Murderers

An excerpt from an upcoming book, Teaching Oilers

Teaching Oilers, Murderers

NOTE: The names have been changed in all cases. Events are as I recall them to have occurred. Please address any corrections to the comments section.

by Andrew Meblin, January 2022

I’m not sure I believe in karma. Yeah, bad people are often smote in horrific events, ways that make the average person confer causality. It can be convincing. But if we believe that some force, or hidden cycle of life, or cosmic consciousness (or Woodstock) created a system in which bad actors meet their punishment head-on, how would that manifest? I witnessed this sad event in my sixth year teaching Oilers.

Jacob was a freshman in a section of Cultural Geography classes. He didn’t present himself in an extraordinarily depraved fashion in my class. I fail to remember any instances of having to issue behavioral guidance. Despite the fact he dwelled on the low end of academic achievement, he was not a significant challenge to classroom management. It wasn’t the same next door.

One classroom to the right of mine was room 334, occupied by Ms. Simmons, an up-and-coming star in the District, but back then, a first-year TFA, Teach For America teacher. Almost all of my students in the various Cultural Geography sections were also in Ms. Simmons’ English 1. The 9th graders also learned Algebra 1 from the third teacher in our House.

One Friday, Simmons caught me in the hallway and mentioned in a serious tone that Jacob exhibited some horrid beliefs about Jews. He had laughed at a scene of atrocity by Nazis in the movie, Schindler’s List. In the movie, as SS soldiers are “liquidating” the ghetto, and an elder Jew is hesitating. The one brute whips out his Luger and shoots the man through the head. Yeah, Ha-ha. Ms. Simmons whispered to him, and I paraphrase, “Jacob, why are your laughing, they’re killing people just because they’re Jewish.” His explanation to Ms. Simmons, “Hitler didn’t kill enough of them,” or something to that effect. This poor young teenager didn’t learn that in school, did he? So, Ms. Simmons stated that we need to have an intervention with him. A sit-down, and chat, and kumbaya event. Snarky-ness aside, I really do believe in the process. When would we have the intervention? Monday. But it wasn’t to happen.

Monday rolled around and Jacob was absent. Then word came in of an absolutely horrifying event. Jacob and his father had been sitting in their car, somewhere in Richmond/San Pablo neighborhood, engaged in commerce. Back then I assumed they were selling drugs of some type. Some said they were just selling fireworks and cannabis, which is a “drug” but….

Someone approached the car and fired a handful of bullets through Jacob’s dad’s head. Jacob had probably been drenched with his father’s blood and brains. Understandably, we didn’t see much of Jacob for a few weeks, and after that he seldom attended school. The necessary intervention would be a long and drawn-out process, and not one of which our little house was qualified to perform. All we could do was to support him upon his return to school, which was never, almost.

I didn’t seen Jacob in school during what would have been his sophomore year, nor thereafter. I did learn a bit more though.

Years later, in 2014, a really fun group of juniors came into my domain. That group included Anselmo and Maria. Those two weren’t perfect students, but they’re damn close to perfection of intentions. They do nice things for people in their social-solar-system. So when retirement approached, Maria notified me that she would be planning and hosting a party to celebrate retirement. She set a date, and invited my wing-man, Oldham. The day of the BBQ was eagerly awaited.

Anselmo and Maria lived in the smack-dab middle of Richmond. Narrow streets and houses on 10th acre lots. In some windows there was plywood instead of glass, and in most cases there was glass on asphalt. The houses reflected the haste with which the city had swollen up with 150,000 workers during World War Two. Henry J. Kaiser built four shipyards here beginning in 19 XX. One or more of those workers had lived in those homes, and now 75 years later…

The party was on the driveway and front yard, where a dry-stack of cinderblock grill made heat from open flame oak. Maybe it was some of the oak I helped him acquire. One day an oak fell alongside Moraga Way, the trunk and branches quickly cut into sections say eighteen inches. A call to Anselmo brought him out in his compact Jeep SUV, which brought the wood back to the house. The meat was flavorful, tender and varied, sausages, rice and beans, and some other vegetables. Though the food was excellent, it is lost in significance in comparison to who was there.

Anselmo’s older brother, who I didn’t recognize at first, was excited to see his old teachers. Armando had lost weight, gained vocabulary, and wore glasses. To help the old guy’s memory, he showed me a picture from a few years after he was a freshman in my Cultural Geography class. Oh, yeah. I remember you!

I got out my phone. I dug through the years, and found Armando in one of the more awkward poses of the year. In the picture, he stood behind a student who was camera shy. Grabbing the boy by his triceps Armando beamed rather than mugged. I remember you.

“All that stuff you taught us in Cultural Geography was really good to know when I went to prison.”