|The view from Young Da-da's elementary school.|
... not much. But he can pull together a little (true) honky remembrance in honor of Black History Month.
Picture Young Honky Da-da schlumped on a huge couch watching, "The Bob Newhart Show," circa LONG AGO, somewhere on the scorched roof of the Mojave Desert, winter wind howling outside. His own parents had just come in the front door, later than usual because they'd just had their first parent/teacher conference with Young Da-da's sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Lawyer (who taught at oxymoronic Park View Elementary, a school in the middle of the desert, with no park in sight; Mrs. Lawyer made up for it by being awesome.)
Da-da's '70s parents walked into the room, all hirsute and wide-tied and polyestered, and stood there staring at Young Master Da-da -- who immediately thought he was in trouble. Had Da-da done anything wrong lately? Not that he knew of. Or wanted to admit. Apart from referring to himself in the third-person all the time.
"Something the matter?" Young Master Da-da asked.
"Why didn't you tell us your teacher was black?" his dad asked. Mom stared at Young Da-da.
Surprised, Da-da said, "I didn't think it was an issue. Is it?"
Da-da's dad spread his hands out, "No, no. Not at all. I just think it's great that you never mentioned it." He was quiet a moment. "It's one of the reasons we moved to California."
Young Da-da neglected to tell them that the situation was actually much worse: Da-da was teacher's pet. Must've been that weird machinery Da-da's parents strapped him into every night. Da-da can still feel the straps.