FICTION
Beatrice Tauss
POWER
Power. Today I had a taste of it. I've been exe rcising it.
Wielding it. I ha te the infa mous thing. Let me expla in .
When I walked in , the first grade class was silent and stiff,
afra id. It is nearl y Christmas a nd the regul a r teache r has neve r been
absent. C ould there be a substitute for God ?
I knew wha t to do. My instructions were clear enough . The
plan for the day was on the desk: 9 :30-Penma nship . 1O:00-Milk
Break. 10: 30 - Singing . Things like tha t. And of course there would
be the stage direc tions from the class delivered in teacher la nguage:
"No child mu st have more than two cooki es." "M a rtin mu st pick up
the children's papers." "You must put it on the board ."
Thus the es tablished wo rld is kept intac t; a sea wall. Outside it ,
chaos lay.
We began . We pledged a ll egia nce to the fl ag a nd they sang in
wave ring hi gh-pitched vo ices, "M y Country, 'Tis of Thee." No bass,
onl y a thin , hi gh , fl oa ting, fl a t line of music. Michael came forward
to hold the fl ag. It was hi s turn . H e stood straight , hi s stubby fin ge rs
wrapped ten ely a round the sma ll fl agpole balanced on hi s nave l.
The heroic na ture o f hi s cha rge was refl ec ted in hi s pos ture. The re
followed a simple praye r :
T hank you for the food we eat.
T hank you fo r the wo rld so sweet.
T ha nk you for the birds tha t sing.
T ha nk you , God , for eve rything.
It was a n old slum school on a crumbling side stree t bordering
China town . It was pinched , pinched a nd drab and mean. On sooty
windows were pas ted crooked colored-pa per cutouts of C hri stmas
trees and holl y wreaths. The e ffect was mela ncholy. The wa ll s inside
were gray ish green , dingy, peeling, decay ing.
