Everyone thinks my name is Kenny. Even though I know why, I still don't really know why. I can only explain both whys in the following story.
My real name is Darnell. Every white teacher I meet tenses up-well tenses up isn't even the right description. It's more like a case of ninth grade nausea. You know, that consistent feeling of total surprise and unknowing mixed with utter terror of saying the wrong thing to the senior feeling up his (pregnant?) girfriend in front of your locker. You could just leave and get to math, but you're already failing algebra and today is the midterm. That's how white teachers react to my extra l. The smart ones leave it alone, but some call out "Dar-nellllllllllll" leaving me to wonder if I should leave it alone (it wasn't really my name) or to respond an obilgatory: "here!"
Most of the terror involved with my name is what I call Freakonomics nomination. I've got a black kid's name, and worse, I've got a black guy's name. They'll tell you all about it in Freakonomics, but the short version is that my name is associated with years of a teacher's worst nightmare. Even if I'm a good black guy, the best I can amount to is a class clown with a crime and drug ridden future. Goodness knows I'm not in Algebra 2 honors, so I can't be the 1% at our school who have a Bachelor's degree guaranteed. That's just one unfortunate part of my name.
The other is my grandmother. As my name might further suggest, I am the son of addicts. To keep myself happy, safe and sane, I live with my grandmother, who is generally an awesome person to be around. The thing about my grandmother is that she is particular. She works as a receptionist for a test tube manufacturer in the suburbs, and she is especially particular about that. Because my grandmother works in the suburbs, she and I live in the suburbs. Despite this, my grandmother insists that I attend a city school. I think my grandmother looked up all the city and state officials to see what school they went to and decided on Grant High because it had the most alumni in the group. It's also possible she knows them all personally. Either way, I use my crack addict address to go to Ulysses S. Grant High School, which, much to my grandmother's unaware, has fallen-just as Grant-in it's own alcoholic stupor. It's not the worst high school in the city, but it's not the best. Really it's the forgotten school. And everyone in it. The teachers are the forgotten: not bad, not good. The student body is not the best but not the worst. Only Hamilton Benton, an ancient janitor, who remains loyal to Grant, pride of the East Side, can be called the best in the city. And Benton leads the best building engineer staff in the city. If there is one good thing about Grant, we've got the friendliest key masters and the cleanest toilets on this side of the Mississippi.
I like Grant. I am glad my grandmother sent me there, but I don't get bussed, and my grandmother picks me up everyday. This would be fine if she could come at the same time everyday, but with her particulars and our '92 Saturn, usually the time is unpredictable. Anyway, at first it was surprising more people didn't know my name because it's called out on the PA system when she gets there everyday. Of course my grandmother can't get a cell phone like other parents. Instead I'm jolted from a computer comic strip creation program in the library and forced to walk around half the school as my grandmother insists that the secretary call for me over and over: "Dar-nellllllllllllllll Forster, your grandmother is here to pick you up!"
But I'm really Kenny at this school. The day I became Kenny the Saturn actually got me to school on time. Teachers hold you in the cafe for fifteen minutes if you're late and get to know which kids are always late. Even if you've only got a '92 Saturn and a particular grandmother to depend on, they only care that you were late to their most important history lesson of all time. But on this day, the car was working fine, and my grandmother got up early, and I got to school on time.
The day kept going like that. We had a quiz in algebra with four questions straight from our book that I had happened to look at the night before. I got the toilet that actually flushed without having to wait during passing time, and Miss. French actually smiled when she overheard me tell Davon my colon pun.
I knew the day was going too well when Destiany Harris asked for a pen to borrow. She could have asked Joe, the freshman wrestling state finalist, but me! She asked me!
And at the beginning of third hour I gradually learned of my fate for the day. Assigned seating. It's always a crapshoot. Richard Steven, a first name, last name guy, decided we were getting too rowdy. Steven began calling out names, and I attempted to calculate my chances of landing a lucky seat between Destiany and Davon. My calculations took too long to ever give me an answer, but it didn't matter. On this best day of all days Davon sat right in front of me and Destiany just to my left. On my right, I had a perfect view of the courtyard and students skipping class.
Then the sun came, beautiful and warm at first. The kind of sunshine that ushers in peace to your body and soul. I was peaceful.
For maybe three minutes.
First, I began to sweat. Just a little sweat that didn't bother me, but then it became a torrential sweat. My pores lost all control, and I know my Old Spice melted and melanged into a newer, bold spice. I could not raise my arm for fear of Destiany seizuring from a bold spice shock, so I did my best to connect every line on my paper into similar triangles. I always started at the first line and connected it with the red, indented line. The first line shook with my mind and every sequential line. Tip to triangle tip and-damn, whatever. Now the next, okay good-and the next-damn! Start over here okay, okay-damn! Whatever, connect it anyway and-
"Mr. Forster, did you confuse this with art class?"-a skeptic above me.
I wasn't stupid, but I stared at those lines, biding time but really memorizing every imperfection. Every kiltered line, each mismatched angle until my right eye could only stare to the far left bottom triangle and my left eye to the far right top. I was more mismatched than my triangles, and this realization snapped me right back:
"I'm gonna puke."
With possible concern but probable fear of a smelly classroom, I was immediately sent to the nurse.
Ann Bonar has an unfortunate name and, as names go, it fits her perfectly. With absolute lack of concern, except for her clean office, she shuffled me to the main doors to wait for an unpredictable Saturn and a particular grandmother.
Grant has, unsurprisingly, a lack of shade. I now passed the sweat, under the sun, unmatching the perfectly matched grout between sidewalks and bricks, spinning my eyes. As my angled world tangled, I forced myself back through the doors of Grant. The first floor was out: main office, nurses' office, possible sighting of Destiany. Sunlight highlighted the tiles each perfectly yet imperfectly matched on the stairway: my ascent both into and out of the heart of sunlight and darkness.
I was so shocked I made it to the top, I had not considered my goal. I looked left: the boys bathroom, one good flushing toilet. I looked right: the college access programs office. Ok, this was it.
Relief came with a healthy smell of my lunch mixed with stomach acid, saliva and other entrees of my innards emanating from the small, metal trash bin I was bent over.
"So, Kenny, have you thought about college?" the white, teacher girl asked me, I was pretty sure it was me, with an idealistic smile. Folks never stop at Grant. They're always working for our success. Apparently not our real names.
"Kenny? I just thought while we waited for your grandmother, we could talk about your options."
With my options in trash bins and in colorful brochures over her desk, Grant High School deemed me Kenny, and, I'd like to think, to a special few, trashcan puker.
With my options in trash bins and in colorful brochures over her desk, my unpredictable grandmother arrived with a very concerned Ann Bonar.
Written June 2009.
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