Black Brother, Black Brother: Part 2

“Yes. You have to learn how to fence anybody—large, small, tall, short. You’re wiry.”

He squeezes my biceps. “Or at least you could be. Tight, taut, controlled. Give me ten push-ups.”

“You went to Cornell, didn’t you? All white.”
“Not entirely,” says Dad. Then, sheepishly, “Mostly, especially back then.”

“I want to file a civil rights case. For you, and other students of color who are punished disproportionately.”
“‘Disproportionately?’ What’s that mean?”
“Means all over the country there’s a pattern of brown and black kids receiving harsher school punishments than white students.”

“Donte, can I make you lead plaintiff? Can I do that?”

Coach turns full circle, studying the gym as if he’s remembering. Sometimes when he’s teaching, he gets dreamy, wistful.

Cool, collected, Coach shakes Trey’s hand.

“Donte needs sparring partners. With your height, you’d be perfect.”

“Rule number one: See everything. Not just the blade, but the legs, trunk, arms, tilt of the head. Train the eye. Look for the subtle signs. The subtlest of intentions.”

“Show-off,” quips Zion.

I get an inkling of why Trey likes sports. Team. Teamwork. A different kind of family.

“You mean spying?”
“No, Donte. Reconnaissance.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Spying is when you go undercover. Be secret. Reconnaissance is scoping out the enemy on their home turf.”

A furnace roars inside me, too. But I’m trying to tamp it down.

Then, the two swords touch, cross, making a perfect X shape like the school’s emblem.

Opponents test each other’s strength. Slow, slow, tentative...

He likes to feint, pretend his sword is going one way rather than another.

Brent parries. Parries again. Knocks Josh’s blade sideways. Parry, parry, parry.

Staccato, light metallic clangs.

Brent’s seeming passiveness unnerved Josh. Brent toys with him—most times retreating, but then adding a bounce to quicken his speed for a lunge, then hit.

Looking impressive, Alan saunters toward Trey.

Alan exclaims, “I challenge you.”
He sounds pompous, I think. Sounds like “I’m honorable” and “You’re a coward if you don’t accept.”

The whole world says a man has to be strong. Tough. Even Dad acted tough when he picked me up at the police station. He didn’t smile nice, shirk or back down, shake that officer’s hand like they were friends.

I could see each fencer’s strengths. Vulnerabilities. See, instinctively glimpse, their minds working.

“Donte,” she says, somber, “your hearing is Monday.”

“She’s going to sue. Not for my case. But for a bigger case—a civil lawsuit—with me and lots of black and brown kids who’ve been arrested in Massachusetts schools. She says justice might prevail.”

“I don’t know. This whole mess is Alan’s fault. Me, being petrified, having to go to court not once but twice.”

Mom reminded me juveniles can’t be criminals. I’m a “delinquent.” And juveniles don’t have trials but “adjudication hearings.”

Some folks come out smiling; others, solemn; still others, crying.

“You’re not asking for the charges to be dropped?”
“No, Your Honor. They seem credible.”
“Excuse me, Your Honor. Only credible because they’re from a rich, white private school. But my son, the defendant, doesn’t lie.”

The judge’s brow furrows.

Seeing is intuition, trying to predict strategy.

Mom said juvenile judges have lots of discretion. “They don’t necessarily weigh evidence, proof in the same way as a criminal court.”

The prosecutor, the judge, and the guard in the room are taken aback.

The riposte is an effective intermediate/advanced skill. Without pausing after a parry, directly thrust and score against your opponent.

Beginners simply parry (defend) or attack (offense). A riposte seamlessly blends the two actions.