“If they asking for war, I’ll give them war!”
He was strong but she held him. Urged him to return to his apartment and take care of his mother and sisters, told him setting fires in his own neighborhood wasn’t going to bring their people healing or justice. Rain pummeled their hair, and their feet skidded over theslippery asphalt, the tar moist and shining like cake. The blockade of his body served dually as a restraint to stop herself from tearing shit down.
The next morning, the city churned on like nothing had happened. The residents of Brownsville read about the arrests in Harlem and on Fulton Street, but their eyes were too tired to make tears. When Brownsville returned to school, an uncanny stillness pervaded the classrooms of J.H.S. 271. Students sat with their elbows on their desks and their cheeks in their palms, unable to summon the energy for the usual, feisty rebellions. Principal Harris held gatherings in the main office for distressed parents, and even the white teachers grieved: Mrs. Rebecca Salzman, red-eyed, dabbed her nose with a handkerchief.
Lina had her students paint posters in honor of MLK, and in her every spare moment, she sat in on Mr. Parson’s classes. She wasn’t alone: ninth graders skipped their lunches to attend his eighth-grade seminars. During any given class period, there would be a dozen students, teachers, and parents crowding on top of the bookshelves at the back. They all needed him more than ever.
Mr. Parson offered no easy answers. Mostly, he sat on his desk at the front of the classroom with his hands folded on his knee, and he asked questions.
“What do you think about the looting on Fulton Street? The fires on Sutter Avenue? Were they justified?”
Some guilty eyes shifted to the floor.
“We angry.” Walter shrugged.
“My mama said it ain’t right,” said Veronica, turning sharply in her chair. “You think King wanted us to go out and burn down our neighborhood?”
Hank, who never said anything in class, leaned forward on his desk.
“You fixing to say something?” asked Mr. Parson.
“I don’t know what kind of stores got looted,” Hank said. “If it was white people’s stores, then I get where folks was coming from.”
“It don’t matter whose stores,” retorted Veronica. “You robbing people, that ain’t right. And it looks bad for the race. You get a new pair of shoes, and they treat you like a wild animal for the rest of your life, is that what you want?”
“Those people was taking advantage of the situation.”
“Those people are po’,” said June. Her voice was firm enough to scatter a flock of pigeons. She never evinced any shame, and over time, the other kids had come to respect her.
“Rich people,” June continued, “wouldn’t need to take advantage of the situation because they already got all the food and clothes they need.”
The arguing continued for a while, and then Mr. Parson stood up and moved to the chalkboard.
“Tell me three actions President Johnson should take right now, in response to the King’s assassination.”
“Civil rights,” someone suggested.
“They already passed the Civil Rights Act,” said another. “He gotta jail all the people that be killing us. Jail the KKK.”
“It’s not just the KKK. The police be killing us.”
“Poverty. Poverty be killing folks.”
“I don’t need nothing from President Johnson,” Hank said. “If we can take over the schools, we can do anything.”
“What else shall we take over?” asked Mr. Parson.
The young people went quiet. They’d been stunned by the question and by its myriad possibilities.
The bell rang.
Mr. Parson nodded quickly.
His students, overwhelmed, did not move from their seats. Mr. Parson had brought them to the edge of something beautiful and terrifying. To return to normal routines seemed senseless.
“Black Power!” one of the students yelped, jumping up from her seat. It was June again, hurling this phrase toward Mr. Parson like a command.
One of the boys took it up, and then others, and then almost thewhole room. As they gathered their books and sweaters and headed toward the door, it became a unified chant. Tepid at first, the handful of Puerto Rican kids joined in.
