Trust no one

"Washing one's hands of the conflict between the powerful and the powerless means to side with the powerful, not to be neutral."
-Paulo Freire, The Politics of Education

When I was in elementary school, my dad got involved in the movement to change the Cleveland Indians’ name and mascot. During baseball season, we attended demonstrations outside Jacobs Field.

I believed in the cause by default, but I hated the protests. They were cold and boring, and I had to watch thousands of fans disrespect us. Some laughed, some gave us the finger, and a few stopped to talk, but they often seemed inattentive (I now realize they might have been drunk).

In 1998, the Indians made it to the World Series. As a publicity stunt for the opening game, the activists burned an effigy of Chief Wahoo. I watched five of them, including my dad, arrested for “aggravated arson.” (They were detained overnight, but never prosecuted.) My brother videotaped the whole thing, and it made the news.

Inevitably, this came up at school. My fourth grade teacher wondered how many people had been arrested. I answered. She smiled, and asked how I knew this.

I was cornered, so I told the truth. The entire classroom gasped. I turned beet-red, and laughed, clinging to what I can only describe as the masochistic thrill of social martyrdom.

That year, my school established something called the Golden Rule Club.

This program was the brainchild of our assistant principal, who had become highly unpopular in her efforts to improve lunchtime discipline. She used to stalk the cafeteria looking for kids out of line. I guess one day she decided that there had to be a better way, consulted Stalin and Skinner, and came up with the GRC.

Any student could become a member of this club based on a points system. Points were earned through different activities, from putting a napkin on your lap during lunch (1 point) to various forms of menial labor (collecting trash from the playground, 15 points).

Every week, Vice Principal Stalin would announce the newest members and present them with blue and gold T-shirts. Every month, the entire club would wear these shirts to school, and receive a free meal catered by Taco Bell. You'd sit at a special table with a white tablecloth and "Golden Rule Club" signs, eat your taco, and be happy, because you won.

This is speculation. I was not in the GRC. From my perspective, it was just a wall of blue and smugness and Fire Sauce. At first I abstained out of laziness, but most kids will do anything for fast food. By Christmas, the majority of the fourth grade had joined, including the rest of the gifted program; some of my friends became high-ranking members, which was a recurring source of conflict ("Why don't you just join?" "Because it's retarded").

In the spring, Stalin finally pulled me aside. In retrospect, I don't blame her. It must have seemed odd that Hannah Watson, quiet kid, model student, would take issue with conformity.

"You know, you really should be wearing a napkin by now."

She had a point. It was the easiest thing in the GRC rulebook. But that's what I couldn't stand. It was so easy, and it didn't mean anything.