Why Jeff Sessions is Great for Public Schools

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by Christopher Paslay

Jeff Sessions’ objective application of the law will be a positive change from the racial divisiveness of Eric Holder and Loretta Lynch, whose race-based policies demoralized teachers and tied the hands of school administrators. 

According to a study published in the Washington Post in July of 2016, America is more racially divided than it’s been in decades.  Despite President Obama’s promise to bring Americans together (“. . . there’s not a black America and white America and Latino America and Asian America; there’s the United States of America . . .”), the tone of his administration could be more aptly summarized by his statement, If I had a son he’d look like Trayvon.

The irony, of course, is that a bi-racial president was so racially polarizing.  This divisiveness was felt by many Americans, including our nation’s public school teachers.  Following the lead of Attorney General Eric Holder, Education Secretary Arne Duncan used the Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights to label public schools and their teachers as institutionally racist and hit them with suffocating regulations.

According to a 2012 study by the U.S. Department of Education’s Office for Civil Rights, Black students were more than three times as likely as their White peers to be suspended or expelled.  That was noteworthy information, being that 84 percent of America’s public school teachers in 2012 were White.

The result of this report, of course, was not only the demoralization of public school teachers, but the implementation of regulations which made it harder to discipline students and maintain workable classroom environments.  Teachers were forced to rethink the way they approached their jobs, planning lessons which accommodated the unruly behavior of minority students who were no longer allowed to be removed from the classroom; these challenged children were forced to coexist with their functional hard working peers, and the integrity and quality of everyone’s education, Black and White alike, was compromised.

So how is our new U.S. Attorney General Jeff Session going to remedy the situation?  By being a fair and objective arbiter of the law.  Throughout his confirmation hearing, Sessions insisted he would uphold and protect the United States Constitution, unlike Barack Obama and Eric Holder, who selectively enforced the law.  In other words, Sessions will not use race to set policy or interpret the Constitution — a simple enough premise.

In short, Sessions won’t play the part of an aggrieved activist, using skin color to either prosecute — or refrain from prosecuting — American citizens.  The new culture of “colorblindness” will hopefully set the tone for the rest of the DOE.  This would mean the race card might be put away for a while, and teachers will be free to teach once again.  Disciplinarians will be free to discipline, too.  Regardless of race.

Perhaps the morale of public school teachers may improve as well.  Not being labeled a racist — along with having a manageable classroom environment — will go a long way in terms of school performance.  In Sessions, teachers now have an Attorney General whom they can respect as a fair arbiter of the law, an attorney General who will work for everyone equally, not just those minority groups the government deems worthy of preferential treatment.

Unfortunately, though, the campaign to slander Sessions has been in high gear as of late.  His critics don’t want a neutral arbitrator of the law but a social justice activist like Holder and Lynch — someone who will selectively prosecute based on skin color, the way Holder did in 2009 when the DOJ dropped the case against the New Black Panthers for intimidating voters in Philadelphia.

The fact that Sessions will be colorblind is the main reason why his opponents label him . . . get ready for this, racist . . . and continue to use smear tactics and spread misinformation sessions-bridge-3-1024x683about him.  In the world of race-baiting and identity politics, being colorblind is akin to committing a hate crime.  Despite the disingenuous attacks from fellow senators, Sessions is a good man with a glowing record on civil rights.  During a march to commemorate the 50th anniversary of “Bloody Sunday,” Jeff Sessions held hands with civil rights icon Congressman John Lewis as they crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama.

According to the Weekly Standard:

Sessions’s actual track record certainly doesn’t suggest he’s a racist. Quite the opposite, in fact. As a U.S. Attorney he filed several cases to desegregate schools in Alabama. And he also prosecuted Klansman Henry Francis Hays, son of Alabama Klan leader Bennie Hays, for abducting and killing Michael Donald, a Black teenager selected at random. Sessions insisted on the death penalty for Hays. When he was later elected the state Attorney General, Sessions followed through and made sure Hays was executed. The successful prosecution of Hays also led to a $7 million civil judgment against the Klan, effectively breaking the back of the KKK in Alabama.

Jeff Sessions is hardly a racist.  On the contrary, he’s an honest man with character and integrity, and will have a positive impact on both public school performance and teacher morale.

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Filed under Achievement Gap, Multiculturalism

Arne Duncan is Right: Protesters Shouldn’t be Blocking DeVos from Public Schools

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by Christopher Paslay

Obama Education Secretary is right to condemn agitators for verbally assaulting Education Secretary Betsy DeVos, and for physically blocking her from entering a D.C. public school.    

On Friday afternoon, after Betsy DeVos was physically prevented from entering a Washington D.C. public school and verbally assaulted by a group of agitators (allegations that DeVos was physically assaulted are still being investigated), Arne Duncan tweeted out the following:

Agree or disagree w @BetsyDeVos on any issue, but let’s all agree she really needs to be in public schools. Please let her in.

Duncan, who served as Obama’s Education Secretary for seven years, should be commended for remaining above the fray and calling for civil treatment of DeVos, the newly confirmed United States Secretary of Education. Whether you agree with her stance on education or not, the all-out smear campaign on her background and character is inappropriate.

Vanity Fair film critic Richard Lawson actually likened DeVos to a murderer, tweeting that her policies “will kill children” and lead “queer kids” to “more suicides” because of a lack of access to supports in religious schools.

Interestingly, if you take a closer look at her agenda, you’ll find that many of her views aren’t that different from Arne Duncan’s, which might be why he went out of his way to defend her right to be heard. Duncan’s record as Obama’s education chief reveals he did quite a lot to dismantle traditional public education and attack schoolteachers, turning neighborhood schools into charters and trampling collective bargaining rights in the process.

During his seven year tenure, Duncan fought to:

  • Use performance pay to compensate teachers based on student performance on standardized tests.
  • End teacher seniority to give principals the autonomy to pick their own staffs.
  • Turn “failing” schools into charters.
  • Overhaul entire staffs of teachers and principals at failing schools.
  • Reduce suspensions and expulsions to deal with unruly and disruptive students.

Then there was his whole plan to shame teachers into improving performance, endorsing the public release of information about how well individual teachers fare at raising their students’ test scores.

This doesn’t sound like a man who respected teachers’ unions, traditional public education, or educational privacy rights, but other than an occasional editorial in the newspaper, not a whole lot was said about it. The Obama/Duncan “Reform Train” railroaded public schools, students, and teachers from coast to coast, for seven long years. And how many times did raving agitators, holding Black Lives Matter signs, block his entrance into schools?

Zero.

How many times did Chuck Schumer insist that Obama’s appointment of Duncan to office should “offend every single American man, woman, and child who has benefitted from the public education system in this country,” the way he did of Trump’s appointment of DeVos?

Zero.

How many times were Duncan’s policies accused of killing children?

Zero.

Why?

Politics as usual.

Take education in Philadelphia, for example. There’s this notion floating around that the appointment of Betsy DeVos marks the end of Philly public schools as we know them, that teachers’ unions—along with collective bargaining—will be irrevocably dismantled. I’ve heard it mentioned, in fact, that Betsy DeVos is the biggest threat to collective bargaining ever.

Ever?

Hardly.

Dwight Evans wins this title. In the late 1990s, he fought to pass the Pennsylvania Charter School Law, which opened the floodgates for school choice and took millions of dollars away from traditional public schools and pumped them into privately owned charters.  Evans also supported Acts 46 and 83, which enabled Harrisburg to take over the Philadelphia School District, and replace the local school board with a state-run School Reform Commission.

It also took away the Philadelphia Federation of Teachers’ right to strike.

Now, fast forward to 2017. The city doesn’t have a local school board, and contract terms can be unilaterally forced on the union by the SRC.  The school budget has been slashed by hundreds of millions, and staffs are running on bare bones.  Many schools lack adequate nurses and counselors. It’s been over 1,000 days since teachers have had a contract.  Their seniority has been cut, their degrees marginalized, and they haven’t received a raise in nearly four years.

Was Dwight Evans ever blocked from entering a school?

No. On the contrary, he’s been continually voted into office by establishment Democrats, many of whom are the same folks throwing a temper tantrum over Betsy “Doomsday” DeVos.

Why isn’t DeVos the biggest threat to collective bargaining to date in Philadelphia? Because under Act 46 and 83, there is no real power to collective bargain.   You can’t take away something you don’t technically have.

Yet somehow DeVos remains the ultimate boogiewoman, and has been relentlessly smeared before even being given a chance to develop her vision for American education.

Kudos to Arne Duncan for remaining above the fray and calling for the civil treatment of DeVos. You can agree or disagree with DeVos on any issue, as Duncan stated, but at least know she must be allowed to visit public schools so we can have an appropriate and responsible dialogue.

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Filed under Arne Duncan

10 Reasons to Skip ‘Black Lives Matter Week’ in Philadelphia

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by

Christopher Paslay

If you’re thinking of joining BLM’s Action Week in Philadelphia, you should reconsider.  

My name is Christopher Paslay, a 20-year veteran of the Philadelphia School District, and I’m officially skipping the Black Lives Matter “Week of Action” planned for Philadelphia public schools. For two decades I’ve been a dedicated English teacher, mentor, and coach, and have written hundreds of articles demanding respect, equality, and justice for our children, communities, and schools.

But I won’t be wearing a BLM button or t-shirt next week, or implementing any BLM curriculum in my English classes (even though I have an M.Ed. in Multicultural Education).

Here are 10 reasons why:

1. Students shouldn’t be shunned for supporting Trump or being Republican. Ironically, although “Diversity” is the first of BLM’s 13 “Guiding Principles,” which states they are committed to “acknowledging, respecting and celebrating differences and commonalities” which include race, religion, age, gender identity, sexual identity, economic status, and immigration status, nowhere in BLM’s 13 Guiding Principles do they acknowledge accepting differing political ideologies. In other words, it doesn’t appear that conservatives and/or Republicans are welcomed by this group.

Perhaps I’m misinterpreting BLM’s website and mission, and if I am, I apologize. However, after reading BLM’s calendar of events for their planned “Week of Action” in Philadelphia, it becomes quite clear that they have no tolerance for political diversity.

In a “kick off event” titled “Courage for Racial Justice in the Era of Trump,” which was scheduled for Friday, January 13, BLM’s discrimination is quite clear. The event description reads, In this time of mass incarceration, mass deportation, anti-Muslim sentiment, profound economic inequality, and the election of Trump, all of our social justice movements are coming together to build powerful resistance to the death culture. Additionally, people of all backgrounds are becoming active for the first time and looking for direction, as many are horrified by what the election of Trump means for our country.

 The death culture? Strong words. So it’s obvious this “Week of Action” does not include any Philadelphia teacher, student, parent, or community member that voted for or supports Trump. This is quite interesting, because 105,418 people voted for Trump in the City of Philadelphia. 105,418. And apparently none of these Philadelphians are being made to feel welcome.

2. Students shouldn’t be taught to obsess over race, religion, gender, and sexuality. Sure, teens must be taught not to discriminate (consciously or unconsciously), but BLM’s fixation on race, religion, gender and sexuality is excessive and counterproductive. Teens should be taught to see people as people, and judge them by their character—not by their gender, skin color, etc. Viewing the world through the lens of various isms is unnatural and unhealthy.

For example, the BLM curriculum for Wednesday, 1/25, deals with the themes of “Queer Affirming” and “Trans Affirming,” and aims to teach teens to free themselves “from the tight grip of heteronormative thinking,” and to combat “trans-antagonistic violence.” Seriously? Instead of allowing our teens to naturally interact with one another and develop relationships organically, we’re going to burden them with such intellectual concepts as trans-antagonistic violence?

3. Students don’t need more lessons in rebellion and resistance. One of the central tactics of BLM is resistance and civil disobedience, as is documented by their disruptive (and sometimes destructive) past. Although there is value in learning about political activism, Philadelphia youth should master the skills of teamwork and collaboration before being exposed to the thrills of shutting down a highway via a protest rally or march. Interestingly, BLM’s city-wide MLK march scheduled for Monday, 1/16, calls for a day of “action” and “resistance”.

4. Students shouldn’t be taught to oppose Two-parent families. One of BLM’s 13 Guiding Principles, titled “Black Villages,” states, We are committed to disrupting the Western-prescribed nuclear family structure requirement by supporting each other as extended families and “villages” that collectively care for one another, and especially “our” children to the degree that mothers, parents and children are comfortable.

Why would BLM want to commit to disrupting the nuclear family when 40 years of educational research proves that children raised in two-parent families have higher academic achievement, better emotional health, and fewer behavioral problems than children born out of wedlock or raised “collectively” in alternative situations? I’m not sure. All I know is that BLM’s curriculum for Thursday, 1/26, addresses their “Black Village” theme which indeed calls for the disruption of nuclear families.

5. Students shouldn’t be taught to demonize those with opposing views. It’s clear that the 105,418 people who voted for Trump in Philadelphia are not accepted by BLM (or by the Caucus of Working Educators, who are co-hosting the “Week of Action”). The same goes for any Philadelphia teacher, student, parent, or community member who voted for Trump or supports him for any number of reasons. But it’s not enough that these Trump supporters and/or Republicans are rejected and ostracized, no; the various policies that they believe in and voted for must be defined as hateful.

“Join us in the necessary work to oppose policies based in hate,” states the itinerary for BLM’s city-wide MLK Day march.

6. Students shouldn’t be taught to glorify repressive dictators who violate humans rights. It’s no secret BLM glorifies Fidel Castro. According to Human Rights Watch, “During Castro’s rule, thousands of Cubans were incarcerated in abysmal prisons, thousands more were harassed and intimidated, and entire generations were denied basic political freedoms. . . . Many of the abusive tactics developed during his time in power – including surveillance, beatings, arbitrary detention, and public acts of repudiation – are still used by the Cuban government.”

What does BLM say about Castro’s recent death? “We are feeling many things as we awaken to a world without Fidel Castro. There is an overwhelming sense of loss, complicated by fear and anxiety. Although no leader is without their flaws, we must push back against the rhetoric of the right and come to the defense of El Comandante,” BLM posted on the internet after his death.

7. Students shouldn’t be taught to value some black lives more than others. BLM’s selective morality is troubling. What are our youth to think when young black lives are taken on a daily basis—mostly by other young black people—and BLM remains silent? When Philly youth die at the hands of gangbangers or drug dealers, and BLM are nowhere to be found? No marches. No rallies. No nothing. Day in, and day out. What are our students to think? That these black lives don’t count? In 2015 alone, nearly 6,000 blacks were killed by other blacks in the United States, and BLM didn’t say a word.

8. Students shouldn’t be taught by a group that was built and perpetuated on false narratives. BLM came to national attention when Michael Brown was reportedly shot and killed in cold blood—kneeling on the ground with his hands up—by Officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri. I say reportedly because after the case was properly investigated, it was discovered that Brown was actually shot after punching Wilson in the face, and trying to take his gun. The Washington Post called the “hands up, don’t shoot” meme one of the biggest lies of 2015.

 Another false narrative is the Trayvon Martin killing. After an investigation at the local, state, and federal level—and after U.S. Attorney General Eric Holder did all he could to nail Zimmerman on Civil Rights violations—it was discovered that George Zimmerman indeed shot Martin in self-defense . . . after, according to multiple witnesses, Martin knocked Zimmerman to the ground and was pounding his head on the cement. This doesn’t stop BLM from still propagating the myth that Martin was killed in cold blood by an angry white racist, who, by the way, isn’t white but Hispanic. According to the Caucus of Working Educators website which is promoting BLM’s Week of Action, “In 2012, Trayvon Martin was gunned down by George Zimmerman and the victim was posthumously placed on trial for his own murder.”

9. Students shouldn’t be taught by a group that celebrates JoAnn Chesimard, a convicted cop killer. Black Lives Matter co-founders Patrisse Cullors and Opal Tometi publically praise convicted cop killer JoAnn Chesimard, a.k.a. Assata Shakur, who is currently living in exile in Cuba and wanted by the FBI for the murder of a New Jersey state trooper. Words from a letter Shakur wrote, titled “To My People,” have been recited at BLM meetings. Mumia Abu Jamal, H. Rap Brown, and George and Jonathan Jackson are also convicted cop killers that BLM activists have praised.

10. Students shouldn’t be used as political pawns. What is BLM’s “Week of Action” really about? Growing their organization by indoctrinating our city’s children with their “social justice” curriculum. Curriculum which, at the time of this writing, still doesn’t exist. I’ve looked for it on the internet far and wide—I’ve even clicked on the links provided by the Caucus of Working Educators—but it’s not there.

Perhaps it will be posted soon, so educators have adequate time to vet it. Either way, I won’t be teaching it. Nor will I be wearing the BLM buttons or shirts. I’m going to pass on BLM’s “Action Week,” and if I were a parent of a Philadelphia school student, I’d demand that my child’s teachers and principals pass on it, too.

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Filed under Free Speech, Multiculturalism, Politically Neutral Classrooms

Drexel Professor Ciccariello-Maher Must Apologize For His Racist Tweets

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by

Christopher Paslay

Drexel University mustn’t let one professor’s obsession with white supremacy taint its rich history of academic excellence.

On Christmas Eve, at 10:48 PM, Drexel University Associate Professor Ciccariello-Maher tweeted his 11,000 followers: “All I Want for Christmas is White Genocide.”

On Christmas morning the next day, at 11:53 AM, he followed up with another tweet: “To clarify: when the whites were massacred during the Haitian Revolution, that was a good thing indeed.”

Not exactly the kind of tweet that will keep Drexel on U.S. News & World Report’s Best Engineering School’s list, but carefully worded and carefully timed for maximum publicity nonetheless.

Not surprisingly, Drexel issued an official statement on Christmas night addressing Ciccariello-Maher’s inflammatory tweets, saying they were “utterly reprehensible, deeply disturbing, and do not in any way reflect the values of the university.” Drexel also said they were taking the situation “very seriously,” and that they contacted Ciccariello-Maher “to discuss the matter in detail.”

What was Ciccariello-Maher’s response? He published a statement claiming the tweet was satire, just an inside joke to mock America’s real racists and white supremacists:

On Christmas Eve, I sent a satirical tweet about an imaginary concept, “white genocide.” For those who haven’t bothered to do their research, “white genocide” is an idea invented by white supremacists and used to denounce everything from interracial relationships to multicultural policies (and most recently, against a tweet by State Farm Insurance). It is a figment of the racist imagination, it should be mocked, and I’m glad to have mocked it.

Ciccariello-Maher wasn’t sorry or sad, but glad. Glad to have mocked it.

My question is (and I’m sure Drexel has the same question), what exactly is Ciccariello-Maher mocking? That the phrase “white genocide” is a concept invented by white supremacists to denounce multiculturalism? That’s what’s being mocked? That’s the big joke?

I guess I’m not hip to radical, left-wing code phrases, because the joke just isn’t that funny. Especially when you tweet it at 10:48 PM on Christmas Eve, a time when most people, regardless of their race or religion, are putting presents under the Christmas tree, or are at least spending quality time with their family.

Hey, dad! Can I open one present before I go to bed? Please!

No, son. I’m too busy tweeting out jokes about white genocide to all my students and Twitter followers.

But Ciccariello-Maher’s “joke” still doesn’t adequately explain his follow-up tweet on Christmas morning that celebrated whites being massacred during the Haitian Revolution, stating that it “was a good thing indeed.” Slate Magazine tried to connect the dots for Ciccariello, writing, “it seems clear that he was tweaking white supremacists for their repurposing of the term white genocide, which is disingenuously invoked nowadays to pretend that uncontroversial things like interracial dating are as threatening as the slaughter that took place in Haiti in 1804.”

Really? That’s the second punch line? An inference that white supremacists misuse the term white genocide? How is this funny? How is this an appropriate tweet on Christmas morning? The answer is that it’s not. Massacring humans, white or otherwise, isn’t a good thing. But if you look really closely at what Ciccariello-Maher is stating in his second tweet, he’s saying it is a good thing.

The Slate Magazine defense is smokescreen. According to Ciccariello-Maher, there are two kinds of “white genocide,” the real kind (like in Haiti in 1804), and the fake kind (multiculturalism threatening white culture). And which is the good kind? Why, the former, of course. Ciccariello-Maher made this abundantly clear in his Christmas day tweet: “To clarify: when the whites were massacred during the Haitian Revolution, that was a good thing indeed.”

How is this satirical? It’s not. And Ciccariello-Maher still hasn’t adequately explained this.

Drexel has a real problem on its hands. They have a professor who’s condoning violence against an entire group of people, and doing it on a national holiday—not sending out seasons greetings, but ranting about racism and white supremacy like a wild-eyed, 21st century John Brown; all Ciccariello-Maher needs is a broadsword and he can start hacking people up.

“I teach regularly on the history of genocidal practices like colonialism and slavery—genocides carried out by the very same kind of violent racists who are smearing me today,” Ciccariello-Maher went on to state in his statement, apparently referring to the firestorm of reactions his inflammatory tweets provoked. “That violent racism will now have a voice in the White House is truly frightening—I am not the first and I won’t be the last to be harassed and threatened by Bannon, Trump, and co.”

Do you see the irony here? Ciccariello-Maher’s notion that “violent racism will now have a voice in the White House” is just as equally imaginary as white supremacists’ idea of “white genocide” that Ciccariello-Maher rails against. Just because a small fraction of Trump’s supporters are extremists, doesn’t mean they will have any connection to the White House.

Now if I thought like Ciccariello-Maher does (thank God I do not), I might, as a joke, tweet out a satirical message on New Year’s Eve saying something like, “All I Want for the New Year is Violent Racism in the White House.”

That would be funny, wouldn’t it? Really satirical.

As a follow-up, on New Year’s Day, I could also tweet, “To clarify: when all the black slaves were beaten, raped, and killed before the Civil War, that was a good thing indeed.”

Do you see why this deserves to be mocked, according to the Drexel professor’s warped logic? Because Ciccariello-Maher repurposes the term “violent racism in the White House,” which is disingenuously invoked nowadays by radical leftists to pretend that uncontroversial things like Steve Bannon being Trump’s senior advisor are as threatening as pre-Civil War slavery.

Ciccariello-Maher has gotten his 15 minutes of fame, and then some. However, Ciccariello-Maher admits his recent celebrity hasn’t been all roses:

What I am not glad about is that this satirical tweet became fodder for online white supremacists to systematically harass me and my employer, Drexel University. Beginning with Breitbart.com—formerly the domain of Special Counselor to the President-Elect, Steve Bannon—and running through the depths of Reddit discussion boards, a coordinated smear campaign was orchestrated to send mass tweets and emails to myself, my employer, and my colleagues. I have received hundreds of death threats.

Death threats, hmm. Never a laughing matter. A death threat from a white supremacist (however you can prove the person issuing the threat is a white supremacist) doesn’t have the same comedic undertone as white genocide, now does it? It’s kind of curious, in a karmic, self-fulfilling prophecy kind of way, that Ciccariello-Maher’s jokes about white genocide are bringing him—and the entire faculty staff of Drexel University, for that matter—dozens of death threats from supposed white supremacists. Who would have thunk it?

So what should Drexel do about the position Ciccariello-Maher has put them in? It’s obvious Ciccariello-Maher is too proud and too self-righteous for any self reflection. It’s obvious that the mass tweets, and emails, and death threats Ciccariello-Maher and his colleagues at Drexel University have received are in no way any fault of his own. And as for Drexel’s official statement calling his tweets “reprehensible” and “disturbing,” well, Drexel must be too dumb to understand the joke.

“Drexel University issued a statement on the matter, apparently without understanding either the content or the context of the tweets,” Ciccariello-Maher said in his statement. “While Drexel has been nothing but supportive in the past, this statement is worrying.”

Apparently, Drexel University, like most Americans not familiar with radical left-wing code phrases, assumed that “white genocide” meant white genocide.

Ciccariello-Maher continued: “On the university level, moreover, this statement—despite a tepid defense of free speech—sends a chilling message and sets a frightening precedent. It exposes untenured and temporary faculty not only to internal disciplinary scrutiny, but equally importantly, it encourages harassment as an effective means to impact university policies.”

Loose translation: it’s unfair that associate professors must be subjected to disciplinary scrutiny when their highly unprofessional, highly inappropriate tweets (though carefully worded and timed for optimal publicity), cause the reputation of an entire school and it’s staff to be dragged through the mud. It’s unfair that a radical, self-proclaimed communist professor with a history of racist tweets and an unhealthy obsession with white supremacy, can’t tweet out his racist, white supremacist view of the world on Christmas Eve and Christmas day without any blowback from his bosses who sign his paycheck.

Boo-hoo. Life is so hard for a white-privileged, elitist, American man with a PhD in Political Science from the University of California at Berkeley.

Hey Drexel University—you don’t need this garbage. Despite the old adage, all publicity isn’t necessarily good publicity. A university specializing in math and science, a school with a prestigious engineering program, doesn’t need to delve into the swamp of radical left-wing agitprop.

So Drexel, if you’re reading this, you must demand an apology from Ciccariello-Maher. A sincere apology, not just to the university and its staff, but to the public at large. Ciccariello-Maher needs to realize that white genocide isn’t a funny Christmas Eve anecdote, and that his obsession with white supremacy is toxic and disturbing. If he doubts this reality, ask him to open his eyes and look at the turmoil he’s brought to the entire community of Drexel University.

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School District Mishandles New Act 153 Background Check Law

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by Christopher Paslay

The Philadelphia School District’s amended background check requirements do not align with new state law.

The Philadelphia School District sent out an email late Friday afternoon explaining that all District employees hired on or before December 31, 2014 must obtain updated clearances under Act 153 by November 30, 2015.

“The school district is requiring you to obtain updated clearances even if your current clearances were obtained less than 36 months ago to ensure compliance with the Act going forward,” the email stated.

The only problem is, that’s not what the new Act 153 law requires.

According to the Pennsylvania State Education Association:

  • If one or more of your background checks was issued between Dec. 31, 2009 and Dec. 31, 2014, each document renewal is due by its five-year anniversary date of issue.
  •  If all three background checks were issued Dec. 30, 2009 or earlier, these document renewals are due by Dec. 31, 2015.
  •  If you have no background checks because you have been continuously employed prior to Jan. 1, 1986 (the first date a background check was required), you must obtain all three documents by Dec. 31, 2015.

(A very helpful flowchart of the new Act 153 law can be found here.)

Philadelphia Federation of Teachers President Jerry Jordan delivered a letter to Superintendent William Hite questioning the District’s background check requirements:

The District’s approach presents multiple concerns. Although not required by law, the District is requiring anyone who was hired on or before December 31, 2014 to obtain new clearances within the next seven weeks. This means that an employee hired, for example, in August of 2014 and who obtained all the requisite clearances at that time is now required to obtain those clearances again despite having just gotten them months ago. Under the law, such an employee would have until August 2019 to obtain those clearances.

Indeed, it appears as if the District is mishandling the new Act 153 background check law. It’s not just that the District informed its employees of the requirements in a Friday-news-dump style email, but because they waited until October 9 to send out this message—seven weeks before the November 30 deadline.

“Failure to comply with this State of Pennsylvania mandated requirement could result in disciplinary action or your inability to remain in an active employee status,” the District states on its website.

But again, the District’s deadline is not in accordance with PA state law.

Why would the District unnecessarily require ALL employees hired on or before December 31, 2014 to obtain new clearances, even if many of these employees have valid background checks that don’t expire for up to four years?

The District claims it’s so they can track their employees’ renewed clearances:

Currently, the District has no way to track individual clearance expiration dates.  The only way we can comply with the law is to create accurate tracking as employees provide renewed clearances.

The new cycle system will allow the District to track and notify employees of their clearance status with the District, and, by extension, ensure compliance with Act 153 now and in the future.

But this isn’t necessarily true, either. The District could solve this “tracking” problem by allowing any District employee who possesses clearances issued between December 31, 2011, and December 31, 2014 (which remain valid 60 months from their issuance), to resubmit them to the District, which would provide the District with an expiration date; there is no need for these employees to pay for new clearances. Any employee who doesn’t have copies of their valid background checks—or any employee whose clearances have expired by PA state law—would have to obtain new clearances.

Perhaps Dr. Hite and the Office of Talent might consider such a plan? This would cut down on the paperwork backlog in Harrisburg, and collectively save thousands of dollars in application fees—money that could be better spent in the classroom where it’s needed.

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Applauding the Philadelphia School District’s Gutsy Leadership

by Jeff Rosenberg

The School District’s recent attempt to void the teachers’ contract has brought out the best in our leaders.

Earlier this month the Philadelphia Daily News reported, “The education advocacy group Alliance for Philadelphia Public Schools has taken legal steps to challenge the School Reform Commission’s decision last month to cancel the teacher contract.” Local rabble-rousers need to take a step back and a deep breath. This is my 38th year teaching for the School District of Philadelphia. My colleagues are teachers. Some of my closest friends are teachers. I married a teacher. I am now risking becoming a pariah, but after reflecting, let’s give our leadership their due. (I was able to do this by attempting to stand in the shoes of Philadelphia School District spokesman Fernando Gallard and anticipating how he likely would have responded.)

The leadership was gutsy and cunning and showed ingenuity by conducting the meeting to void the contract in a manner that was antithetical to our democratic principles and practices, and then exerted superhero willpower by turning a deaf ear to the public criticism and reaffirming their dogma right or wrong.

SRC Chairman Bill Green exhibited innovative leadership when he initially responded to the public outcry of the stealthily arranged meeting as happenstance, “We were planning to have the meeting next Thursday, and it just didn’t work out for us. And so Monday was not a targeted date. It was simply the date that we could get it done.” Later he referred to it as a “legal matter.”

Mayor Nutter attempted to calm the furor by dismissively saying, “I don’t know if any of the folks who are upset about this would be happy if the meeting was conducted in the middle of Broad Street at noon.” (When city council scrapped his proposal to sell PGW without a public hearing, he disappointedly said, “It is the opposite of transparency,” and referred to it as the “biggest copout.” This revealed the Mayor’s uncanny discretion on when to apply “transparency” and identify and quantify a “copout.”)

Chairman Green, Superintendent Hite, Mayor Nutter, and Governor Corbett, demonstrated their solidarity and compulsion for fairness when they fearlessly stood up to the teachers, and in virtual unison professed to anyone who was breathing that everyone else but the teachers has “stepped up” with concessions for the children, including the district blue collar workers and principals. Straight-shooter SRC Commissioner Sylvia Simms got to the crux, “We need to stop playing games on the backs of our children.” (She maintained her tell-it-like-it-is authority when she berated protesting children that they were “probably in failing schools.”) Mayor Nutter referred to it as a “sharing environment.”

They deserve the credit for bringing about that altruistic environment when the other unions were first “stepped on” before they “stepped up.” The “concessions” were more like strong-arm tactics of coercion, as the other unions were threatened with inventive and resourceful alternatives, including layoffs, private-contractors, and the unilateral imposition of work rules with even more severe cutbacks. Faced with fear and mounting pressure, they acquiesced. When things get tough, the tough get going. It required strong, unyielding, and adroit leadership.

So how does this creative out-of-the-pocket and daring shakedown shakeout? It will cost beginning teachers opting for family coverage with a surcharge and “Buy Up” $7,537, 17.39 percent of their lavish $43,358 salary; it will cost teachers with six years of experience and a required bachelor’s or equivalent $8139, 14.40 percent of their affluent $56,531 salary; and it will be 11.31 percent of the purported $72,000 average teacher salary. (Their unlimited personal expense accounts for classroom spending will go untouched.)

These unprecedented and burdensome cost initiatives imposed by the leadership are the equivalent of pay-cuts that will bring millions for the children. When teachers get raises, they generally do not exceed 2 to 4 percent cost of living rates. The higher end percentages of the health care contributions easily exceed the salary raises for an entire 3 to 4-year contract.

This should allow the district to maintain and even increase the already colossal teacher turnover, keeping those aggravating, tertiary labor costs down. The PFT reports that 60 percent of teachers have five years or less tenure. Our leadership is on top of this national cutting-edge trend to create a transient, unstable teacher corps by taking away any incentive to stay, along with any school-based security and stability.

When Superintendent Hite was asked about his own cabinet making comparable health care contributions, he politely responded after you, giving teachers an opportunity to lead.

At the same time, our leadership has expressed compassion for the teachers’ plight and acknowledged how tirelessly they worked with their students. A tolerant Superintendent Hite has even invited them back to the bargaining table, full well knowing that they might lack the trust required in good faith negotiations because of the ongoing violations by the district and SRC. It takes incredible chutzpa for that kind of consideration and perseverance.

Amazingly, there is still enough of that self-assurance leftover, along with the foresight and resolve, to begin spending 14 million dollars they do not yet possess. Directing his principals to confer with their teachers on how to spend their own money, shows his unshaken belief in cooperation and shared decision-making.

Best of all, by their actions and unwavering example, the charismatic SRC, district, and government leadership earned our gratitude for inspiring and motivating the Philadelphia community in general and the rank and file in particular to come together and take a stand (albeit contrary to their own) in a show of solidarity the city hasn’t seen in years. The familiar chants of “Shame on you” were especially passionate and tight. (And to Mayor Nutter, I think the attendees were generally satisfied with this meeting on Broad Street in broad daylight.)

This past episode to void the contract and its aftermath has brought out the best of our leaders. Sadly, our leaders are not getting the credit they think they deserve, which is something every teacher can relate to.

In the meantime, after expressing my unstinting admiration for our SDP leadership, I’m hoping that I might be able to at least get back into the good graces of my dog with a belly rub or two, as I will certainly be sharing his house.

Jeff Rosenberg is an education writer and longtime Philadelphia public schoolteacher.

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An Open Letter to H. Sharif Williams, Goddard College Professor and Mumia Supporter

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Dear Dr. H. Sharif Williams,

My name is Christopher Paslay, a frequent contributor to the Philadelphia Inquirer, and a longtime teacher and guidance counselor with the Philadelphia School District; I also have an MEd in Multicultural Education, and have followed the Mumia Abu Jamal case closely for the past 20 years. I’d like to address some of the points you raised in your October 5th OP-ED: “Our Students and Educational Philosophy: Working Toward a Just and Civil Society.”

You state, “Mumia Abu-Jamal, as a Goddard College alumnus (BA ’96), social critic and member of the millions of people incarcerated in the United States, represents something incredibly important in the context of our commencement ceremony. He knows what is means to obtain a degree in the face of overwhelmingly challenging circumstances.”

Before I continue, Dr. Herukhuti, let me ask you this: Do you believe in redemption? I do. And that’s the fundamental problem with your decision to have Mumia Abu Jamal speak at Goddard’s graduation. If Mumia had owned what he did, repented, and tried to make amends, I’m sure most people would have no problem with Goddard choosing Mumia as a commencement speaker; a remorseful and repentant Mumia would fit Goddard’s educational philosophy perfectly.

But Mumia has never, ever, taken responsibility for murdering another human being. He’s also never, not once, shown any meaningful sign of remorse for his actions. Now, I know what you are thinking: Mumia’s innocent. He’s a political prisoner, etc. But even if he is innocent (the evidence overwhelmingly points to his guilt), he’s still done nothing to reach out and ease the pain of Maureen Faulkner, or to help in the effort to bring the “real” killer to justice. The irony here is that you state Mumia, “knows what it means to raise troubling and provocative questions that lead one to compelling answers.”

Fine. But what about the most troubling, provocative question of them all: What happened the night Daniel Faulkner was murdered? Mumia was there, and so was William Cook, his brother, and they saw the whole thing. Why did Cook never take the stand on his brother’s behalf? Why has Mumia, who is supposedly in this unique position to open pathways of critical discussion, never clearly communicated the events of that night, and why does he refuse to even address the question in interviews? Why has Mumia never offered his cooperation in helping bring the killer of Daniel Faulkner to justice? Why has he never reached out to Maureen Faulkner in his infinite wisdom and compassion and tried to ease her plight?

I think we know why. And this is the hypocrisy of you, Dr. Herukhuti, and your educational philosophy of a “just and civil” society. Just and civil societies do not give unrepentant killers a commencement platform at the expense of grieving women (Maureen Faulkner, by the way, publicly said your decision was “disgusting”). Regardless of what you believe about his guilt, he is still a cold and callous man, who has mocked civil society, and whose refusal to discuss the night of Faulkner’s murder has tormented the friends and relatives of Daniel Faulkner, as well as the Philadelphia community.

When you speak of Goddard’s educational philosophy of a “just and civil society,” it begs the question, Justice for whom? For the grieving Maureen Faulkner? For America’s police officers? For the Philadelphia community and it’s law abiding citizens who made up the jury and found him guilty as charged? Do we not count? And if we don’t, why not? Because too many of us are white? Because we represent the establishment? Because we abide by the law and are not “radicals”?

Let’s now for the sake of argument assume Mumia is guilty of shooting Philadelphia police officer Daniel Faulkner first in the back, and then point blank in the face. Let’s assume the four witnesses who identified Mumia as the shooter and so testified in court were right. Let’s assume the two people who signed a sworn statement that they heard Mumia say, “Yeah, I shot the mother fucker and I hope he dies” are telling the truth. Let’s assume the reason why Mumia and his brother William Cook never testified or gave a clear version of events of the night of the shooting is because Mumia did it. Let’s assume the reason why Mumia’s .38 was found at the scene with five empty shells was because Mumia actually fired it—he saw his brother getting pulled over by a white cop, lost his temper, and ran across the street and shot Faulkner in the back and then the face (which is why the bullet removed from Faulkner’s brain matched Mumia’s gun, and why the bullet from Faulkner’s gun was removed from Mumia’s chest).

Let’s assume these things are true, just as the jury did, just as every appeals court over the past 32 years—including the PA Supreme Court—have found to be true. What does this say about Goddard? It says that Goddard College supports giving a voice to an unrepentant murderer (not a man who has turned around his life and made amends), that Goddard has no qualms of giving a platform to a man who used violence—first degree murder—to build a platform for his views. This is the most extreme form of radicalism: using murder to deliver a message. That’s what Mumia has done, and Goddard has supported it.

The biggest tragedy, though, the most egregious crime against free thought and Goddard’s supposed fight for “social justice” is the fact that your school has indoctrinated its students into believing Mumia is either innocent or did not receive a fair trial. Why else would your graduates request him as a commencement speaker? If you deny this, ask yourself this question: Did you show your students both sides of the issue EQUALLY? Did you lead them back to the primary sources of the case against Mumia—the trial transcripts; the original news stories filed about the murder and trial; the literature written by Maureen Faulkner and Philadelphia syndicated radio host and columnist Michael Smerconish?

My guess is that your didn’t. My guess is that you exposed your students to pro-Mumia literature, much of which can be classified as agitation-propaganda based in conspiracy theory, questionable sources, and half-baked conjecture. As a Philadelphia public school teacher, THIS is the most reprehensible part of Goddard’s decision to study Mumia, the fact that you failed to leave it up to the students to decide for themselves, rather, manipulated them into swallowing whole ideas that support your underlying political agenda.

Your educational philosophy of “working toward a just and civil society” is hypocrisy, Dr. Herukhuti, at least in light of your callous and misguided decision to use Mumia Abu Jamal as a commencement speaker; I think it had more to do with getting free publicity for your obscure college than it did with “justice”. As a Philadelphia teacher and guidance counselor, I will from this point forward advise my students against attending a school as irresponsible and insensitive as Goddard College.

Sincerely,

Christopher Paslay
English Teacher/Guidance Counselor
Swenson Arts and Technology High School

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Are 1 in 5 Women ‘Sexually Assaulted’ on Campus?

KTBS.com

by Christopher Paslay

Rape culture orthodoxy on college campuses is the latest issue that the left has deemed off-limits for discussion.

(The following article was published today on American Thinker under the heading, In Defense of George Will.)

On the liberal left, there are certain topics that are closed to debate. Global warming is one of them, and anyone who dares question the validity of doomsday statistics regarding carbon emissions or greenhouse gases or the overall temperature of the earth (which, by the way, has gone down over the last 15 years), is bullied and ostracized and called names like “troglodyte”, “wing-bat”, and “climate change denier”.

Rape culture orthodoxy on college campuses is the latest issue that the left has deemed off-limits for discussion. Like global warming, any attempt to examine or question statistics of sexual assault on campus (which are all compiled by leftist progressives), what constitutes sexual assault (also defined by the left), and the amount of evidence needed to bring assault charges (decided by the left again), is met with vicious attacks from women’s groups, Democratic politicians, and the progressive media at large.

George Will is the latest writer to be lambasted for blasphemy. His June 6th Washington Post piece “Colleges become the victims of progressivism” dared to question the left’s narrative on sexual assault on campus, suggesting that the ever-expanding definition of “sexual assault” (dozens of colleges now consider any sexual contact between two adults under the influence of alcohol sexual assault) is causing victims to — surprise, surprise! — proliferate. He also stated that progressives have incentivized pulling the “sexual assault card,” if you will, and that they have created a certain privileged status associated with doing so:

Colleges and universities are being educated by Washington and are finding the experience excruciating. They are learning that when they say campus victimizations are ubiquitous (“micro-aggressions,” often not discernible to the untutored eye, are everywhere), and that when they make victimhood a coveted status that confers privileges, victims proliferate.

Will also questioned the numbers being put about by Joe Biden and the Department of Justice — that one in five women on American college campuses are the victims of sexual assault:

The administration’s crucial and contradictory statistics are validated the usual way, by official repetition; Joe Biden has been heard from. The statistics are: One in five women is sexually assaulted while in college, and only 12 percent of assaults are reported. Simple arithmetic demonstrates that if the 12 percent reporting rate is correct, the 20 percent assault rate is preposterous. Mark Perry of the American Enterprise Institute notes, for example, that in the four years 2009 to 2012 there were 98 reported sexual assaults at Ohio State. That would be 12 percent of 817 total out of a female student population of approximately 28,000, for a sexual assault rate of approximately 2.9 percent — too high but nowhere near 20 percent.

(Interestingly, the “one in five women is sexually assaulted while in college” statistic is based on one — count it, one! — study conducted in 2007. The polling sample of this study?  A random survey of  students from a whopping two schools.)

Like wolves, the tolerance-and-compassion left went for Will’s jugular. The progressive women’s activist group Ultraviolet started a petition, which supposedly garnered close to 100,000 signatures, to have Will fired from the Post. Four Democratic senators wrote a scathing letter to the Post, claiming Will and the Post “trivialize the scourge of sexual assaults” on college campuses, and have “shown a fundamental disrespect to survivors,” among other criticisms.

In addition, the usual Obama sycophant media outlets blasted Will, one of which was the propagandistic, tabloidesque Huffington Post; curiously, because the Huffpost was recently forced to correct an erroneous attack on National Review writer A.J. Delgado (who also dared question sexual assaults on campus), the Huffpost tactfully took shots at Will via Arial Koren, Senior Class President of the University of Pennsylvania, who penned an emotional account of her own rape survival, stating that Will denied “the validity of the again-and-again proven-accurate statistic that 1 in 5 college women will be assaulted at school.”

When Koren says “again-and-again,” I assume she is referring to the single 2007 study of two schools?

Many readers on the Huffpost’s comment board called Will a variety of obscenities, suggested that he himself should be raped, and even claimed that the Wapo has devolved into a right-wing propaganda machine on par with FOX News (if you can believe that). To their credit, the Wapo unofficially responded by publishing a piece headlined “One way to end violence against women? Married dads,” which outlined the benefits of women not sleeping around, infuriating the women’s activist group Ultraviolet.

Will, of course, is not the only writer to exercise his 1st Amendment rights and question the left’s sexual assault narrative. As mentioned above, National Review writer A.J. Delgado has written several sensitive and articulate pieces about the topic, not only backing his points with well researched facts, but also keeping a respectful, objective tone as to not disrespect the true victims who’ve faced the brutality of sexual assault. Still, facts and compassion aside, the progressive media bullied him like they did Will, twisting his words, taking his quotes out of context, and in the case of the Huffpost (which was forced to run a correction on their attack), simply putting words in Delgado’s mouth that he never spoke.

No one is questioning that sexual assault in college (or anywhere, for that matter) is despicable, that victims’ stories must be reported and heard, and that perpetrators of sexual assaults should be punished accordingly. What must be questioned, however, is the left’s version of such assaults, their severity and frequency. If Ultraviolet, the Huffpost, and Democratic senators truly want to end sexual assault — and not merely use it to shift power to progressives and to continue to spin the “War on Women”– they would have an honest and open discussion about the following:

1. “Sexual assault” is too broad a term to be used on campus. Currently, the term encompasses everything from rape (forced oral, vaginal, and anal penetration), to unwanted sexual touching (feeling a person’s backside while slow dancing at a party), to the failure to give consent (technically, according to many college codes of conduct, hooking up with a person while under the influence of alcohol is not true “consent”). All of these are covered under the blanket of “sexual assault,” though they are very, very different. The fogginess of the term “sexual assault” is no accident. It has been made intentionally vague by the left, so as to allow the left to spin and apply the term any way they see fit. This is dangerous to everybody involved.  It trivializes rape, and opens the door for all manner of misunderstandings. If the left truly cared, they would push to have “sexual assault” specified, categorizing it perhaps as “rape,” “unwanted groping,” or “consent while intoxicated.” This would save a lot of communication problems, and is much more effective than having students sign forms before having sex, which, amazingly enough, has been proposed by liberal law makers.

2. More research needs to be done to measure the true extent of sexual assault in college. One study, surveying two schools, is not enough evidence to state that sexual assault is an “epidemic” which affects one in five women (notice it’s women, and not persons.) This research needs to be done on a nonpartisan basis, by multiple, reputable research organizations.

3. The idea that those accused of sexual assault (basically men), are innocent until proven guilty. The Department of Justice, under Attorney General Eric Holder, has put pressure on American universities to implement something known as “preponderance of evidence,” which basically means that those accused of sexual assault (men), are guilty until proven innocent. In the past, for a person (usually a woman) to accuse another person (usually a man) of sexual assault, they needed to show significant proof that it occurred — a standard of about 75 percent certainty. The Obama administration is now strongarming colleges to lower that standard of proof to 50.1 percent, which is basically her word versus his, with no burden of proof on her side. Again, this is dangerous, as it is vague and can ruin the lives and reputations of those falsely accused.

The left seems to think that they have successfully sprayed their territory, and that to question their perspective on events is to condone rape or blame the victim. In essence, they’ve successfully politicized rape. This is despicable, but it feeds nicely into their claim that conservatives have a war on women. On one hand, they can control behavior and speech codes on college campuses, indoctrinating youth with progressive agendas and all manner of P.C. rubbish in the process, and on the other hand, they can vilify anyone who dares question their conclusions, the way they’ve attempted to vilify George Will.

But this is America — not China, not Cuba, not the old Soviet Union. There is something called the 1st Amendment, and despite the left’s attempts to silence anyone who disagrees with them, the discussion will remain open.

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Uncle Tony’s Charter School: The Conclusion

Illustration by Sean Wang

a satire by Christopher Paslay

When beloved high school principal Dominic Rossetti is forced to open a charter school so his uncle Tony, an organized crime boss, can embezzle the money to fund a strip club, Dom is thrown into a humorous yet tragic situation: he is compelled to run his uncle’s bogus charter school while trying to educate Philadelphia’s children.

Part 25 of 25

The Kid’s journal ended there, right there, wit him describing how he was losing his mind in the parking lot of Penn’s Port High.  The very last sentence in his journal, which I just got done reading early this morning . . . I stayed up all night reading it . . . was, What you resist, persists.  I guess he was talking about resisting the truth, resisting telling Gina the truth, that is.  His time a resisting was over, though, cause he called me on the phone when he got home from Penn’s Port High and asked me if I’d be home later that night, if he could come over wit Gina and Ashley and talk about things, get them out in the open so he could get this incredible weight off his chest.  I says sure, Kid, of course you’s can come over, but warned him that his aunt Linda was away at her sister’s for the weekend and couldn’t cook no dinner, so he shouldn’t expect nothing to eat when he got there.

Around 8:00 p.m.—this was just last night—I hear a car pull up in my driveway and some people come to the door.  They is arguing, and now I can hear Gina saying that she didn’t understand what was going on, that none a this was making any sense. I don’t know what the Kid had told her, but Gina wasn’t very happy.  I answer the door and give them all a big, warm hello, and the only one who really greets me back is little Ashley, who says, “Hi, uncle Manny.”

“Hey, sweetie-pie.  What can I do for you?”

“Can we come in?” the Kid says.  “We have to explain a few things to Gina.”

They come on in, the three a them, and Ashley sees Patches, Linda’s cat, and chases her into the back room.  I tell Ashley that there’s a television in there, and that she can turn it on and watch a show or something.  She does, she sits on the big sofa wit Patches in her lap and watches some kinda music video, I think.  This was good, cause now me and the Kid and Gina could talk, talk about whatever we wanted; I decided right then that I’d tell the truth about everything, be honest about whatever they asked me.  Like I says before, I don’t know what the Kid had already told Gina—or didn’t tell her, for that matter—so trying to lie prob’ly wouldn’t have worked so good.  Plus, there was no real reason to lie, anyways, cause the Kid really didn’t do nothing wrong.

“So let me get this straight,” Gina says, “there is no charter school, correct?  World Peace doesn’t exist, except on paper?  Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, Gina,” the Kid says, “that’s what I’m telling you.  The whole thing was a scam to steal money.  But like I said, I didn’t steal anything.  It was my uncle Tony.  It was his idea.  He just picked me to run the charter because he knew I had experience with this stuff, with education.  There wasn’t a whole lot I could do about it, because I owed him a favor.”

“Because he got you out of jail in Atlantic City?”

“Yes.”

“And got your Porsche back?”

“Yes.”

Gina just shakes her head.  “You know Dominic, if you don’t wanna get married, just say so.  Just say, ‘Gina, I don’t wanna marry you.’  I’d have more respect for you if you did that.  This story you’re telling me about World Peace being fake and empty inside, well, it’s ridiculous.  Totally ridiculous.  I know there’s a school, Dominic, because Ashley applied there and was put on a waiting list.”

“Everybody’s on a waiting list, Gina,” the Kid says.  “No one ever gets accepted.”

“Baloney,” Gina says.  “There are students there, you said it yourself.  Over a hundred students.  They took those tests . . . the state exams, and scored real high.  I read about that in the newspaper.  World Peace was also in that other newspaper—Education World, for Christ’s sake.  I guess those articles were fake, too?”

“Those articles were based on a fake website,” the Kid says.  “The person who wrote those articles never even saw the school.  And the State exams, they were fixed.”

Fixed.  Sure.  Okay.  You know, Dom, I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.  I don’t know what is going on with you lately, but it’s scaring me.  If you don’t wanna get married, if you’re feeing too much pressure and you wanna call the whole thing off, fine.  I’ll be devastated, and so will Ashley, but I can’t live like this.”

“Gina, Listen, I—”

“No Dominic, you listen.  I already married a man who was a liar and a cheating sonnavabitch, and I’m not going to do that again, ever.  I never told you this, but when that article came out a few weeks ago saying that you were related to Tony Genitaglia, my father told me to call off the wedding, right then and there.  He asked me if I knew that one of the biggest organized crime bosses in Philadelphia was your uncle, and I admitted I didn’t, and do you know what he said?  He said, ‘God only knows what else you don’t know about him.  Walk away, Gina, while you still can.  I don’t trust this guy farther than I can throw him.’  That’s what he said.  But I stuck up for you.  I told him how good of a teacher you were, and a principal, and how caring you were, and how much you loved me and Ashley.  Looks like he was right, and I was wrong.”

“Gina—”

“I’m not stupid, Dominic.  I may only be an x-ray technician, and not have all the fancy degrees you have, but I’m not dumb.  I read that article in today’s paper, by the way, did you know that?  You thought that since the newspaper came after I went to work, and you threw it away before I got home, that I wouldn’t read it, but I did.  I saw it, Dominic.  It said that an investigation found that there’s all this missing money at World Peace, that somebody may have stolen it.  Guess who that somebody was?  You.  Dom Rossetti, Mr. Bigshot C.E.O.  I can’t believe it, I can’t.  Stealing money from children, just like Ashley’s father!”

It was tough for me to see Gina lay into the Kid like that, believe me.  I was hurting, just like he was.  I hadda help the Kid as best I could, so I says, “He didn’t steal nothing, Gina.  He’s telling the truth.”

Gina kinda stops for a second, like hearing my voice snapped her outta a trance and whatnot.  She looks at me, turns and looks right into my eyes.  “Manny,” she says, “you don’t have to cover for him.”

“I ain’t covering for him,” I says.  “Dom didn’t steal no money.  It was all Tony, my friggin asshole brother, pardon my language.  He made Dom do it, open the charter school so he could, um, embezzle the money.  Dom had no choice, see.  If he didn’t do what my brother told him—” I made a slashing motion wit my hand across my throat “—that woulda been the end of your fiancé Dominic, here.  It’s true.  My hand on a stack a Bibles.”

“I don’t believe you,” Gina says, and crosses her arms.  But I could see she wanted to believe me, that she was really thinking hard about what I was telling her, that her mind was still open to the truth.

“Dom didn’t steal nothing, not a penny,” I says.  “None a the stuff you think you know about him is true.  He did get locked up in A.C., and Tony did need to bail him out.  Dom owed Tony a favor and was forced to open World Peace, see, so Tony could steal all the money and start a strip club in Baltimore.  No screwing around.  The teachers there was fake, and we hadda hire fake students when people from the State came in for their walk through.  And all the lessons was fake, too.  I even pretended to be the principal—principal Bradshaw—and me and Petie hadda throw the test monitor jackoff from the State into the trunk a Petie’s car, just to shut his big trap.”

Gina laughed when she heard this, and this kinda whatdoyacallit—lightened her mood.

“You’s laughing,” I says, “but it ain’t funny.  You can go ask the little needle-nose how it felt to spend the afternoon in the back of a Cadillac.”

“It’s true,” the Kid says to Gina.  “All of it.  Did you know that my uncle Tony had my father killed, two weeks before I was born?”

What?” Gina says.  “You never told me that.”

“That’s because I never knew it until Tuesday, when I went to talk to Tony down in Baltimore.  You know how I went to see Tony to try and straighten everything out?  Well, he didn’t want to hear it.  Any of it.  He said I was an ingrate, like my father, that I didn’t care about the family.  When I told him I didn’t want to run his scams anymore, that I had real students in real schools to take care of, he said I was picking my principles over the family.  He said, ‘You’re just like your father.  He chose his principles over the family.  That’s why he had an accident—but it wasn’t an accident.’”

“He said that?” Gina says.

The Kid nods.  “Oh yeah, he said it.  Not in those words, but I knew what he meant.  The weird part was, I think deep down, I always knew that.  So did my mother.”

“I never knew your father was murdered, Dominic.  I’m so sorry.”

“Dom’s father was a good man,” I says, and looked right at the Kid.  I always wanted to tell him that, the Kid, but I never could.  Not wit the chance it would get back to Tony.  But I was telling him now, see.  Better late than never.

Nobody says nothing for a long time.  Finally, Gina says, “I can’t believe the charter school is empty.  It just boggles my mind.”

“Oh, it’s empty,” the Kid says.  “Not totally empty—there are some desks and old textbooks and broken computer parts in there—but that’s about it.”

“He ain’t lying,” I says to the girl.

“I want to see it,” Gina says.

The Kid nods.  “Fine.  You can see it—it’s not a secret anymore.”

“I want to go in there and look around for myself.”

“Be my guest,” the Kid says.

“Okay, let’s go then.”

“What?  Now?”

“Yes, now.  You have nothing to hide, right?”

“No.  Not at all.  But what time is it?”

“I don’t know?  Eight-thirty, maybe?  Come on, grab Ashley.  Let’s go.”

The Kid sighs.  “Fine.  Let’s go.”

So the two stand up, grab Ashley, and go out to Gina’s car.  Just then, though, the Kid comes back inside by hisself and hands me a package.  It’s a big padded envelop wit what looks like a copy of a journal, a buncha newspaper articles and other papers, and a whatdoyacallit—a flash drive.

“Here,” the Kid says.  “Take this, uncle Manny.  There’s something I have to do tonight, and if anything happens to me, I want you to mail all of this to the Philadelphia Post, okay?”

“What is it?”

“It’s the truth.  About me, and you, and Tony, and everything.  Just promise me you’ll mail it, okay?

“Sure kid, okay.”

“Thanks,” the Kid says.  “I love you, uncle Manny.”

“I love you too, kid.”

_______

About an hour after the Kid left, there was an explosion and fire at World Peace Charter High School. The official fire call came in at 9:37 p.m., and the fire wasn’t declared, um, under control until close to 2:00 in the morning.  That’s at least what the Philadelphia Post said this morning on their website.  Here, let me pull up the article and read it:

 Two Dead in World Peace Charter Blaze

 A deadly blaze at World Peace Charter High School in Northeast Philadelphia has claimed the lives of two people.  The fire, which is believed to have started with an explosion, was first reported at 9:37 p.m. on Friday, April 11.  Firefighters battled the flames until early this morning, when it was eventually brought under control around 2:00 a.m. 

The bodies of the two victims have not yet been identified. 

Investigators believe the fire started with an explosion on the first floor, although the cause of this explosion has not been determined.  Several residents of the 2500 block of Southampton Road reported hearing a loud noise right around the time the fire was first reported.

“It sounded like a big bang, like something blew up,” Hollis Jackson, who lives directly across the street from the school, said. 

Hillary Aris, who lives one block from World Peace and has a son on the waiting list to attend the school, said, “There was a loud noise, and I heard glass breaking, like somebody broke a window.”

World Peace Charter has been the subject of recent controversy.  Last month, it was reported by the Post that C.E.O. Dominic Rossetti was the nephew of Philadelphia organized crime boss, Tony Genitaglia, and that Rossetti had a history of gambling.  Rossetti declared chapter 13 bankruptcy in 1998. 

World Peace Charter is currently under investigation for financial mismanagement, and possible misappropriation of funds.  Whether the recent probe of World Peace Charter’s finances and the explosion are connected is unclear.

The fire was also on the television last night on the 11 o’ clock news.  It was a real bad one, wit flames pouring outta the windows, and sparks shooting outta the roof, and smoke—big, giant clouds a smoke, filling the night sky.  Two big fire trucks was parked outside wit hoses running from them, and firemen was holding those hoses steady and aiming them onto the school as best they could.  As soon as I saw the fire on the news I called the Kid on his cellphone, but he didn’t answer.  I left a message for him to call me back but he never did, so I started to get worried.  That’s when I remembered the package he gave me—that padded envelope wit the photocopied writing and newspaper articles and such—and started taking the stuff out.  As I held the journal in my hand I heard the Kid’s voice in my mind: Take this, uncle Manny.  There’s something I have to do tonight, and if anything happens to me, I want you to mail all of this to the Philadelphia Post, okay?

I looked at the copy a the journal real close and realized it was the Kid’s, and that the newspaper clippins was all the articles about World Peace Charter, every one a them.  There was other papers, too, like a copy of World Peace’s charter application, and what looked like some kinda engagement poem.  Course, the first thing I did was take the paperclip off the journal and start reading it right from the beginning.  I put on my reading glasses and sat down at the kitchen table and I ain’t gonna lie, it pulled me in from the start.  All the stuff we did was described in detail, see, even our addiction meetings.  It told all about World Peace Charter, and Tony, and Gina and little Ashley, and a course, me.  I read it straight through the night into this morning, tearing up a coupla times—the parts about the girl Tamarra really had me choked up—and I learnt a lot about the Kid, let me just tell you’s guys.  I learnt a lot about Tony, too, about how much of a friggin jackass he is, how much of a bully and a jackass.  If he did anything to the Kid or Gina or little Ashley, I swear to God, he needs to pay.

That’s why I’m making this recording here, why I’ve spent the last five hours just talking into this electronic thingamajig here.  Cause I’m getting a little package together of stuff myself to give to the cops—you’s guys who will be listening to this—the F.B.I.  The Kid is innocent, see.  He didn’t do nothing wrong.  It was all Tony, Tony Genitaglia, my brother.  When you’s guys listen to this recording, make sure you read the Kid’s journal, too.  I’ve made another copy a it, and am putting it in wit this package.  I’m including the news articles, and the poem—it’s the Kid’s proposal to Gina—and also the charter school application that he wrote for World Peace.  It’s all here, all of it, and you’s F.B.I. guys gotta go through it real, um, thoroughly, see.

When I mail you’s guys this package, I’m gonna mail a copy of everything to the Philadelphia Post, too, just like the Kid wanted. Not that you F.B.I. cocker-roaches need to know about any a this, cause it ain’t really none a your business, what the Kid asked me to do.  I only got six months to live, so I figure I’ll do all I can to help Dom, the Kid, who was always like a son to me.  Now, I ain’t stupid—I know that this is kinda like snitching on my brother, and I’m also howdoyasayit—incriminating myself—but hey, it’s the least I could do.  I’m not planning on staying in this country no more, anyways, being that I’m dying; me and Linda was always planning on moving to some nice village in Italy, maybe Genoa, and living right there on the beach.  It’s beautiful in Genoa, wit the colorful views of the Mediterranean, and all the historic art and culture, like the St. Lawrence Cathedral, and the Royal Palace of Genoa, and that whatdoyacallit, the Palace of the Doges.  The sights is beautiful, and the food is, um impeccable—like when the old Italian grandmothers cook soup wit garbanzo beans.

That’s where me and Linda is gonna live, see.  And that’s where I’m prob’ly gonna die.

_______

There was a buncha people crying, standing there, crying, especially Theresa—my sister, the Kid’s mother.  Gina’s parents was crying, too . . . well, her mother was, her dad was just kinda standing there wit a poker face, so it was hard to tell what he was feeling.  A crowd was gathered round—close friends and famb’ly members—and they was fulla emotions, some sniffling, tissues out, wiping away the tears.  There was flowers, lots a flowers, and the priest was there, hands raised, saying the prayers.

“Dominic Rossetti,” the priest says, “do you take this woman to be your wife?”

“I do,” the Kid says.

“Gina Grasso, do you take this man to be your husband?”

“I do.”

My wife Linda, my beautiful wife Linda, was there next to me, standing barefoot in the sand, the breeze coming off the blue green sea making her bright pink dress gently flap against her body.  She had a hat on, a big pink one, and she was using her one hand to keep it on her head and stop it from blowing in the air.  It was warm air, though, July air.  The sun was still high in the sky, see, still blazing over the Mediterranean behind us.  I was holding Linda’s hand as I was listening to the Kid saying his vows.  This made me think of me and Linda’s vows, how we said them 40 years ago.  I still love my wife, as much as the day I asked her to marry me.  I could see the Kid was like me, that his love for Gina was real and just as strong, that 40 years from now, if they was both lucky enough to be alive, they’d still be together, that all they’d went through over the past 11 months had, whatdoyacallit, forged a bond between them that would never be broken.

“And now, if we could have the rings, please.”

Little Ashley came forward then, holding the rings on a silver tray.  The Kid took Gina’s ring first, and as the priest spoke, as he blessed the couple wit God’s eternal love, the Kid slipped it on Gina’s finger.  Gina took the Kid’s ring, then, and slid it on his strong finger.  Ashley stood next to them in her pretty white dress, next to her mommy who was just as beautiful in her shoulderless wedding gown, next to her new step-daddy in his white tuxedo, and beamed; the Kid saw Ashley smiling and winked at her.

“I now pronounce you husband, and wife.”

Dom and Gina kissed, and everyone started clapping.  For a second, just a split second, I missed my brother Tony, but that passed quickly; Tony and Petie was dead, and that’s just the way things go sometimes.  In a way I guess they deserved to die, as much as anyone really deserves to die.  See, Tony and Petie blew World Peace Charter up, and themselves wit it.  Course, it wasn’t no suicide . . . Tony was too high on hisself to wanna die . . . it was just an accident, a typical Petie accident—an oops-kaboom, to use Petie’s words.  I can only imagine, now that the jig wit World Peace Charter was up, that Tony had wanted the Gorilla to torch the evidence to cover his trail of, um, corruption, but somehow, Petie managed to frig it all up; I don’t know how he managed to frig it up so bad, but he did, turning hisself and Tony into strips a fried bacon.  You’d think, though, that Tony woulda had the Gorilla do this by hisself, that Petie woulda went into the school alone.  But I think I have a good idear why Tony was there wit him: He wanted to see the inside a World Peace Charter for hisself, just like Gina did.

It took 48 hours for the cops to identify the bodies, and they had to use the whatdoyacallit, the dental records a Tony and the Gorilla to do it.  When I heard the news on the television I was shocked . . . shocked and relieved.  See, the Kid and Gina and little Ashley was still missing at the time, but as it turns out, they was secretly staying at Janice’s place—Gina’s friend from college.  The Kid had a good idear that Tony was gonna try and make him pay for turning his back on the famb’ly, so he did the smart thing and went into hiding.  The three a them had just missed the explosion by maybe five minutes, according to what the Kid told me later, and the crazy part was, they never even went inside the school at all; when they got there they saw the Gorilla’s car, and the Kid didn’t even let nobody get within 10 feet a the place.  Gina tried to argue, right there in the street in front a the school, but when the explosion blew-out all the windows on the first floor—glass shattering on the ground at their feet—Gina thought better of it.

The three got back into Gina’s car and the Kid sped to where he was planning on going all along—to the Philadelphia branch of the F.B.I.  He had wit him everything he needed, a copy a his journal, the news articles about World Peace Charter, and of course, the most important item—the flash drive wit the audio recording of his meeting wit Tony at Straight A’s the month before, where Tony basically admitted to everything . . . planning the scam, strong arming the Kid into stealing all the cash, and even hinting at the murder a the Kid’s own father.  All this was on tape, see, cause the Kid had recorded it on his cellphone right at the table next to Tony.

Course, the Kid never told me any a this that night he came to my house, cause he said he felt bad about being a snitch, about talking to the F.B.I.  He didn’t care that he was ratting out Tony, cause Tony was a piece a shit who killed his old man.  What the Kid was most shameful of was diming me out to the feds, cause I was clearly part a the whole scam from the beginning.  I wouldn’t a cared, though, cause I know deep down I woulda deserved what I got.  He never did tell me he was planning on taping his conversation wit Tony and taking it to the cops.  And I guess that’s why he never wrote any a it down in his journal, neither; God only knows who may have found it.  For all the Kid knew, Tony wanted him dead, and he never did learn for sure if anybody had been following him, or screwing wit his phone; to this day he doesn’t know for sure.

The feds was investigating World Peace Charter, though.  When the Kid gave the F.B.I. the flash drive, along wit his journal and that other stuff, it basically just added to the stuff they already knew.  I ended up sending the Kid’s envelope, including my own audio recording, to the feds the morning after the fire, too, and also to the newspaper; the newspaper people never got it, though, cause I frigged up the address and it got sent back to me.  Course, the feds was already watching Tony, so they kinda already knew what was happening.  A week after World Peace was ruled an arson, there was this big raid down at Straight A’s, and the club was shut down for good.  All the assets was whatdoyacallit, liquidated, and the money was giving back to the State and Philadelphia Unified School District.  Eisenhower even got a portion a the money–$125,000, I think it was.  After an initial month-long investigation, the Kid was cleared of all criminal charges, in part cause he agreed to testify against Tony—and me—in court, in part cause his journal, along wit my tape recording, cleared his name.  But Tony was dead, and I was already out a the country, so none a this mattered anyways.

Course, the Kid was fired as principal of Eisenhower High School, and this was really tough on him.  He made several public apologies, one in a commentary that was published in the Philadelphia Post, and one on television from the School District central office . . . but the School Board was unmoved.  Then in May, when Tamarra, the girl, found out that she’d won that $30,000 scholarship the Kid had helped her wit, and was gonna be able to attend Cheltenham Preparatory Academy for Girls in the fall, she got her friends and relatives together—and a buncha students, parents, and teachers from Eisenhower—and held this big old protest rally in front a City Hall, forcing the mayor to talk to the School Board and ask them if they could reconsider giving the Kid back his job as principal of Eisenhower.  In June, during the final School Board meeting a the school year, the Board voted unanimously to, um, reinstate the Kid as principal, and he was back at Eisenhower the following week.

So I guess you can say things worked out okay for the Kid, after all.  I should know, cause I’m recording the whole thing on the same electronic thingamajig I used to tell my story in April.  I wanna get this all on tape for when the Kid and Gina have their baby . . . she’s three months pregnant, by the way . . . so Dom’s kid will know that uncle Manny wasn’t no creep, that he loved his nephew just like a son.  I’ll never get to meet the kid, cause I only got a few months left, but so goes life.

The Kid is happy, though, so I’m happy.  Right now he’s down by the water wit little Ashley, tossing a penny into the ocean, and watching her go and fetch it.  She’s swimming right in her white dress, and her long blue swim fins, and her snorkel gear that the Kid got her for Christmas.  She’s a good swimmer, little Ashley is, and when she dives down into the blue green water a the Mediterranean, I can see her head bob and her legs kick, and her brown hair shining in the sun.

 

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Filed under Uncle Tony's Charter School

Uncle Tony’s Charter School: Part 24

Illustration by Sean Wang

a satire by Christopher Paslay

When beloved high school principal Dominic Rossetti is forced to open a charter school so his uncle Tony, an organized crime boss, can embezzle the money to fund a strip club, Dom is thrown into a humorous yet tragic situation: he is compelled to run his uncle’s bogus charter school while trying to educate Philadelphia’s children.

Part 24 of 25

Caroline’s was a disappointment, that’s what the Kid wrote in his journal.  And this wasn’t cause there was some tall guy in a leather coat watching them from a bench across the street, neither.  At this point, the Kid didn’t realize the guy was watching them, he didn’t make the connection until later, but I’ll get to that in a minute.  Anyways, Gina was in love wit Caroline’s, but only wit the way it looked, cause her and the Kid never even ate there before.  Actually, they had dessert there once—coffee and a slice a cherry cheesecake right before Christmas, sitting at a table right in front a this picturesque bay window—but that was it.  Course, the Kid couldn’t blame Gina for thinking the place was pretty, cause he guessed it was, in an old, Italian kinda way.  Everything inside was authentic and original, the hardwood floors, the high ceilings, the antique oak furniture.  There was lots a China, like in Dom’s grandma’s house, and real nice silverware, too.  It was whatdoyacallit, quaint, tucked away on a side street in a blue collar neighborhood in the heart a South Philly.

There was no parking, though, so Gina and the Kid hadda park Gina’s car in the Acme lot six friggin blocks away, and that’s what all the guests at their wedding would have to do—leave their cars in the lot and walk six blocks to the reception at Caroline’s.  It wasn’t that big a deal, the Kid wrote, but it was still a small minus in his mind . . . another reason to take Caroline’s off the list a possible places to have their reception.  Course, if the lack a parking was a small minus, than the service and the food was a big minus.  Now, you’d figure if you and your fiancé was eating at a restaurant that you was considering hiring for your wedding reception—possibly dropping $15,000, which was their budget—it wouldn’t be unreasonable to expect the food and the service to be, um, impeccable; that’s what you’d figure.  It wouldn’t be ridiculous to expect the owners to come out and chat you up and give you drinks on the house and maybe even dinner on the house, if they really wanted your business.

To Dom’s . . . what’s that word . . . charging, though, the 60-something Italian couple who owned Caroline’s did nothing a the sort.  After the Kid and Gina talked to the owners, Walt and Lorenza, for at least an hour in their office about prices an options for their wedding reception, Gina and the Kid went back into the dining room to eat dinner.  Gina got some chicken dish, and the Kid ordered the filet mignon, feeling good about things at this point; he was still open minded, he wrote, and really wanted to make Caroline’s work for Gina.  His mind began to close when they waited 45 minutes for their meal, wit no complimentary bread, not even crackers.  Their waiter—some tall effeminate young man who got on the Kid’s nerves—was a real spastic, too; he was in charge a serving the whole restaurant, and it seemed Dom and Gina ended up on his pay no mind list.  No biggie, though.  As long as Gina was happy, the Kid was happy.

When their dinner came, finally, Dom knew Caroline’s was outta the running for their reception.  His filet was a joke, a freakin joke.  It was tough and hard to cut, like the cafeteria meat Dom used to eat when he was away at college.  It didn’t taste much better—it had a hunk a fat and gristle—and after chewing this one bite for like ten friggin minutes, he actually hadda spit the piece out into his napkin, my hand on a stack a Bibles; Dom wrote that he’d prob’ly get a better piece a meat at Straight A’s, and said there was no whatdoyacallit—pun intended.  The most ridiculous thing, though, was the price a the filet.  On the menu the steak was listed at “market value,” and when Dom and Gina got their check, Dom learned that “market value” was $37.00.

The Kid was fuming, he wrote, but he didn’t wanna spoil Gina’s good time, so he didn’t make too big a deal over it.  Course, he hadda speak to Walt and Lorenza about it, so he told the spastic waiter to go get them so he could ask them a few questions.  That’s when the Kid saw the tall guy outside sitting on the bench in the leather coat watching them through the window.  It was past 10:00 p.m. and dark outside, so somebody just sitting on a street bench and not moving was kinda weird.  And come to think of it, that was the same guy sitting there when Dom and Gina first came into the restaurant over two hours ago.

“Can I help you?” Lorenza says to Dom, holding a stack a menus in her hand.  “Eric said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“The filet,” Dom says, and explains that he doesn’t think it’s worth the $37.00, that it’s a bit pricy.  No, Lorenza says, the price is fair—market value.  Dom just nods and pays the check, asks Gina if she’s ready, and the two put on their jackets and leave.

The tall guy in the leather coat was still sitting on the bench, watching them.  Dom tried not to make eye contact, but the guy stayed in Dom’s, um peripheral vision the whole time.  In fact, Dom wrote he couldn’t get the guy outta his freakin peripheral vision—he was stuck there, watching him, like one a those creepy paintings where the eyes a the person follow you all over the room.  Dom starts talking a little louder to Gina, having a conversation wit her he’s not even paying attention to, hoping the guy on the bench will think Dom doesn’t see him, isn’t aware of him.  Course Dom is aware of him, that’s all he’s aware of now, and Dom really pretends to get into the conversation wit Gina, really hams it up so the guy on the bench doesn’t sense how scared Dom is, doesn’t smell his fear, but Dom knows it’s no use, cause the guy can read his every gesture, his every expression, can even monitor Dom’s thoughts.  Dom feels the panic start to come on now, the anxiety; in his journal, he underlined the word panic.

“. . . and we could have a destination wedding, like we talked about before,” Gina is saying.  “I think you’re right, Caroline’s is out.  My chicken wasn’t even that good, either.  The only thing about a destination wedding is, it costs a ton of money for people to go.  I think my parents could afford it, but what about your mom?  She’s got some money saved, right?”

“Um . . . yeah,” Dom says.

“I actually like the destination idea, come to think of it.  We should go somewhere warm, on a beach.  How awesome would that be to get married right on the beach in July?  To have everybody barefoot in their suits and tuxedos and dresses, standing on the beach with their toes in the sand. Oh my God, I love it.”

The guy on the bench gets up, starts to follow Dom and Gina.  He’s about a half block behind them, but getting closer.  The Acme parking lot where Gina’s car is is still a ways away . . . maybe two blocks, at least.  Dom and Gina is holding hands and so as the Kid starts walking faster to get away from the guy following them, he starts pulling Gina along wit him.

Dom,” Gina says.  “Come on, you’re pulling me, that hurts.  Why are you walking so fast?”

“I’m cold,” the Kid says.  “Buurr.  It’s cold out here.  Are you cold?”

“It’s 60 degrees.”

“Naw, it’s colder than that.”

“You’re nuts, you know that?” Gina says.  “Anyway, I think if we have a destination wedding, we shouldn’t bother inviting cousins, just aunts and uncles.  Keep it small, just Ashley, my parents, your mother, your uncle Manny . . .”

The guy in the leather coat in gaining on them—he’s maybe 10 feet behind them—and now Dom can’t help but take quick looks at him over his shoulder.  Gina keeps talking about the wedding, and doesn’t notice.  Dom notices, though, and his heart is banging like a friggin drum in his chest.  The Acme parking lot is coming up, about a block away now, and Dom starts walking faster.  Ashley walks faster, too, but is still talking, not paying no attention to the guy behind them.

“. . . Ashley will be the ring bearer, of course . . .”

The guy in the leather coat is close enough to grab them.  He reaches for something in his coat, and Dom stops and turns, and the guy pulls the something out, and he reaches forward in Gina’s direction—his hand in the air—and the Kid opens his mouth to shout at him when the Kid sees the car keys in the guy’s hand, sees the guy turn and bolt across the street to his car, open the door, get in, and speed away.

The Kid’s mouth is still open, still ready to . . . what?  The Kid didn’t know, he wrote in his journal.  Gina is still talking, only mildly startled by the guy who brushed past them and went to his car.

“. . . and we could just do the wedding favors ourselves, you know?  Buy little candles or key chains, and put our pictures on them.  How does that sound?  Just do the wedding favors ourselves?”

“Yes, Gina,” the Kid says, “absolutely.  We’ll do it ourselves.”

“Good, I think that’s the best bet.  It will save us money, too.”

They were at the car now, Dom and Gina was, and the Kid’s hands was shaking so bad, he could barely unlock the door.

_______

The Kid went into Eisenhower on Thursday, even though he took the week off.  Wit all the craziness that had been going on wit World Peace Charter lately, Dom had completely forgot about his meeting wit Tamarra, who had gotten accepted into Cheltenham Preparatory Academy for Girls the week before.  She showed Dom her acceptance letter the morning after she got it in the mail, barging right into his office and waving the letter and saying, I did it, Mista Rossetti!  I did it! and giving Dom a big hug that was so emotional, the Kid wrote in his journal, even his secretary was wiping her eye.  Course, that was only the first step in the process, and Tamarra understood this as well as the Kid did.  She still hadda pay to go to go to Cheltenham Academy, and this wasn’t gonna be easy; since January, her and the Kid had been applying for every scholarship under the sun, hoping to come up wit the $25,000 and change needed for the tuition and living expenses.

There was one last scholarship, though, that Tamarra had yet to apply for, and that was the biggest of all a them.  I forget what the Kid said the name of it was, but it was a scholarship for kids who had a whatdoyacallit, a deceased parent, and it was good for $30,000 a year.  The deadline for this scholarship was Monday, April 14, 2013, four days away.  As long as the application was, um, postmarked by midnight a that day, Tamarra would still be eligible to receive it.  The trick was, helping Tamarra win it; the Kid knew the bigger the scholarship, the stiffer the competition.  Plus, it was a national scholarship, so kids from all over the country was trying for it.

“You think I got a shot, Mista Rossetti?” Tamarra says, sitting next to the Kid at his desk in his office, looking over his shoulder.

“Absolutely,” the Kid says, and it was true. The other parts a the application was already done, the letters a recommendation, the transcripts, and the background information on Tamarra’s famb’ly.  The essay was all that was left, and although it was a pretty tough essay question, Tamarra had a good a chance as anybody.  She had the Kid on her side, see, showing her all the writing tricks he had learned over the years as both a teacher and a student.  Stuff like how to brainstorm, an outline, and most importantly, how to rewrite, which is what imbeciles like me never did in school, ever.  He taught her how to say more in less space . . . if that makes any sense . . . and how to just say what she meant—not try to sound like somebody else, using fancy words that really didn’t fit.

The essay that Tamarra needed to write was supposed to be about helping somebody cope wit the loss of a parent—what kinda advice would you give them and whatnot.  Dom helped Tamarra organize her thoughts an outline the essay, which needed to be between 750 and 1,000 words.  She wrote a first draft, which Dom was reading now, and it talked about the lesson she learned from him the year before, the idear that what you resist, persists.  She even used Dom’s analogy about a little kid fighting against a migraine headache, crying and kicking his legs against the pain, and how when he did this, he ended up puking all over the place.  If only the little kid could accept the pain, she wrote, if only he could go with it, things would start to get better.

“How’s it sound, Mista Rossetti?”

“Good,” the Kid says.  “Seriously.  I’m impressed.”  And it was good.  So good, in fact, that Dom felt like Tamarra was actually giving him advice, advice that was somehow more powerful now, more, um, profound.  Maybe the words in her essay seemed so deep and moving cause they was written by a 16 year old girl who’d lost her mother to a murder-suicide, or maybe they seemed extra wise cause they was something that the Kid simply needed to hear at that very moment in his own life; somewhere, there was a truth he needed to stop resisting, a truth he needed to accept and tell.  Whatever it was, though, as he sat reading Tamarra’s essay, he couldn’t help thinking about his own situation, how frigged up it suddenly was.  He thought a the scare he had the night before at 3:00 a.m. at Gina’s house.  He was lying wide awake next to her in bed, like he’d been doing for prob’ly two weeks now . . . since those articles came out in the paper, at least . . . his mind racing, his stomach churning wit the panic that was always there like chronic indigestion, keeping him up.  He thought he heard a noise downstairs in the living room, see, or maybe it was right outside the house, he wasn’t sure.  It sounded like a paperclip in a lock, or maybe like a person trying to pick a lock.  It was loud, and the Kid could hear it from Gina’s bedroom, cause her house at night was pin-drop silent.  The Kid shook Gina and asked if she heard it, but Gina, still half asleep, groaned and told the Kid to leave her alone.  The noise didn’t go away—the sound of a paperclip jiggling in a lock—it was right in the goddamn living room, or right outside on the street in front a the house, the Kid was positive.

Well, enough was enough, the Kid thought; something funny was going on.  It wasn’t no mouse, cause they squeaked, squeaked and made scratching sounds in the wall, and that’s not what this was.  This was some asshole trying to pick a lock, and Dom was sure of it.  So he got outta bed and grabbed the baseball bat Gina kept in her closet and went downstairs.  He turned on the living room light and nothing was there, he wrote in his journal, but a second later the Kid heard a car door slam and an engine rev, and he ran to the front window and saw the back a what he thought was a Cadillac speeding down the street, but it was too dark to see, exactly; he couldn’t get the license plate, neither.

The paperclip noise stopped, so the Kid went back to bed, but still couldn’t sleep.  In the morning, after Gina and Ashley was outta the house, the Kid went out front and checked the lock on the door, checked the windows—feeling like a total paranoid mental case, he wrote—and found nothing wrong.  He checked the back lock, too, and all was normal there.  That’s when he thought a his car, his Porsche, which was actually parked on the sidewalk in front a Gina’s house, cause the streets in South Philly was so small.  It’s been moved, he thought, somebody messed wit it.  He got his keys and opened the door and yes, the stuff on his dash looked like it had been moved; somebody had been in there.  Course, there was nothing broke or stolen, so he couldn’t call the cops.

His cellphone rang then, and it was his secretary, reminding him about the meeting wit Tamarra.  Jesus Christ, the Kid had almost forgot.  He rushed inside and got ready, showered and got ready, and when he went back into his Porsche and put the key in the ignition, he froze, certain that when he turned the key it would explode—blow up in a freakin fiery ball.  He felt the panic coming, felt his arm going numb.  His right hand was on the key, but wouldn’t move.  Things inside the car started spinning, round and round, and then he forced hisself to breath deep, slow and deep, and closed his eyes and turned the key, and his candy apple red 911 Turbo S Porsche started—vroom—and there was no explosion.

“What you resist, persists,” the Kid says.

“Yeah,” Tamarra says.  “You taught me that, Mista Rossetti.  Is that a good thing to write about?”

And the Kid just nodded.

_______

The Kid didn’t sleep Thursday night, neither.  He was tossing and turning and keeping Gina up, so he said frig it and just went downstairs and put on the television.  At 6:15 a.m., he heard Gina’s alarm go off, so he went upstairs and climbed back into bed while she was in the shower.  He was starting to doze off when Gina came over and kissed him goodbye, and then he rolled over and some time later jerked awake, grabbing the mattress cause he felt like he was falling.  He got up and made some coffee in the kitchen, he wrote, and when he was sitting at the table eating his cereal, he heard something bang against the front door.  It was only the newspaper, he realized, cause the idiot delivery person was just making their route now, at 9:30 a.m., which was a friggin disgrace; no wonder the Philadelphia Post was going outta business.

He brought the newspaper inside, opened it at the kitchen table.  He paged through it quickly, skimming the articles, keeping an eye out for anything about World Peace Charter.  He got to the education section, and there it was, another goddamn story about him and Tony: Probe Uncovers Missing Funds at World Peace Charter.  There was new facts in this story, which talked about how the only money left in World Peace’s whatdoyacallit, coffers, was $1,000 and change, and how a more detailed audit of World Peace’s finances was soon to come, maybe by the School District or State, or even by the I.R.S; now it was clear that the feds was getting involved.  Well, that was it for the Kid; he was toast, he wrote in his journal.

The Kid would have to come clean, all the way clean.  No one was pulling any strings to make this one go away, and it seemed as if the Kid was just realizing this for the first time.  He had his journal, though.  In it, he wrote, At least I have this journal.  The truth was in there, at least.  Later that night he would end up photocopying it, photocopying it and giving it to me to give to the newspaper, in case anything happened to him.  Course, the Kid was gonna have to tell Gina, and this was the worst part, cause God only knew how she’d react.  There, at the kitchen table, he rehearsed the way he was gonna tell her . . . and he wrote out different, um, scenarios in his journal as well.  Writing in the journal helped his thoughts, I guess, cause God only knew he hadn’t been to an addiction meeting in weeks—maybe cause he was embarrassed.

After writing a buncha stuff down and scribbling it out, page after page of it, the Kid wrote that he’d finally figured out the best way to tell Gina: he’d take her to see me; that’s what he decided to do.  It made sense, cause I’d back the Kid’s story 100 percent, see.  I’d tell her everything, just like I’m telling you’s guys now.  Course, I don’t know why the Kid never came to me sooner—especially when he went to see Tony down at Straight A’s—cause I woulda did my best to help him out wit whatever I could.  I woulda tried to talk some sense into Tony at least, persuade him to leave the Kid alone.  It mighta done zero good, but who knows?  The Kid coulda given it a shot.

At 4:00 in the afternoon, the Kid wrote that he had a brand new worry:  Ashley wasn’t home from school yet, and she usually got home by 3:30 at the latest.  When there was no sign a her by 4:30, he called the school, but nobody answered; the secretary had prob’ly already gone home for the night.  Without hesitating he jumped into his Porsche and sped up to the school, searching the streets as he went, pulling over to talk to groups a students gathered on the corners, asking if they’d seen Ashley, Ashley Grasso.  Nobody had seen her, and the Kid’s mind wandered to vice grips and power drills, all the stuff he knew his uncle used to hurt people—and the loved ones a those people—who disrespected the famb’ly.

Ashley was smart, sure, but she was small for her age, small for 13; she wouldn’t be 14 for another four months.  People abducted young girls all the time; you was always hearing about that on the news and in the papers, how some young lady was reported missing, had just went and vanished into thin air.  Young folks was even abducted from school, right from their own schools.  Like that one time in that elementary school in Southwest Filthy-delphia, when that lady wearing a Muslim outfit wit the black sheet covering her face like a ninja just walked right into the main office a the school and said something like, Yeah, I’s hear to pick up such-and-such, I’s her momma’s friend, so can y’all just get her please, and the jack-knobs in the office actually went and got the little girl and, um, released her into the custody a the strange ninja lady.  The little girl was missing for a coupla days, and when they found her, she was half naked, crying, and prob’ly scarred for life.

Dom got to Penn’s Port High School and the main office was empty; it was almost 5:00 p.m., and everyone had gone home.  Luckily, though, the principal—Connie Ricks—was still there, sitting at her desk behind a stack a binders.  He went right up to her office and knocked on the open door, he wrote in his journal, startling her.  She looked up, putting a hand on her chest, and says, “Oh my God, you scared the be-Jesus outta me.”

“Ashley Grasso,” Dom says, “have you seen her?  Do you know where she is?”

“How did you get in here?” Mrs. Ricks says.  “The front entrance wasn’t locked?”

“It’s Philadelphia,” Dom says.  “Nothing works the way it’s supposed to.  I’m Dom Rossetti, the principal of Eisenhower High School.  We met at the last principal’s meeting, remember?”  He holds out his hand, but the woman hesitates.  “I was off today.  My step-daughter . . . well, she’s not my step-daughter officially . . . my fiancé’s daughter is Ashley Grasso, and she’s not home from school yet.  She’s normally home by 3:30, and I’m worried.  Have you seen her?  Do you know where she is?  Please tell me you know where she is.”

“Okay, I remember you.  Yes.  Dom Rossetti.  Who are you looking for, now?”

“Ashley Grasso.  She’s in ninth grade.  She just started here a few weeks ago.  She’s short, not even five feet, brown hair, real cute . . .”

“Ashley Grasso?”

“Yes.”

“She was on Home Bound for most of the year, right?”

“Yes, she had casts on her feet.”

“Right, yes.  No, I haven’t seen her.  I don’t recall her leaving early or being signed out, but I can check the log, if you want.  Here, let me see . . .”  Mrs. Ricks pages through the early dismissal book and then says, “No, she didn’t leave school early today.  She’s normally home by 3:30, you said?”

“Yes, and I’m worried.  I just have this feeling something happened.”

“Does she have many friends here at school?  Could she be over a friend’s house?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Check with her friends.  See if she turns up with any of them.”

So the Kid does what Mrs. Ricks suggests, calls Tina, the girl wit the pool in her backyard, and calls Megan, too . . . their cellphone numbers was already programmed in his phone from before . . . and both girls say that they haven’t seen Ashley, and that they don’t know where she is.

“Any luck?” Mrs. Ricks says.

“Nope.  They haven’t seen her.  I’m calling the police.”

The Kid leaves, just bolts outta there without saying another word, so he can talk to the cops in private, let them know his situation wit Tony and everything.  As he’s dialing 911 a call comes through on his phone, a call from Gina.  The Kid ends the 911 call and answers.

“Gina?” he says.  “Gina, hello?”

“Dom?”

“Yeah.  Let me call you back.  Ashley’s not home yet.  I’m calling the police.”

“What?  Where is she?  She didn’t go to physical therapy tonight?”

“Physical therapy?”

“Yes, Physical therapy.  It’s Friday night, remember?”

“Oh shit, that’s right.”

“Dom?”

“Yeah?”

“Where’s Ashley, is she okay?  Is she at Physical therapy or not?”

“I . . .”

“Hello?  Dom?  Is she okay?”

“Um . . .”

Hey.  Earth to Dom Rossetti, hello?”

That’s when all the strength went outta the Kid’s legs, he wrote, and he just sat on the ground in Penn’s Port High’s parking lot, staring at the cracks in the cement.

The conclusion of Uncle Tony’s Charter School

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