Theoracism

The class looked at their tablets. Four numbers in bold, stark white appeared together like apparitions floating across the black backgrounds: 1619.

“This is the real origin of the United States. Not the Declaration in 1776. We must know this to be true,” eleventh grade college preparatory social studies teacher Harold Bucknell said. He slightly bit his tongue, chomping back the words issued from his lips.

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A young girl with a curious look plastered on her face raised her hand.

“Yes?” Bucknell acknowledged her.



“It was July 4, 1776 when Thomas Jefferson made it public to the world for that time, and all generations, that America stood for reason, individualism, and capitalism,” the girl, Gadot Tinkerton, said.

Bucknell seemed to march rather than walk from his position at the front of the class, and before she could blink, he was standing beside Gadot’s desk.

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He looked down at her and sternly said, “This book says twenty African slaves arrived on these shores we call the United States near the end of August in the year you see in front of you. Impress that in your mind young lady. The Founders were slave owners. Not liberators This is all according to the book.”

“Mr. Bucknell, I understand some were owners of slaves, and that some of them did not free the human beings they claimed to own as chattel, but, they were geniuses who would go on to lay the groundwork for the most abolitionist nation in the history of mankind.”

Bucknell moved away from Gadot. “Class, what is better? To be right as an individual or as a class?”

“As a class,” the entire room, except for Gadot, echoed in unison. She looked bewildered at her fellow students.

“And what do we do to the individual who does not conform?”

Gadot’s classmate Ashley Mortimer raised his hand.

“Yes, Mr. Mortimer?”

“We send them outside….” the boy's brown eyes narrowed as slight and cold as an ice floe.



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“That’s right. Gadot, I think it’s time for you to break from the class and take a few minutes outside with me.”

“Ooooooh,” the choir chimed again. She gathered her bag, tablet, and water and calmly excused herself from the room. Bucknell trailed her. She leaned against the wall adjacent to the door jamb. Bucknell addressed the class. “Continue on to the next module. I’ll be right back.”

He exited the room, and closed the door. The halls were so deserted, one would half expect tumbleweed to blow by.

“Follow me down the hall to the locker area, young lady.”

Gadot followed his instruction. When they arrived at the end of the hall, Bucknell, who stood at 6’4” loomed over Gadot’s slight 5’5” frame. To the casual observer, it would have looked terrifying, as if he were trying to intimidate her into submission. That’s why Gadot was shocked to hear what came out of Bucknell’s mouth next: “That was awesome in there.”

“Wait, what?” Now she was really puzzled.

“You slayed it! You gave an objective viewpoint to a class that has been numbed by contemporary education. Kudos to you!”

“But you were so serious about the 1619 date.”

“I’m falling back on my acting days in college. Look, I’m part of a cabal of teachers and possibly students, seeking to eliminate the viciousness that has terrorized our school. You’re white, I’m white and we’re against racism. Go figure.”

“Yes, but what do we do next?”

“I have to keep teaching this drivel, sadly. Even worse, I’ll have to mark every essay, every exam on the terms of such drivel. But you can play possum, can’t you?”

“Until I’m roadkill!”

“Good. We’ll go in there with the attitude that I’m punishing you for speaking out against the text. Don’t tell your friends about what I told you. We’re going to fight this from the inside out. How’s that sound?”

“I’m okay with it. I’m taking drama, so I can put on a face that will throw everyone off, totally. I just want to get to the point where we’ll be able to totally take this out of the curriculum.”

“With that attitude, we have a good chance of changing things.”