Claudia And The First Thanksgiving Part 4

"Wait a minute," I said, "I have an idea." Suddenly Susie said, "Oh, look. There's Mommy! May I go say h.e.l.lo, Claudia?" "Sure," I said. I glanced over my shoulder and saw that a couple more adults had arrived. A man with a ruddy face was talking to a woman with a pinched mouth who was nodding like a puppet at every word he said.

They both looked toward the stage.

I smiled at them.

They frowned ferociously.

It made me feel weird. Then I saw Susie talking to the woman with the pinched mouth. The woman scowled and pointed at me.

How rude! I turned my back on them and bent over one end of a long sheet of paper. I began to draw.

"There!" I said at last, stepping back so the crew could see what I'd done.

"It's just a plain old brown tree," said Becca.

"It's more than that," I told her and the kids standing there. "It's a secret sign." "Susie ran back to me.

"Is everything okay?" I couldn't help asking.

Susie nodded. "Mommy just wanted to know what we were painting. I told her, trees. She asked me if I was sure that was all we were tainting.' I wondered what Susie's mom had thought we were painting. Naked Pilgrims?

'How is it a secret tree?" asked Charlotte.

"Watch," I said. I laid down a spare piece of posterboard. Carefully, I poured little puddles of orange, yellow, brown, and red paint on it. I bent over and pressed my hand into a puddle of red paint, then turned and pressed it against our backdrop. It looked as if my red handprint was attached to one of the smaller branches of the tree.

"See? We'll make leaves out of our handprints, with all the autumn colors. Those will be our secret signatures." "Cool," said Susie. She bent over and went to work.

In no time at all we had a very leafy "signed" tree in one corner of our backdrop.

As we finished, I realized that the rehearsal was coming to an end. The kids washed their hands, then helped me put the paint away and wash the brushes. I sat down at the edge of the stage, feeling tired, but satisfied with the afternoon's work.

"Cool," a voice echoed Susie's word. It was Stacey.

"We like it," I said. "Whew. My back hurts from bending over this art stuff." "Why don't you just kneel or something?" asked Stacey.

"I did." I pointed to smudges of paint on the knees of my jeans. Fortunately, they were old jeans that I had brought to school and changed into just for painting the backdrop.

"How're the costumes coming?" I asked.

"Well, Erica and I have managed to convince the kids that the Pilgrims didn't all wear somber black clothing. But they're just not buying the idea that the Native Americans didn't wear huge war bonnets all the time." I giggled. Our research had turned up some good drawings of what the Pilgrims and Native Americans had worn - along with the news that none of the tribes east of the Mississippi wore feathered headdresses. At the most, the men would wear single feathers in their hair.

"Wait till we start painting the feast," I said. "And I tell them no pumpkin pie, or half the other stuff that most of them think of as Thanksgiving food." "And don't forget the raw oysters," added Stacey.

"Ewww, don't remind me," I said. But it was true. We'd discovered that oysters were probably part of that first Thanksgiving feast. Not oyster dressing, just oysters.

"Let's go," said Stacey.

Most of the other kids were on their way out, with their parents or with baby-sitters. I couldn't help noticing that Mrs. Albion wasn't the only unhappy-looking parent. It didn't make me feel good.

Ms. Garcia was standing by the back door of the auditorium as Stacey and I walked out. She was talking with an intense-looking man I recognized as one of the third-grade teachers.

"Of course that's not what we're trying to do. My Short Takes students have done their research and it is one hundred percent accurate," I heard her say.

" 'Bye, Ms. Garcia," I said as we walked by her.

" 'Bye," echoed Stacey.

Ms. Garcia broke off what she was saying and gave us a distracted smile. " 'Night," she said. "See you tomorrow." The other teacher didn't say anything.

But I sure didn't like the way he glanced at us as we left. Thank goodness I wasn't in third grade anymore! He looked like a real crank.

Chapter 10.

Jessi arrived at the SES auditorium half an hour early to see our next rehearsal. She had planned on slipping in quietly, so as not to distract the kids, and sitting in the back of the auditorium.

But when she pushed open the rear door of the auditorium, she found the auditorium anything but quiet.

It was at least half filled with parents and teachers. Some of them were sitting in the chairs. Some of them were standing in clumps up and down the aisles. Some were talking. Others were listening, leaning forward to peer at the third-graders onstage as they said their lines.

At first Jessi thought she'd encountered a severe and ma.s.sive attack of Stage Parent-itis: parents who are convinced and determined that their kids are going to be Stars.

She wondered if some of the parents were going to complain that their kids hadn't gotten roles, or maybe that their parts weren't big enough. Smiling to herself, Jessi found a seat.

She spotted her sister busily painting on a long sheet of paper. From the colors being splashed around, she deduced that they were probably working on the sky. She and Charlotte were kneeling next to each other, concentrating hard and working furiously.

"What do you mean, women get to vote?" the Pilgrim girl named Remember said to Betsy. "Women aren't allowed to vote!" "Women finally won the right to vote in nineteen twenty-one," said Betsy. "But they still don't have equal rights. That's a law that hasn't been pa.s.sed yet." "This is outrageous," a red-haired woman sitting in front of Jessi said to the tall woman in the seat next to her.

Jessi frowned and leaned forward slightly to listen.

"It certainly is," said the tall one.

The play continued. And with each point Betsy or one of the other characters made about the differences between things then and now, more angry murmurs seemed to fill the air. Jessi began to realize that people were objecting to the play's points about women, s.e.x roles, and the role of the European settlers.

Jessi was alarmed at how angry and hateful they sounded. And she was truly amazed at how ignorant and narrow-minded people's comments were.

Up onstage, Betsy, in the role of Alice, turned to face the audience. "Not everyone celebrates Thanksgiving in this country," she said. "Some Wampanoags and other Native Americans come to Plymouth Rock on Thanks- giving Day now to hold a National Day of Mourning. For them, the first Thanksgiving marked the beginning of the end of their way of life, even though their ancestors didn't know that when they welcomed the religious refugees from Europe." "Stop!" a voice suddenly called from one side of the auditorium. "Stop this instant. This is un-American!" The auditorium seemed to freeze. Onstage, Betsy stood with her mouth open. Some of the other actors drew closer together, as if they were afraid.

Bright red flooded Ms. Garcia's cheeks. And Abby's, too. (She had been prompting Betsy.) "Un-American!" the voice repeated, and a third grade teacher marched forward and up onto the stage.

The spell was broken. Enthusiastic shouts and applause came from the adults in the auditorium.

By now, the children looked scared and confused.

The auditorium seemed to burst with activity and noise. Parents joined the teacher on the stage. The voices rose louder and louder.

Jessi jumped to her feet, not sure what to do. Then she began to push forward, hoping to rescue Becca and Charlotte from the melee.

"Well, I think it's disrespectful of you to interrupt like that," she heard Abby retort.

"Let's calm down," Ms. Garcia said. "If we discuss this calmly - " The third-grade teacher, who was standing in the middle of the stage waving his arms, turned to Ms. Garcia. "The time for discussion has pa.s.sed," he snapped.

"What kind of nonsense is this?" said someone else. "The Pilgrims were heroes. They came to a savage, uncivilized country and made something of it." "Oh, yeah?" Abby shouted. "Tell that to the Native Americans! And then ask the Pilgrims what they believed about Jews. Europe wasn't civilized, it was bigoted and prejudiced. Just because you believe a bunch of lies and propaganda doesn't mean we have to!" Jessi was stunned. The anger in the room seemed to explode. She half expected Abby to get arrested or something, right then and there.

She forced her way through the screaming, gesturing crowd of parents, and found a group of kids huddled in one corner of the stage with Stacey.

"Stacey!" she gasped. "Can't anybody do anything?" "Lay low," said Stacey. "That's my advice." Looking around, Jessi realized that not all the parents of all the third-graders were there. Her own parents certainly weren't. Neither were Charlotte's. Nor were kids from the Pike, Dewitt, Kuhn, Arnold, and Hobart families being held by the arm while their mothers or fathers raged about the un-American play.

Jessi was relieved. For a moment, she felt a little better.

"Hi," she said to the kids.

"Hi," said Carolyn. She scowled. "Does this mean I can't be Miles Standish?" "Of course not," said Stacey quickly. But as Jessi told me later, Stacey didn't sound all that confident.

Becca and Charlotte ran to Jessi then. "Jessi, why is everybody so mad?" asked Becca.

"They're scared," said Jessi. "It's easier for them to believe fiction than fact." "What?" asked Charlotte.

"Never mind," said Jessi. "Where's Claudia, Stace?" "I don't know. She was here a minute ago." "She went to put away the art supplies," said Jake. "She said it didn't look as if we were going to need them anymore today." Jessi said to Stacey, "Well, I think we better head out of here. See you later." "Okay," said Stacey.

Taking her younger sister and Charlotte by the hand, Jessi began to lead them off the stage and out of the auditorium. Everywhere she looked, angry faces turned toward her. Angry voices flew over her head.

"Just ignore them," she said in a low voice to Becca and Charlotte.

They stepped out of the auditorium and found me, staring up at the sky. Why was I staring at it? I don't know. Maybe I thought some kind of answer would drop out of the clouds.

I should have known it wouldn't. I've tried the same thing during tests a hundred times and never once has the answer come to me that way.

"Wow," said Jessi.

"Yeah," I said.

"What's going to happen?" Jessi asked me.

"Will we still have a play?" asked Becca.

I looked down at Becca and Charlotte. They'd worked so hard. But if I said yes and then the play didn't go on, that would make me a liar - and make them twice as disappointed.

"I don't know," I said gently. "Maybe. Maybe not." "But we haven't finished painting the sky," Charlotte protested. "We're going to do that tomorrow/ aren't we?" I sighed. I looked up at the clouds again.

Still no answer.

"I don't know," I told them. "We'll just have to wait and see."

Chapter 11.

Did I worry all that night? I did.

Was I completely tied up in knots by the time I reached my Short Takes cla.s.s the next day?

I was.

It didn't help that the whole school seemed to have heard about the Big Thanksgiving Fight. I tried to follow Stacey's advice, to lay low and give vague answers to anyone who asked.

Ms. Garcia was standing by her desk as we entered the room. Needless to say, none of us was late. We sat down without saying a word and faced Ms. Garcia. She looked gravely back at us.

When the bell rang, signaling the beginning of cla.s.s, she said, "I'm afraid I have some bad news." No one groaned or gasped. Somehow, no one was surprised.

"They killed our play, didn't they?" asked Rick.

"Not exactly," said Ms. Garcia. "But we have been given an ultimatum by the princ.i.p.al of Stoneybrook Elementary School, at the behest of the majority of her third-grade teachers, and quite a few of her third-graders' parents. Either put on a play that shows the traditional first Thanksgiving story, or the princ.i.p.al will, er, kill the play." Abby exclaimed, "That's censors.h.i.+p!" Erica asked, "Can they do that?" "I believe it is censors.h.i.+p, too, Abby. And yes, Erica, they can do that," Ms. Garcia answered.

"What about our freedom of speech?" someone else said. "Or is that some made-up part of our history, too, just like Thanksgiving?" "Wait a minute," I objected. "Thanksgiving is not made up. It's just been polished, and the parts that people don't want to know about have been left out most of the time." Fourteen pairs of eyes looked questioningly at me - including Stacey's.

"It's true," I said.

"It is true," agreed Ms. Garcia. "We have been told the truth about Thanksgiving. Just not the whole truth." "It's all in who tells the story," said Rick.

"That's one way of looking at it," agreed Ms. Garcia.

"It's still censors.h.i.+p, to say we have to tell the story their way," said Abby.

Ms. Garcia said, "Someone, I don't remember who right now, once said, 'I don't agree with what you say, but I'll defend to the death your right to say it.' That's at the core of one of our const.i.tutional rights, the right to freedom of speech. And do remember," she went on, "that the people who object to our play have a right to freedom of speech, too. Freedom of speech applies to everyone, and to all views." "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance," said Abby suddenly. "That's a quote from Thomas Jefferson, I think. But even if it's not, it's still true. If we give in, we're not being vigilant. And we lose freedom." Ms. Garcia folded her arms and leaned back. "It's up to you. You can cancel the play. Or the show can go on - rewritten." "Kill it," said Abby instantly. "Don't give in! Then maybe when the narrow-minded parents and teachers see how disappointed the third-graders are, they'll be the ones who give in." "I don't think that's going to happen," said Ms. Garcia.

Rick said, "Then we just don't do it and that's that." We sat with the idea a moment. Finally I said, "If we do that - if we kill the play in protest - it really is going to disappoint a lot of little kids. And they've worked very hard on the scenery and the costumes already." "They are awfully excited," someone else agreed.

Rick said slowly, "I can see the parents' point of view, in a way. I mean, I bet at least some of them think that by censoring our play, they're protecting their kids." "Also, they might never have heard some of the things we were saying in our play," said Erica. "When they were growing up, people probably didn't even know what rights for women and minorities were. This probably scares them. Hey, we didn't know a lot of this stuff before we started our research." "True," said Abby reluctantly. "And if they'd asked us to change some things about the play, or even tried to talk to us about it, we might have compromised. But I think what they're doing now is wrong." "So what do we do? Put on the play their way?" said Stacey, frowning.

"But that's giving in to them," I said. "We can't just give up." Ms. Garcia looked at the clock. "The bell is going to ring in ten minutes. I'll need a decision by the end of cla.s.s." "I guess we have to take a vote," said Abby. "All in favor . . . wait a minute! I have an idea. What if we put the play on under protest?" "What do you mean?" I asked.

"We agree to the traditional version, but we make it clear that we've been forced to give in, that we've been censored." "Deprived of our freedom of speech!" cried Erica.

"We can stamp 'Censored' in big red letters across all the posters and playbills," I said.

"And wear b.u.t.tons," said Stacey. "b.u.t.tons that say things like, 'The censors made me do it' and 'Ask me what happened at the first Thanksgiving.' " "And we could also put the original play on ourselves at SMS," I said, warming to the idea. "The True Story of Alice and the Pilgrims." The bell rang. It was the end of cla.s.s.

"Everybody in favor of two plays raise your hand," said Ms. Garcia quickly. It was unanimous.