private. George is just a public servant, and that ain’t paying but so much. Tosha is an administrator for the school district, but it doesn’t matter. This is Germantown, and they are middle-class, and I know they’re not letting their little angels loose in Lingelbach Elementary to eek out survival. Our childhood was all about Lingelbach Elementary. It was about finding a school to go to so you didn’t have to go to Lingelbach Elementary. Seeing if you could use a mailing address in Mt. Airy, or getting your parents to send you to private. It was about staying inside in the hour and a half after those kids were released back into the community, lest their tsunami of juvenile chaos catch you in its wave. On some days you could hear their mob coming south on Pulaski at 3:30 P.M ., watch the streets fill with the lumpen youth parade before disappearing again. Even my father, as oblivious as he was,would manage to keep in the back of the house during that procession. Tal would be too old for Lingelbach, but my father’s mansion is zoned to Germantown High, the teenage equivalent. I had friends that went to Germantown, the ones that couldn’t find their way out to a magnet program. My primary memory of Germantown was that they threw a math teacher off the roof. This story seems suspect now, maybe nothing more than an urban legend, but the fact that it has taken me thirty years to even question it is because Germantown High is the kind of school where a math teacher being thrown off a roof seems perfectly plausible. Still, when George breaks down how much he’s paying for each child to go to their private Quaker school, for a second I imagine Tal Karp roaming the halls of Germantown High, books in hand. A pioneering young Jewess the likes of which those halls have not seen in sixty years.
“I can’t pay that much.” There’s no sheepishness in my confession. It’s not that I wouldn’t do it; I just don’t have the money. Maybe, maybe if my father’s house sold, I could put that money down, but school starts this week. “Is Germantown High any better now?” I turn to ask Tosha directly. Her strongly negative response involves as much body language as syllables.
“Charter schools. That’s what people are doing now. They’re free, there’s usually a theme. There’s an Asian one in Chinatown and a black one, not too far from you, past Wayne Junction. Umoja. Guy I used to work with’s the principal. I’ll give you the brochure. That’s what you need for her: real Afrocentric, positive. But not Germantown High.” Tosha grimaces, her hand waving the idea out of the air like so much flatulence. “Don’t let her first real experience with black folks be running from them.”
“You need to clear your head, get out in the open air,” George says. “You need to get back on your bike. I still got the Harley. Needs to be run and I don’t have time. I poured a couple thousand into it since you sold it to me, but I’ll give you a good deal on it. You want to impress your daughter, let her see her old man rolls in style.”
“Buy the bike back, Warren. I’ll show you where it is,” Tosha tellsme. When George briefly turns his back to Tosha, she mouths
Please!
and makes shooing motions with her hands.
“Look, they say being a father’s just about showing up,” George says when he turns back around. “It’s true, too, the standards really are that low. You show up, you don’t beat them, you love them, you pay for stuff. That’s all there is to it.” On this final phrase, George slaps my back. He slaps hard, not hard enough to hurt me but enough to say he could do it if he tried. He is a man. He is a father. He’s licensed to carry a gun. It makes me love Tosha even more, because she saw all the way back then that he would become a man and I wouldn’t. I used to want a time machine so I could go back and stop George from taking her from me. Now I want one to go back even further and make him my
“I can’t pay that much.” There’s no sheepishness in my confession. It’s not that I wouldn’t do it; I just don’t have the money. Maybe, maybe if my father’s house sold, I could put that money down, but school starts this week. “Is Germantown High any better now?” I turn to ask Tosha directly. Her strongly negative response involves as much body language as syllables.
“Charter schools. That’s what people are doing now. They’re free, there’s usually a theme. There’s an Asian one in Chinatown and a black one, not too far from you, past Wayne Junction. Umoja. Guy I used to work with’s the principal. I’ll give you the brochure. That’s what you need for her: real Afrocentric, positive. But not Germantown High.” Tosha grimaces, her hand waving the idea out of the air like so much flatulence. “Don’t let her first real experience with black folks be running from them.”
“You need to clear your head, get out in the open air,” George says. “You need to get back on your bike. I still got the Harley. Needs to be run and I don’t have time. I poured a couple thousand into it since you sold it to me, but I’ll give you a good deal on it. You want to impress your daughter, let her see her old man rolls in style.”
“Buy the bike back, Warren. I’ll show you where it is,” Tosha tellsme. When George briefly turns his back to Tosha, she mouths
Please!
and makes shooing motions with her hands.
“Look, they say being a father’s just about showing up,” George says when he turns back around. “It’s true, too, the standards really are that low. You show up, you don’t beat them, you love them, you pay for stuff. That’s all there is to it.” On this final phrase, George slaps my back. He slaps hard, not hard enough to hurt me but enough to say he could do it if he tried. He is a man. He is a father. He’s licensed to carry a gun. It makes me love Tosha even more, because she saw all the way back then that he would become a man and I wouldn’t. I used to want a time machine so I could go back and stop George from taking her from me. Now I want one to go back even further and make him my
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