Claudia And The First Thanksgiving Part 5

We had only just begun to fight!

Chapter 12.

The Monday evening before Thanksgiving arrived. Opening night - and closing night - for our censored play. Despite the fact that parents had been at every rehearsal watching us like hawks, especially Mrs. Albion, who was convinced that there was some kind of sinister meaning behind our tree of hands - we'd managed to preserve some of the interesting things, such as the food being different at the first Thanksgiving. And we managed to keep the costumes accurate.

Since Betsy couldn't be Alice anymore, we'd given her the role of Governor William Bradford, who hadn't had a speaking part in the original play. I think the father of one of the boys who didn't have a speaking part protested to Ms. Garcia about that. At least, I saw him frowning and gesturing toward the stage when Betsy first began to rehea.r.s.e her new part. I don't know what Ms. Garcia said to him, but she definitely didn't give in.

We'd made posters and given them to the third-graders to put up at SES. I'd kept the design of the posters simple - just a black and white silhouette of the Mayflower, with block style printing about the play. The word "Censored," in big, red letters, would show up very well against it.

During one BSC meeting, we had made b.u.t.tons while we answered the phone. We came up with some pretty good slogans: "The price of freedom of speech is eternal vigilance" was one. "Native Americans for the Real Thanksgiving" was another. "Thanksgiving then, Thanksgiving now - where are the women?" (That was Abby's.) Also: "Were the Pilgrims against freedom of speech?"; "Narrow-minded, racist, s.e.xist, CENSORED"; "Whose play is this anyway?"; "The truth about Thanksgiving has been canceled by the parents and teachers of SES"; "Alice and the Pilgrims - CENSORED." We also made lots of b.u.t.tons that just said, "Censored." We wrote "Censored" in red marker on the front of every single one of the playbills. Rick had designed the playbills on his computer. He had printed the t.i.tle of our play, Alice and the Pilgrims, at the top. "Censored" went across that. Below it, in block letters, were the words, "A Thanksgiving Play." We also made up fliers announcing the performance of the original play on Tuesday night at SMS.

Mal had told her family about the controversy, and her family was planning to turn out with b.u.t.tons on. So was Jessi's. Kristy and Charlie and Sam were going, bringing David Michael and Emily Mich.e.l.le. Abby's sister Anna was coming, along with some of her friends from the orchestra. So no matter what happened, at least some people would be on our side.

Everyone in my Short Takes cla.s.s arrived at the auditorium extra early. We raced around writing "Censored" across all the posters. I felt as if I were writing graffiti. I want to point out, though, that I was a very well-dressed graffiti artist/protestor. Just for the occasion, I was wearing my rainbow-colored crinkle gauze skirt, my crocheted vest with the matching hat, and my silver earrings (designed by me, of course). I felt that I looked artistic, yet responsible. And of course my b.u.t.ton, with the bright red writing on it, added the finishing touch.

We'd asked the kids to "sign in" backstage, so most of them arrived by the backstage door. We'd arranged it that way because it was easier - and because it meant that the parents who arrived with the kids wouldn't see the posters right away, and wouldn't have time (we hoped) to do anything awful.

The third-graders were tremendously excited. Most of them had put on their costumes at home and there were a few surprises. Carolyn Arnold had found out that one of Miles Standish's contemporaries had described him as having red hair. Somewhere she'd come up with a red wig, which she was wearing beneath her black hat. My lips twitched when I saw her, because the wig was a curly one. But I didn't say anything.

Betsy was wearing a big black mustache. (I couldn't help thinking of the Pike kids, all dressed like Groucho Marx on Halloween.) But since we didn't know exactly what any of the Pilgrims had looked like (there were no photographs, and only one contemporary portrait), what difference did it make?

"Nice mustache," I told Betsy. She beamed. She had been a little upset about losing the role of Alice, but being the governor and wearing a mustache seemed to have made up for it.

Just then I heard someone screech, "You're killing the turkey!" I left Betsy and hurried off to separate two Pilgrims who were engaged in a sword fight, using two cardboard turkey drumsticks. Carefully I reattached the drumsticks to the papier-mache turkey that was sitting on the picnic table we were using for the Pilgrims' feast table.

After that, I hurried around, giving the scenery last-minute adjustments, and making sure the bowl of real cranberries we'd put on the table didn't become part of a real food fight.

I didn't have time to think about the potentially unfriendly audience that was gathering outside. Briefly, I realized that I was glad we had decided to go on with the censored play. The kids were having so much fun that the play's content almost didn't seem to matter.

Then Abby said, "Places everyone! Five minutes to curtain." A shrill babble of third-grade voices rose. "Shhh!" we said, but in vain. It was all we could do to hustle everyone to their spots and keep them standing still until, at last, the curtain began to rise.

I pushed a plate of oyster sh.e.l.ls, arranged to look like real oysters on the half sh.e.l.l (yuk), away from the edge of the table and darted offstage.

"A Thanksgiving Play" had begun.

Walking to center stage front, Tyson made a speech introducing the play. Behind him, another third-grader walked across the stage, holding the Mayflower poster to show the ship sailing across the "sea" of blue sheets and blue and white streamers.

"How'd it go out front?" I asked Rick. He'd been helping the third-grade ushers, who were handing out programs and escorting people to their seats.

"Do the words 'outrage' and 'disgrace' mean anything to you?" asked Rick wryly.

"They weren't happy about the 'Censored' treatment, I guess." "Nope. But it was too late for them to do anything more than complain. At least half a dozen of them asked who was responsible for this. I told them that they could find our names on the backs of their programs." I gave a smothered snort of laughter. But I was secretly glad that I hadn't been there to hear it.

So the play went on. The kids enjoyed it tremendously. Jake waved at his parents from the stage.

Betsy twirled her mustache, and welcomed Ma.s.sasoit and his people to the Thanksgiving feast. Jake, as Squanto, overacted all over the place, turning and grinning and waving at the audience, and bowing whenever he finished "translating" the low, indistinguishable words that the chief whispered into his ear.

It was a nice, traditional version of the first Thanksgiving. By the time the play was over, and it was clear that we'd given the audience what they'd wanted and not the whole truth, the grumbling had subsided. The kids took their bows to steady applause. Cameras flashed, and faces beamed.

The applause slackened as Ms. Garcia announced our names, but since we came out with the groups of third-graders we'd worked with, and took bows with them, the parents couldn't not applaud.

But they couldn't miss the b.u.t.tons we were wearing, either.

Even though the applause for us was dutiful at best, I didn't mind. As we were cleaning up after the play, and discussing the production of our own version the following night at SMS, I was still glad we'd decided to go through with it. We'd managed to keep the parents at bay and the third-graders happy. And we'd managed to stand up for our beliefs.

It had been a good evening's work.

Chapter 13.

When the parents and teachers of SES had censored our play and we'd decided to do our own version of the Thanksgiving story, Alice and the Pilgrims, we'd recruited the Short Takes cla.s.s that was concentrating on performance to put on the uncensored "Alice" play. Needless to say, they'd welcomed the idea, and before we knew it, they were immersed in it. The only work we had to do was to preview the dress rehearsal and show up for the performance on Tuesday night.

There's usually a decent turnout for school plays at SMS, but they're not the most wildly popular activity around. I'd expected friends and loyal supporters, the kids in our cla.s.ses, and maybe a few of the curious who'd heard about the censorship rumble.

Wrong.

A seething ma.s.s of parents and even some SES teachers showed up. They weren't wearing b.u.t.tons, but obviously our b.u.t.tons and "Censored" signs the previous evening had made a big impression.

They were, to put it mildly, angry that we'd stood up to them.

The play was scheduled to start at eight o'clock. We planned to arrive at seven-thirty to make sure we'd find good seats.

I guess you could say that the picket line was the first thing that alerted us to the fact that finding good seats might not be our biggest worry.

The BSC had turned out in force, including Shannon and Logan. We were in the Brewer/ Thomas van, which Charlie was driving. Behind us, Watson was driving Nannie, Kristy's mom, and Sam, David Michael, and Emily Mich.e.l.le in his car.

Charlie pulled the van up to the front entrance of SMS and slowed to a stop, whistling. "Would you look at that?" he said.

There was a picket line in front of the school. Dozens of parents with set, angry faces were marching up and down, holding signs that said things such as, "Un-American," and "We're for Family Values - and the American Thanksgiving." "Ick," said Mary Anne.

"Ick?" teased Logan. "Ick?" "Ick, sick," said Kristy emphatically. Then she pointed. "Look!" Another group of protestors, who looked equally grim, marched back and forth, never looking at the first group of protestors. This bunch held signs that said, "Hatred of the truth is not a family value," and "Freedom of speech is a const.i.tutional right." Of course, we were wearing our "Censored" b.u.t.tons. Easy to tell which side we were on.

I swallowed. "Think that first group will hit us in the head with their signs?" I was only half kidding.

"Come on," said Kristy. "Thanks for the ride, Charlie. See you inside." She leaped from the van. Abby was right behind her. Then we just stood there.

"Smile, and don't look so worried," Kristy ordered.

So we smiled. And ran the gauntlet of people saying to us, "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves," and, "Disgraceful." Abby turned. We could tell she was about to say something really outrageous back to them. Kristy grabbed her and we hustled her forward.

Then I heard another voice say, "Good work! We're proud of you." And then we were through the front doors.

But it wasn't over yet. Inside, people on both sides of the issue were handing out literature about education and censorship and even something called a "Secret Agenda to Corrupt Young Minds." I wanted to take one of those, to see if I'd been corrupted, but Kristy kept us moving. Before we knew it, we were sitting in the middle of a row near the front of the auditorium.

"I'm not sure I want to sit with my back to so many people who don't like me," I said.

Stacey snickered.

As it turned out, we were joined soon after by Kristy's family. Then the Pikes arrived in force. Soon we were surrounded by supporters.

I couldn't believe our little play had become such a big civil rights issue.

At 8:07, Mr. Taylor, the SMS princ.i.p.al, strode onstage and announced our play. As the curtains rose, many people applauded. And many people booed.

That was just the beginning. Whenever the eighth-grader playing Alice began to speak, people began to clap. And boo. It grew so loud that often she was drowned out.

Finally she put her hands on her hips and just stood there, staring at the audience.

Things quieted down for a moment. Then people began to murmur and whisper, and you could tell it was going to start all over again.

But Mr. Taylor acted quickly. He strode out onto the stage to stand beside the actress. He looked angry.

"That's enough!" he said in the same tone of voice that he uses with rowdy students.

Many of the parents must have recognized that tone from their own childhoods. Silence fell.

"If you cannot behave while these students perform, you will be asked to leave the auditorium. You are more than welcome to exercise your right to freedom of speech, and to protest as you see fit - outside this auditorium. But coming inside means that you will abide by the rules of common courtesy. Now be quiet!" He strode off stage. I wanted to applaud, but I was afraid to make a sound! After that, the play went smoothly, although from time to time you could hear angry murmurs in the darkness around us.

Once things had quieted down and I could pay attention to the play, I began to notice something. Without the third-graders looking cute and charming, and obviously getting a big kick out of being in costume and up on a stage, the play didn't seem as good. As it went on, I was forced to admit that, well, it simply wasn't a very good play. What did I expect? It had been written quickly, and for a third-grade level. If this had been a Broadway production, I thought wryly, we might not have been censored, but the critics probably would have given us such bad reviews that we would have closed on opening night! When the play was over, my friends and I jumped to our feet and began to applaud and cheer as loudly as we could. Ms. Garcia came onstage and called our Short Takes cla.s.s up to join the performers.

The applause sounded thunderous from there. But as loud as it was, it didn't drown out the chorus of boos from the opposition.

With the sound rolling over us, Erica and I ducked offstage. We returned with a huge bouquet of red roses, which we gave to Ms. Garcia.

More applause.

More boos.

Then Ms. Garcia did an amazing thing. She turned and walked toward our cla.s.s, and handed each of us a rose from her bouquet.

We took a final bow.

But we didn't stay to chat. We ducked out the side door of the stage to avoid the pickets and the arguing that began to fill the air the moment the curtain fell.

That night, before I went to bed, I decided to dry the rose. I laid the playbill out on the desk, along with some of the notes I'd taken about Thanksgiving. A collage was taking shape in my mind.

I didn't go to sleep right away. My thoughts drifted back to my "Learning to Read" Short Takes cla.s.s. I wondered how much of history had been censored, how many other things that the people in charge didn't like had been edited out of the history books.

History was like that, I realized. There was nothing simple about it. In the end, it was a complicated mix of truth and fiction. A matter of interpretation. You couldn't believe everything you read - or were told.

It made the whole world seem a lot more complicated.

I wondered, just before I fell into a deep sleep, whether the people who'd censored our play and tried to prevent us from exercising our freedom of speech, realized that the only reason they could protest at all was because of the same right to freedom of speech they'd tried to deny us.

It made the world seem a lot more complicated.

Chapter 14.

Wednesday was what you might call School Lite. Everyone was looking forward to the holidays. Many of the teachers let their cla.s.ses have free periods or hold small Thanksgiving celebrations. They didn't even give out homework a.s.signments.

In Short Takes, we spent the entire cla.s.s debating what had happened, how much freedom of speech the Bill of Rights guaranteed, and what it all meant. And we congratulated ourselves a lot, too.

School let out at noon. Whatever the controversies surrounding Thanksgiving, it is an excellent holiday in terms of length! But I didn't plan to lounge around in my room eating Twinkles and talking on the phone to Stacey. Instead I dashed home (just like the other members of the BSC), pitched my books, and headed for Mal's.

At one o'clock, baby-sitters and their brothers and sisters began arriving. Mal's was the designated baby-sitting drop-off point for everyone, while our parents, plus Nannie and Jessi's aunt Cecelia, cooked up a storm over at Kristy's house.

We had chosen the Pikes' because it's pretty kid-proof already, and because Mr. and Mrs. Pike had suggested it.

What did we do with all those kids? What good baby-sitters do, of course. We kept them busy and happy. We had a lot of help, too, from some honorary baby-sitters: Charlie, Sam, Janine, and Anna had volunteered to help out.

"Who wants to make Thanksgiving cookies?" asked Abby. She opened a paper bag and spilled out about a dozen cookie cutters.

"Wowwwww," breathed Margo Pike. "Look, Claire," she said to her little sister. "There's a Pilgrim's hat." "And a turkey," said Claire. "No, two turkeys. A big one and a little one." "And a pumpkin," said Nicky.

"That one is supposed to be a Pilgrim woman," said Anna. "And that one is a Pilgrim man. You have to decorate them, though, to see what they really look like." "Where did you get all these?" asked Jessi.

"They were our father's. He liked to make cookies," Anna said. "He used to make us Thanksgiving cookies. We'd - " "So who's going to help us?" Abby suddenly interrupted. I wondered if talking about her father bothered her, or if she was just being typically Abby.

"I want to make cookies," said David Michael.

"Me, too," said Vanessa.

"Cookie," said Emily Mich.e.l.le.

"That's too bad," said Mary Anne. "I guess I'm going to have to make Thanksgiving decorations for Kristy's house all by myself. I don't know how I'm ever going to use up all those different colored pieces of paper and all that glitter and - " "I want to make decorations," said David Michael.

"You," said Mal, fixing her triplet brothers with a steely glare, "have to clean your room before you do anything." A wail of protest went up from Byron, Adam, and Jordan. That's when Charlie and Sam stepped in and organized a turkey hunt. Sam folded up a dollar bill into an origami turkey (which caused Kristy to look at him in surprise - clearly her older brother had talents of which she hadn't been aware). Then he and Charlie hid the turkey. The only clue Sam offered them was, "You'll have to clean your room to find it." In no time at all we could hear thumps and b.u.mps from their room. Meanwhile, Charlie and Sam returned, and Charlie started making cranberry sauce.

"Where'd you hide it?" I asked.

Sam began to snicker. "Someplace it'll take them forever to find." He walked across the kitchen and into the pantry. Emerging a moment later he said, "I taped it to the handle of the broom in the pantry!" Claire insisted on giving all her cookies cranberry eyes. They were sort of strange-looking.