I am sitting here watching the news, numbed by the endless repetition of details, each time with just a little more added to the picture. The man standing there with a phone in his right hand and a raised arm to ward off the pepper spray. Then the scuffling on the ground, and the shots that took his life.
After that, the crowds of people in the streets with their signs, marching along in the falling temperature, and I find myself searching the crowd for a familiar face, a familiar figure.
In the winter he used to wear a red ski jacket, one of those puffy things that looked stylish but were way too thin for our winters. My guess is that his mother must have bought it for him on sale somewhere. I remember watching him waiting at the bus stop after school in the howling wind and wondering how he could stand the cold.
He sat behind me in grade 10 in high school, and I always thought he was the kind of boy who would be up to some sort of mischief. Sitting right there behind me looking at the back of my head while I was bent over my desk, I figured that sooner to later he would try to remove the elastic hair band from my hair. He never did, which sort of disappointed me.
I do think he was soft on me, but the other girls said he didn’t fool around much. And he was known to be one of the brains in the class, which I strongly believe I was not. Once he received a mark of 98 per cent on a test. The teacher made a big deal of it. Never happened before, he told us, but this young man has shown it can be done.
As for mischief, it was not exactly the silly stuff, like throwing toilet paper rolls out the third-floor window. There was usually some kind of principle involved. One morning he did not stand up for the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer at the start of the first class. He just sat there quietly with his head down. Everyone knew this was against the rules.
What is the problem, young man, the teacher asked afterwards. Too good for prayers?
At that point he stood up like he was supposed to and said, I don’t think we should be praying in a public school. What if I am a Druid, sir?
To which the teacher answered, Are you a Druid?
No answer.
Another time, when it was coming up to election day, we had a mock election in class. He was one of the candidates, but not for one of the usual parties. He stood for one I had never heard tell of. Not red or blue but some other colour. We listened carefully, and I could tell everyone was impressed by his sincerity. We voted him in. I have no idea what the teacher thought, or if he even told the other teachers what had happened.
The worst trouble I remember was one morning when we were going to have a visiting speaker at the school assembly in the auditorium. When I arrived at school, I saw him walk up the steps to the front door carrying a small cardboard sign. There were big black letters painted on it, saying something like “NO NAZIS HERE!”
Right away he was grabbed by two men standing at the door and pushed up against the wall with one arm twisted sharply behind his back. Nothing was said. The men marched him down to the sidewalk and put him in the back seat of a waiting car.
I stood there with my mouth open as they roared off down the street and around the corner.
Later that morning, after the assembly, I found him sitting in the row of chairs outside the vice-principal’s office.
What happened? I asked.
Nothing really, he said. They took me for a ride and then brought me back to see the vice-principal, who said it was okay to leave me here.
Are you going to be punished? Will they call your parents?
All taken care of, he said nonchalantly. It’s just what you have to do sometimes. The vice-principal told me the speaker was not really a Nazi, and I told him I agreed. He was just a neo-Nazi, I said.
And now, all these years later, as I watch the TV and scan the crowds, I am looking for him. I don’t know if he still lives here, or if I would even recognize him. He might have a beard or something for all I know. I realize I am looking for that familiar red ski jacket. I tell myself he can hardly be wearing that anymore. It was never warm enough in the first place. But I keep watching as the thousands of people pass by. It’s just where I’d expect to find him.
Eva Jean lives in a mid-sized city in North America, where local experiences often make us want to share stories.
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