Resist (I Was a Sixth-Grade Firebrand)

1999 was a good year for basketball; 1990 was a good year to be in the sixth grade. When I think back on my school days, the sixth grade ranks as one of the best years of that time in my life. If not for a dearth of girls, alcohol, and pubic hair, it would definitely be number one like Ill 'Mare. Alas.

We were suburban badasses, bet. You weren't legit unless you knew all the lyrics to NWA's Straight Outta Compton , had a PE T-shirt, and daydreamed constantly -- and spoke openly -- about your desire to "finger" a girl (that was my goal, anyway; I couldn't even come yet, so I decided to take it one step at a time). Throw in the Sega Genesis, The Cosby Show, and Marvel Comics, and that was life as I knew it. That was all that seemed to matter.

I remember when PE's Fear of a Black Planet was released. One of my friends' brothers had it on cassette (pity us then, we of little or no disposable income). That bad boy was passed around for dubbing like the dutchie 'pon the left-hand side. I think mine was a copy of a copy.

(That summer, I would buy the real McCoy while on vacation in Nova Scotia. Big shout out to the Mayflower Mall in Sydney.)

NWA was controversial and shocking, but PE was righteous. They were the truth like the Celtics' no. 34. And this was the follow-up to It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. This was a big deal! Despite it's many outstanding, classic tracks ("Brothers Gonna Work It Out," "911 is a Joke," "Welcome to the Terrordome," "Burn Hollywood Burn," "Who Stole the Soul?," "War at 33 1/3" and "Fight the Power"), it became apparent to me in subsequent years that it's also bloated and has a second half weaker than watered-down Molson Exel (it's like witnessing the decline of the once-mighty Bomb Squad in real time), but back in the day that shit was my bible.

Conscious hip-hop music was what I listened to mostly back then (that and REM*), and I mean I listened. I took the words spoken by such MC's and groups as Chuck D, KRS ONE, Poor Righteous Teachers, 3rd Bass, De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest very seriously. Say what you will about the more racially-charged, vitriolic hip-hop which in a few years would follow (an amalgamation of afrocentricism and gangster rap, as well a by-product of the LA riots), but in 1990 most of those cats were speaking the truth about societal ills and black oppression. Hearing music like that made you want to fight for change.

This was also a period of increasing awareness regarding environmental issues. In Ontario, blue boxes were ubiquitous in every household. Tossing an empty juice box or bag of potato chips on the ground made me fear I had committed a federal crime. Earth Day was all the rage.

Earth Day. Ask me, I don't even know what fucking day it's on. I know it's in April; that's it.

But then? Earth Day was a big fucking deal. Save the planet, dig it!

So when -- to my and my fellow classmates' surprise -- it was revealed that our school had no Earth Day activities planned (plant a tree, pick up trash at municipal parks, no homework), it was time to, you guessed it, fight the power.

I don't know who came up with the plan. I think it was me, but I also like to think I'm the most charasmatic person alive, so maybe my memory is a little selective on that. Regardless, at lunchtime it was decided that we would hold a sit-in to protest the lack of Earth Day festivities. Because if Paul A. Fisher Elementary School didn't plant a fucking tree** or pick up shards of beer bottles (and condoms) in the woods abutting our grounds, the planet was doomed!

During the lunch break, we wrangled up most of the school (because kids are easily led, I suppose) and sat on a hill facing its main doors. I believe the resistance chant du jour was "Hell no, we won't go!" As you can see, we came prepared.

When the lunch bell rang, a few of the younger kids got up to go back inside. We

(beat them with sticks)

bade them sit down, and the greatest sit-in Burlington, Ontario has ever witnessed continued.

(I think one kid peed his pants. Whatever, those are the sacrifices we all must be willing to make. I think that kid, wherever he is now, realizes that. In fact, I'm sure he does.)

A few minutes later, our teachers perhaps wondering what the fuck was going on, an envoy from the Dark Side was sent: Ms. Grady, the 1st-grade teacher. She was pretty. But we would not be broken. Ideally, I mean.

"Children, come inside," she said gently.

And you know what, half of our brotherhood -- mostly 1st-through-3rd graders -- arose and followed her! Turncoats.

Still, the true stayed true. We would not be broken. Until, that is, our teacher, Mr. Moore, came out and reminded us what we were missing: the D.A.R.E. program.

Now, most of us couldn't have given a shit about D.A.R.E. Though I have no evidence to support the claim, I'm pretty sure most of my former schoolmates are currently drug-abusing lowlives. But what got us shook (you play a mean game, Mr. Moore) was the threat of him going back inside and having our D.A.R.E. "counselor," Constable Delaney***, come out. She was a cop!

It was clear we were beaten.

However...

That evening, while I was at home munching on some golden, crispy McCain french fries and watching TV in the living room, my mom came in and told me a reporter from The Burlington Spectator -- that luminous bastion of reportage -- had just called to request an interview. Was I interested? You bet your sweet ass I was. (Those were not the words I used to intimate to my mother that, yes, I was willing to partake in the interview, however. It was more like "Do you get paid if a newspaper interviews you?")

An hour later, at a classmate's house, the interview was conducted. Because I was the only interviewee out of the three of us radicals who wasn't accompanied by a parent, I couldn't get a word in edgewise. That was vexing.

But you know what? Afterwards that didn't bother me a bit, because the next day I saw myself on the front page of The Burlington fucking Spectator. (Slow news day?) Me, with my Johnny Depp-styled hair, my faded jean jacket with the Hulk vs. Thing button on the left breast, and my alluring blue eyes. It didn't matter that I wasn't quoted in the article, because often silence speaks louder than words. (The irony of that last part is not lost on me.)

I looked like the brains of the operation. I still do.

***

What I'm trying to say here is, ideals and standing up for what you believe in is noble and all, but sometimes what you believe in and stand up for is essentially bullshit, and it's only a matter of time until you realize it for yourself. I used to think Public Enemy would make a lasting difference vis a vis race relations in America; then, as I grew up, I learned that Flavor Flav is a recovering crack addict****.

I used to believe a lot of things.

And while, yeah, the truth crushed to earth may rise again, there's no telling.

But face time? Celebrity? Money? (Leather NBA basketballs?) That shit lasts forever.

Or so I hear.

Tomorrow: Rest


* I've got my spine, I've got my Pocari Sweat.

** I'm all for planting fucking trees.

*** I bet she was assigned the task because she shot her car or something. Word to Roland Pryzbylewski.

**** Then, later, I learned he's in love with Bridgette Nielson! Goodbye, cruel world.