear to me that he was really just desperately running away from some deep emotional injuries.

His father was a pathetic character. Utterly spineless. I’ve met his mom too. Two years ago, after she flew all the way from Guyana to check up on him, we all sat in my nook, our knees touching, while she sobbed uncontrollably over his behavior, and Gujarat tenderly wiped the snot ropes from her face. She promised she would take him back to Guyana if he didn’t shape up, but he only got worse, and of course she never took him back.

“Yo, it’s my right ta carry a bat!” Gujarat yelled at the cops.

“And it’s my right to lock you up!”

“You can’t lock me up for somethin’ tha’s my right,” he complained. But then he threw his hands up in faux surrender and said calmly, “but if you want to, den go ‘head, cuz I know dat would make your day.”  Then he let out a big grin, “and I love ta make peoples’ day! Haha!”

“Yoah a moron,” said the cop. “You know that?”

“Monkey see monkey do I guess, my nigga! Ahhhhhhhhhh!” he yelled, as he pointed at the cop like he had just been publicly humiliated.

“Ya know what, maybe we shouldn’t lock you up,” said the cop calmly. “And maybe they shouldn’t suspend ya either. Maybe we should just leave ya’s here and letch ya getch yoah ASSES beat by the Cr!ps! How bout dat?”

I pumped the fist inside my mind. Yesssss! I thought. Please do that! Tell em, McMahon!

McMahon was waiting for his proposition to sink into Gujarat’s brain when all the school loudspeakers suddenly erupted sinultaneously in a terrifying,”GOOOOOOOOOOOD MORNING PATRIOT HIGH SCHOOOOOOOOOL!!!”

The cop looked around like the office like a shot had been fired, “WHAT THA HELL WAS THAT?”

His partners both chuckled without smiling, and without moving their hands off their belts.

It was only the fourth period announcements – the bane of all fourth period teachers. After that jolting introduction, it always goes right into the Pledge of Allegiance, which most of the kids don’t know, the Pakistanis refuse to even stand up for, and which, to me, is no more than a foggy reminder of a distant world where the notion of pride within a community larger than your own particular housing project may/may not still exist. Hell, I don’t stand up for it anymore either. In short, and not a little ironically, in the halls of Patriot, its message rings just about as hollow as a skull.

After the Pledge, the announcements start. The lady who reads them tries to sound super positive but it only makes it worse. “DON’T FORGET, PATRIOT STUDENTS. WEDNESDAY IS WACKY TACKY DAY. THURSDAY IS TWIN DAY. AND FRIDAY IS TIE DAAAAAY!!!”

“Gimme a break,” mumbles the secretary.

“Is she foah real?” moans a teacher who happened to be eating a sandwich in the office.

The cops had had enough themselves, so they went over to the other side of the partition in the office to speak with the head of security, leaving the Chemical Brothers unharnessed.

Gujarat turned to me wide-eyed, “”Yo Mista Pistol, you saw them cops try an’ beat our ass in heah? Oh, tha’s right! You wasn’t in heah. Yo, nigga, he came in heah, looked around the room, and then Bam! He elbowed his ass in the face!” Gujarat was referring to his friend, who was sitting there with a semi-conscious smile on his face, nodding wordlessly. “I thought he was comin’ at me next son!”

The friend finally mumbled something but Gujarat put his hand up and whisper-shouted, “No don’t say that! Don’t say that, yo! They can arrest you fo sayin’ that!”

The friend obediently continued his blank-stared and silent nodding. I hadn’t heard what he had said, but I figured he had probably said something about knocking off a cop or two.

“But yo, if they hit me,” said Gujarat, “I’m causin’ a scene. I’m jumpin’ awll inta this computah right heah. Causin’ a scene yo! Police brutality, yo.” He licked his lips at the prospect and then, cocking his head to one side, he spoke in a calmer tone, “But one of these days niggas retire, dawg. And they move into a nice house, with they grand kids comin’ ovah and shit. And you nevah know what could happen, son. Cuz I got badge numbers and I got names. And I might just send ’em a little postcard or somethin’.” He paused for a moment and then looked right at me and smiled. “I got a crazy imagination right?” he said as he gave the floor a light push with his feet and spun slowly in his chair. When he came to a stop, he looked up at the ceiling and said, “but the only thing is, MY dreams come true.”

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You Know You Went to Patriot If…

The following statements were found on a website called “You Know You Went to Patriot High If…”
When randon nicoas would come up to you n b like “I got that good shit”
You know you went to patriot when the hallways always smelled like that next shit.
You were never phased by seeing used condoms in the staircase.
when u was chilling in the hallway and somebody turned the lights out if u stood around you got hit….lights out nigga

When it came to da point when u stopped sneakin out 007 style thru baq doors to cut and jus walked thru da front door chuckin up da dueces at Security

If you never actually seen the principal.. only heard about her
If u think Mr.Pistol, the dean is BEST & Cutest!!!! Lol
yo that guy Pistol was a real jerk
if Girls got pregnant just to cut lunch line and b able to get two chocolate milks!
if u got picked on for bein white then called a crazy whiteboy for beating their ass.. lol had to
You witnessed a knife fight in a crowd…
You remember stomping out the Spanish security guard on the third floor lol!!!! He shoulda never messed with that kid
If you ever caught da juuks* in da locker room then walked out (not run) past da cams and said wat up to security as u bought a snapple from da machine
(* caught tha juuks = robbed someone)

You ever said to a ap , teacher or a security guard “RELAX MY NIGGA LIKE YOUR FEENIN” or “YOUR REALLY BLOWIN MINES LIKE MOVE” lmfaooo

WHEN YOU CAME OUTTA SCHOOL IT WAS LIKE WANNABE 2 FAST 2 FURIOUS CARS ALL LINED UP IN FRONT OF THE SCHOOL when it was just a bunch of hondas blasting reggae and reggaeton!

wen u cant even name one of your teachers name… i now i cant

WHEN NIGGAS was blood one day…. latin king the next…then black panther!!!!!
When there was like 10000 girls in the bathroom cutting
u saw the most shortest pum pum shorts ever!!
u didnt graduate
If you remember an Indian girl getting her ass beat by her dad cause she got caught cutting


if you paid $1 for the deli across the street to keep your cell phone for the day, 25cents for loosies, and the locker room always smelled like smoke
you know you went to Patriot if every class had atleast one kid whose attacked a teacher or school official.
If you waited on a secrity line for an hour before first period- not to mention secreity check with the same as airport security just to go to school
U knew a fight was going down when u saw a shorty with baggy sweat pants no Jewelry and her hair in a bun walking all types of fast!
you remember ppl setting off firecrackers on the first floor during passing and put their hands up and make it seem like gunshots lol Dumb but hilarious!
U had blood kr!p L-B & Lat,n k!ng friends but u made sure they ain’t know about eachother!!
If you knew to stick your Knifes & blades in your Boots and put your pHone in your Bra or by your belt buckle so that even when the Metal Detectors went off and you had to step to the side you would look at security and say it was your Wires or your Belt
if you wore red you got beat up lol
U knew Mr.Gristle was a fucking racist, and a drunk and one hell of a miserable bastard!!
If you sat in front of the classroom Cuz the back was wear the gang members sat.
If you was brave enough to ride that special T5 that shit was live
-The back was v.i.p live niggas only
-Alot of niggas got fixed on that bus
(T5 is a public bus route in the area)
u met up on the second fl between periods… in racially segregated groups. Italians in the back, closer to where they live, blacks in the middle, and Hispanics closer to the exits that lead to the handball courts. Where were the Indians?
-they were already in class lol
You know hundreds of people that didn’t graduate on time or even at all “/
when all the kr!pz ran the bll00d nigguhs outta patriot and gutta thru the piss on one of them
I miss this shitty ass school
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Stay Low

The day The Streak ended, I was having a beer with a friend after work and I kept bringing the topic of conversation back to the insanity at Patriot, despite my best efforts.

She interrupted me and said, “You know, I actually sincerely feel bad for you.”

Embarrassed by the sympathy and by my own bitching and moaning, I hemmed and hawed about how it wasn’t all that bad. I’ve adjusted to the stress, I said. I get a lot of vacations, and there are some real sweet kids that I get to interact with. But even though I was trying to hide it, the truth was streaming through, like sunlight through a bullet hole.

I was trying to put together an escape plan, I said. But I was worried that I might not make it that far, or even to the next vacation. It wasn’t that I thought I was going to have a break down, I just felt like something was going to happen. I was scared I might finally punch a kid, or that my long walk to the subway station prove to be a little too long, a  too exposed, too dangerous. I had violent, dangerous enemies and I was always looking over my shoulder. The vibes weren’t good.

“Just lay low!” my friend implored.

“That’s the thing,” I said. “I can’t. It’s the opposite. I’m getting into kids’ faces more and more now. But you’re right, I just need to make it through this year and get out.”

“Stay low. Please.”

Her words echoed through my head when I arrived at school this morning and saw three police cars already sitting out front. They’ve been providing a regular show of force like this for a while.

Once inside, I was rushing to my first class when I passed my boss in the hall.

“I covered yoah classes,” he yelled over his shoulder.

Of course there was no explanation as to why, just this cryptic addendum,
“Be visible in the halls today. Very visible.”

In his office later, and I asked him what was up. He didn’t even look at me as he rattled off something about how, two years ago at Patriot, a 14 year old kid got arrested for trying to get a pistol through scanning. After serving a year’s suspension he came back a little older but not much wiser. He’s been involved in a lot of “click-clacking” in his hood recently (violent conflicts between cliques), including one incident where he fired shots at another one of our students on a city bus. His hood is one of the roughest in the city and the kids that come to Patriot from there are forever embroiled in beef with other kids, other gangs, and other families. It’s a place where projects war against projects, and if you step out of your territory you’re almost guaranteed to get jumped, robbed or worse. Now the clackin’ had found its way into school in two recent incidents that involved a whole lot of bleeding faces and one shirtless Ukranian thug rampaging from classroom to classroom looking for people to hurt while a bunch of Safety Agents and I followed a few steps behind, updating his location on the radio but not much else. We’re just the shit sweepers. Cleaning up after the horses. The lowest of the low.

“He needs to be cuffed!” I had said. “I just heard him yell that ‘bullets are gonna fly’ and that he’s gonna come back and ‘smoke these niggas’. He’s looking for people to attack. He needs to be cuffed.”

“He always says that,” said one of the agents dismissively. “Besides, the kids he’s looking for are already out of the building. Ain’t nothin’ gon happen.”

So we just kept following him and eventually he left. A couple weeks later though, he did find the people he was looking for, breaking a chair over an agent’s back in the process.

So word today was that the kid who brought the gun in two years ago was gonna come to school today to shoot this Ukranian dude, among others, and ominous reports and predictions were flying all around Facebook. Nervous parents were calling the school, nervous teachers were calling administrators, and nervous kids were pouring out of the building in droves as soon as the official attendance period ended. Yet somehow, this was the first I had heard of it. So now it was my turn to get antsy.

But that wasn’t all.

Another kid, unrelated to the first one, felt disrespected by something posted on Facebook and put word out that he and his family were coming up to school with guns today also. In addition, the police told us that one of our students was arrested last night in possession of a loaded gun – just in case anyone thought they were bluffing with all this burner talk.

As usual, I spent the day going chest to chest with fight-battered beasts and their screeching birds, all trying to run the place, and run me. But at least no one got shot. But when that final bell rang, and I walked out onto the street and over to the subway for the last time in 2010, you can be damn sure I stayed low.

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A Christmas Miracle

A Christmas miracle occurred yesterday. There was no violence at Patriot High School.

It’s ironic that the streak ended yesterday, because the morning began with Dean Martinez leaning over my desk and whispering that there was going to be a “big fight” eighth period. This after there had just been a riot two days earlier, resulting in 6 student arrests and several injured staff.

We are aware that the neighborhood and gang beefs that drive these incidents will never be fully squashed, but a second “big fight” so soon? Come on. I was starting to think that the kids were arranging these conflicts solely to ruin my life.

But even more disturbing than the rumors, was the fact that the deans weren’t briefed about them. But apparently SOMEBODY had been, because by the end of the day, the safety agent ranks had been beefed up to twice their normal number, police officers were walking the halls, and the Head of Security for the whole district was even sticking his dome into some uncomfortable places. He popped into our office, in fact, just as Dave and I were sharing a particularly raucous laugh over last night’s episode of “Louie.”

“How’s it going in here?” He asked us with a deadly smile.

“FINE!” we responded in tight-lipped unison. And as his long neck withdrew from the doorway, Dave projected his voice, saying, “SO, PISTOL, WHAT DO YOU THINK WE SHOULD DO WITH THIS SUSPENSION HERE?”

“Who was that?” I whispered when he’d gone.

“That’s Mr. Greene’s boss.”


After Dave and I were sure that the boss-man was gone we started taking odds on the chances of a “big fight” actually happening and thereby extending The Violence Streak. I gave it a 65% chance at the time, but as the periods went by and the final bell drew closer, the odds dwindled and dwindled, until they were gone.


All it took was a small army of police, safety agents, and big-wigs in suits, but after two long months, finally a single day without violence.

Thank you, Santa.

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Blood Hound

I picked up the scent at a shattered glass window in a stairwell door on the top floor. It’s the kind of glass that is embedded with wires to prevent it from breaking into a million pieces. Safety glass, they call it.

There was a fist-sized hole in the window and two razor-edged triangles dangled from the exposed wires like Christmas ornaments. More glass chunks lay on the other side of the door amidst a dusting of smaller particles.

The trail began with a cloudy red spray over the glass wreckage on the floor and then grew into bigger drops out in the hall. The heavy dollops looked like rubies spilled from the bag of a fleeing bandit.

We followed the rubies until we came across a large smear on the wall with thin red lines flowing downward. We continued tracking and were led to a solitary dark pool in the middle of the hall. He must have stopped here in a fit of panic, I thought.

“He must have turned around here,” said an assistant principal, referring to the end of the trail. We turned around and followed it back in the other direction until I noticed that the assistant principal had disappeared. It’s a classic move in a crisis at Patriot High. I was on my own.

That’s when the calls started coming in over the radio.

“Blood in the basement!”

Need a custodian on the second floor!”

“It’s everywhere!”

I couldn’t get a transmission in edgewise. But I didn’t need really help following a bunch of blood down the stairs. The only question was where it would lead.

So when the trail came to an end, deep in the depths of the building, and I finally lifted my nose off the floor and came face to face with the object of my pursuit, I quickly took measure of my surroundings. Where was I?

I had been half expecting to find some quasi-modo, huddled under a trap-door, desperately trying to stash a sack of blood-spattered cash or murder weapon. So I was more than a little disappointed to discover that I was just in the nurse’s office (duh), staring at just another dumbass with a bandaged hand.

Back upstairs, Dave asked me, “So, does this keep our streak alive?” He was referring to the fact that we’d had violence in the building every day for the last two months.

“Absolutely,” I responded. “He was trying to punch someone and he missed and hit the window instead. But that definitely still counts. The streak is alive.”

There’s always a silver lining.

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Death Wish

When I was weighing whether or not to take this job, I asked a veteran dean how bad it was and he told me that during his entire first year, he probably only had five bad days. He was trying to make it sound appealing, but to me, five bad days was five more than I wanted to have. Still I was willing to give it a shot anyway because teaching the same thing six times a day to kids who refused to do any work or didn’t even bother coming to class at all was becoming unbearable.

Little did I know that Patriot would take a drastic turn for the worse right after I became a dean (no cause and effect I’m sure), and that instead of five bad days a year, it would be more like five not-bad days a year. And in the three years since, things have not let up – especially recently. I honestly cannot remember the last day we were not inundated with uncontrollable fights, besieged by wild packs of hall-walkers, and surrounded by unending referrals from teachers for various other delinquencies. I’ve become so used to it that every once in a while, as I walk through a cloud of marijuana smoke in hall (which I now completely ignore), I have to conciously remind myself that this place is not normal.

All the shit kind of folds into itself in my memory, but an image that stands out from Friday was a boy’s face dripping profuse amounts of blood onto the stairs as the horde of students during change of periods ignored our commands to use another stairwell, and just skipped over the blood puddles like a sadistic one thousand person game of hop-scotch.

Then Monday, I had to use 100% of my strength to restrain a true beast of a teenager who had just had a fight and was being led through the crowd by two small female Safety Agents. The other “body” from the fight was being held in a classroom, and as the first guy passed by the door I saw his eyes shift and I knew he was going to make a dash and that the Agents would not be able to hold him. I lunged in front of him right as he broke free but he slipped past me and into the room so I grabbed one of his arms and pulled as hard as I could until I was able to get him out of the room. Then I locked my arms around his waist and drove him into the wall. He was still trying to fight his way out when two large agents ran up and put him in a choke. I walked back to the office, checking myself for injuries.

Which brings us to today, when we were charged with yet another case of a girl threatening and harassing other girls and screaming about fighting them at the top of her lungs in our office. “They don’t know me!” She screamed, stomping her feet and waving her hands. “How you gonna do that! I’m gonna beat the shit out of that bitch! No! No I ain’t doin’ no mediation! That smut gonna get her ass beat today!”

I’m just zoning out to this shit when I hear one of our 20 year old students yelling in another dean’s face who was suspending him for pushing him in the hallway. “Oh now you say I ‘pushed past you’! Before you said I ‘pushed you’! Which one is it! Now you a liar!”

“What’s the difference, Tayshaun if you pushed me or you pushed past me? Okay, write that he ‘pushed past’ me on my statement, Vicki. Okay? Is that better Tayshaun? You happy now?”

“You just scared to tell the truth!”

“I am NOT scared to tell the truth! I WILL tell the truth and I AM telling the truth! You will not be allowed to walk these halls like you own this building and treat us like garbage! You’re 20! You’re 20! Grow up!”

As I tried to ignore it all and make a call to the parent of another boy who was being suspended for cursing out the head of security, Dave walked by my desk.

“Pleasant working environment, isn’t it?” he said with a smile.

I chuckled back.

Meanwhile, Dean Flint was escorting the girl who was being threatened by the first girl to her father’s car in the front of the building. Suddenly, his static filled cries exploded over the radio, “SHE CAME OUTTA NOWHERE!  kschh….. I NEED SECURITY!”

After the attack had been dealt with, the head of security was dictating to Veronica what to write in the online report. “She then used her body as a projectile and- and dove? Lunged? Yeah, put LUNGED into the student, knocking her to the ground and causing cuts to her face and hands. Make sure you say she used her body as a projectile!”

Dean Flint walked over to my desk and tossed a newspaper at me. “I gotta an extra one foah ya, Pistol.” Then he stood there looking at me, shaking his head. The ol’ Dean’s Office Head Shake. I know it too well.

“Hey, whaddya gonna do?” I said, in an attempt to both recognize the suffering and also accept our powerlessness over the situation while at the same time finding peace in that very act of surrender. But mainly I said it to break the silence.

“NO!” Dean Flint bellowed back at me. “NOT ‘WHATTYA GONNA DO!’ NO! I AIN’T THAT KINDA PERSON!”

“Okay,” I muttered. I guess he hadn’t quite calmed down from the female body as projectile ambush yet.



“You know there was a movie a long time ago,” he said cryptically, as he stood there fuming for a few seconds to build the tension and add to the gravity of what was coming next. Then he added, “CHARLES BRONSON!” and he just walked away.

“Charles Bronson knew how to handle things?” I called out after him meekly.

He stopped in his tracks and turned back around. “YEAH! CHARLES BRONSON KNEW HOW TO HANDLE THINGS!”

I thought for second and then a light bulb went off. “Are you talking about Death Wish?”


Death Wish is about a regular Joe turned vigilante in 1970s New York City, who blows away muggers and thugs with a 44 Magnum left and right in an attempt to clean up the city after his wife is murdered. I had to give that one a good ol’ Dean’s Office Head Shake and a little chuckle. Then I went back to my paperwork.

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The Danes

An email was sent out yesterday, informing the staff that Patriot High School would be host to a group of Danish high school basketball players today. Each Dane was matched up with a host student from the Patriot High basketball team with whom they attended classes and against whom they played a scrimmage at the end of the day.

Personally, I found the whole thing surreal, and frankly a little dangerous. The Danes usually visit a suburban high school on these trips, but for some reason they decided to come to Patriot this year. I cringed at the thought of one of these kids getting their ass kicked in some dark stairwell, or at the very least, leaving with some serious psychological scars after witnessing the depths of depravity breeding within our walls. But while I can’t vouch for their psychological states, I am relieved to report to you that none of our Danish guests were physically injured during the making of this Patriot High school day.

My first sighting was when I called a kid up to the deans office because he had been seen in the cafeteria punching one person and slapping another. When he came in, a tall pimply-faced boy with fuzzy blond hair followed behind him.

“Who are you!” I barked at the yellow fuzzball. He froze like a reindeer in headlights.

“That’s my…” said the boy I had called up, unsure how to describe his new friend.

“Oh, that’s your…” I was unsure how to describe him also.

“Yeah,” he said.

Not everyone shared our hesitancy to name the guests, however. I heard one teacher ask a student, “Hey! Where’s your Denmark?”

As the day went on I spotted a few more, gliding through the crowd like spirit bears, and exhibiting bizarre behaviors like holding the door for the person behind them.

“I asked one of ’em if they wuh from Amstuhdam,” said another teacher. “And they said, ‘No, weah frum Denmahk.’ So I says, ‘Oh, I thought you wuh from tha Nethuhlands.’ Boy, did I feel dumb. Typical stupid American, I guess.”

As I mentally pictured the Danes sitting in on one of our kindergarten level classes, I told the teacher “Don’t worry, I guarantee that you will not be the dumbest American they meet today.”

“Yeah, just introduce ’em ta me!” Shouted the Head of Security, Mr Green, from across the office.

Although the rest of the day passed without any blond heads getting bashed in, I can’t say the same for the locals as our streak of daily violence continued unabated. Riding home on the train, I couldn’t get an image out of my head of two boys in boxing stances, one backing the other down, like two crabs on a beach. When the boy backing up stupidly took his guard down while trying to take his hat off, the other kid instantly put him on the floor with a lightning fast flurry of punches. Then he stomped on the kid’s face again and again while the kid desperately tried to shield head with his hands. When the stomper was finally done, he strutted through the crowd, laughing and throwing up gang signs as the crowd chanted “Cr!!!!!!!p Cr!!!!!!!!!p Cr!!!!!!!!!!p”.

I saw all of this on the security cameras after the fact, by the way. It’s not like I was right there standing idly by taking notes as this guy got his shit canned. Hell no, I would have saved that MS-13 kid from that Cr!p. Yeah, I would have made everything okay. If I had only been there.

I actually did make it on the scene during the Crip-chanting-victory-parade-aftermath and managed to clear the area of everyone and everything except for some blood, a couple pieces of tooth, and a constellation of tiny blue beads spilled across the floor.

Red, white and blue. Welcome to America.

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