The New Math

There were only about twenty of us in the class, but Dennis Jenkins, the graduate student teaching us, seemed to think he was addressing Congress. He was that enthusiastic.

"Who was behind the September eleventh attacks?" he asked.

I was silent. I wasn't going to help him indulge in his conspiracy theories.

"Osama bin Laden," a girl in the front row said.

"Why would he do that?" Jenkins asked. "September eleventh didn't help Muslims at all. If anything, Muslims are a lot worse off. The question is: Who benefited from September eleventh?"

"Gary Condit," I said.

The class laughed. Right before September eleventh, Condit probably murdering his mistress was the big news story. Maybe he crashed the planes to create a diversion.

Jenkins wasn't laughing. He glared at me with his cold blue eyes like he wanted to kill me. Then his look softened and he forced out a little laugh, trying to show he had a sense of humor.

"Seriously," Jenkins said, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "The one behind the September eleventh attacks was Israel. If Americans believed they were being attacked by Muslims, then Israel and America would have a common enemy, and Americans would support Israel."

It's hard to know how to respond to a teacher who's a complete lunatic. Most of the class just stared at the wall. Only Nathan spoke. Nathan was the only Jew besides me who hadn't already dropped the class. He loved to argue with teachers. I think he specifically looked for Israel-haters when he enrolled in classes.

"There's no way Israel would have done that," he said. "Or even could have for that matter. It's completely impossible to pull off a conspiracy like that."

"No it isn't," Jenkins said. "Most western media is occupied territory."

"Hold on," I said to Jenkins. "Can we talk about something else? We've been in class for a week now and all you've talked about is Israel."

"There's still such a thing as freedom of speech in this country," Jenkins said.

"But this is a math class," I said.

"The Palestinians don't get to learn math," Jenkins said. "Israel puts up roadblocks so they can't get to school."

"The roadblocks are to stop terrorists," Nathan said. "And even if you're against the roadblocks, anyone who thinks Israel was behind the September eleventh attacks is an anti-Semite."

Jenkins snorted.

"That's the typical tactic," he said. "Accuse anyone who's critical of Israel of anti-Semitism." He sighed. "You criticize Israel and they try to crucify you."

The class was staring intently at the wall. Those bricks must have been mighty interesting.

"Trying to crucify you?" Nathan said. "That's the most anti-Semitic thing I've ever heard in my life."

"People were also angry at John Lennon when he compared himself to Jesus," Jenkins said. "I'd say I'm in good company."

"He was commenting on how popular the Beatles were, not accusing the Jews of deicide," Nathan said.

"If John Lennon were here today, he would be speaking out against Israel," Jenkins said.

"No he wouldn't," Nathan said. "John Lennon was pro-Israel."

Apparently, Nathan knew a lot about Classic Rock. He explained John Lennon's views on the Middle East, distaste for Islamic fundamentalism, and support of Jewish nationalism, particularly the socialistic, secular variety.

Jenkins listened politely with a small grin on his face, like he knew something Nathan didn't.

When Nathan finished, Jenkins said, "Then why did they kill him?"

"Who?" Nathan said. "Israel? They didn't. Mark David Chapman did."

"And why would he do that?" Jenkins asked.

"Because he was crazy," Nathan said.

Jenkins snorted.

"Right," he said. "The lone gunman theory."

Now Jenkins addressed the whole class.

"Who benefited from John Lennon's death?" he asked.

"But John Lennon was pro-Israel," Nathan said.

"Of course he couldn't directly oppose Israel," Jenkins said. "The music industry is occupied territory. But he left hidden messages revealing what he really thought about Israel. You can hear them in his songs."

"Sure," Nathan said. "If you're Charles Manson."



After class, Nathan and I stormed out into the courtyard. I offered him a cigarette.

"No, I quit," he said and took one.

I lit his cigarette and then my own.

"Thanks," he said, inhaling deeply.

"You should have let him ramble on," I said. "I wanted to hear which Beatles songs had hidden messages. Maybe if you play Paperback Writer backwards, it says Death to Israel."

"What is wrong with him anyway?" Nathan said.

"He was probably one of those kids who never got invited to Bar Mitzvahs," I said.

"We should break his kneecaps," Nathan said.

"No. We'll just talk to the head of the math department."

"They won't care. They'll just say Freedom of Speech."

"They'll care that he doesn't teach math. It's been a whole week and he hasn't said a word about math, other than that the Arabs invented Algebra. Seems like the kind of thing they'd invent. If Algebra is sitting around and blaming the Jews for all the world's problems, we have a great teacher."

"You laugh it off," Nathan said. "That's why people always scapegoat us. They would never these things about black people. You so much as look at a black person funny and he'll kill you."

"And the Mexicans all have knives," I said.

"I'm serious," he said. "People have to know that if they attack Jews, there's gonna be consequences. Not just that we'll call them anti-Semites. Serious physical consequences."

"Broken kneecaps?"

"He's going after our family. We'll go after his."



Nathan and I decided it would be a good idea to call Jenkins's parents and threaten to kill them. We got his permanent phone number from the University listings. Jenkins couldn't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three, so his permanent number was probably his parents' house. We bought a phone card and went to a public pay phone next to a bus stop. I would do the talking since I was an Acting major. I dialed the number and heard it ring. It picked up.

"Hello, Jenkins residence," a woman's voice said. She sounded Hispanic.

"Mr. or Mrs. Jenkins," I said.

"Mrs. Jenkins is out of town and Mr. Jenkins is in the dining room eating dinner. He doesn't like to be disturbed. May I take a message?"

"I need to speak to Mr. Jenkins now. It's a matter of life or death. His life or death."

"I'm sorry. I can only disturb him if it's an emergency."

"It is an emergency."

"Okay then. Just a moment. Who should I say is calling?"

I said the first name that came to mind.

"My name's Nathan," I said.

Nathan punched me in the shoulder.

"Hold on," she said. She put me on musical hold. It was Easy Listening music.

"Why'd you give my name?"

"It was the first thing I thought of."

"Why didn't you just make up a name?"

"Their maid's Hispanic. It threw me off."

"Whatever happened to British butlers?" Nathan asked. "Like Alfred from Batman, or Mr. Belvedere?"

"Hello," an angry man's voice growled through the phone. "What are you selling that you drag me away from my dinner omelet?"

"I'm not selling anything."

"So you want donations? Freeloading, is that is?"

"No."

"Taking a survey then? Think I've nothing better to do with my time than answer your questions? Well I'm not interested. Take me off your list."

He hung up.

"He's gone," I said to Nathan. "What should we do now?"

"Don't give up now," he said. "We've come too far."

I called again.

After a few rings, it picked up.

"Hello," the man's voice said.

"I think we got disconnected," I said.

"I said take me off your list! That means you have to put me on your Do Not Call list! Now you have to pay a five-hundred dollar fine! I'm recording this call!"

He hung up again.

"We should have just broken the kneecaps," Nathan said.

I called again.

After several rings, the phone picked up.

"Hello," the man said again.

"I'm going to kill you," I said.

"Well I'm definitely not buying anything from you now," he chuckled. For some reason, he didn't sound angry.

"I admire your nerve," he said. "It takes guts to keep calling back. Any man calls three times, I'll listen to his pitch. It's a survey now, right?"

"Right," I said, my curiosity getting the better of me. I could find out if the son got it from the father.

"Just a few questions," I said. "First, who killed John Lennon?"

"Who killed Jack Lemon?"

"No, John Lennon."

"The singer?"

"Yeah."

There was silence. I could feel him thinking hard. I looked at Nathan. He was tapping his knee.

"He died of a drug overdose, right?" the man said.

"Close," I said. "He was killed by a deranged fan."

"Ahhh. Okay, gimme another one."

"Okay," I said. "Who was behind the September eleventh attacks?"

"Oh, come on," he said. "That's too easy. Everybody knows that."

Nathan snatched the phone from my hand.

"Your son says it was the Jews," he screamed into the phone. "Next time he does that, we're gonna burn your house down with you inside!"

Nathan slammed down the phone.

A couple of girls with tennis rackets stopped walking and stared at us.

"We're rehearsing for a play," I said to them. "We're actors. The other guy's sick and
contagious so we're doing it over the phone."




The next morning, I walked down the hall to the math class about twenty minutes late. A girl with a heavy-looking backpack walked towards me.

"Did you hear what happened?" she asked me.

"No."

"They fired Dennis Jenkins."

"Why?" I asked. "The math thing or the Jew thing?"

She looked at me funny and walked away.

I was kind of disappointed by this news. Now they'd try to make us learn math.

I walked into the classroom. It wasn't what I expected. Jenkins was at the front of the room, talking about Israel. Maybe the girl was wrong; maybe he wasn't fired. But something else was strange. There were more than twice as many students as usual. Some had to sit on desks, others on the floor. I saw Nathan sitting in a chair and I sat down on the floor next to him.

"What's going on?" I whispered to him.

"They've taken over," Nathan said. "He calls it a teach-in. Any minute now the cops might come and drag him out."

I wondered why Nathan would stay for this. Probably didn't want to miss a chance to argue about Israel. However, I had no intention of sticking around any longer.

The student sitting on my other side tapped me on the shoulder. He definitely wasn't enrolled in this class. He had long hair and reminded me of Charlie Brown's friend, Pig Pen.

"Do you get high?" Pig Pen asked. He was holding a huge joint in his hand.

"Sure," I said.

I could stick around for a little while.

He lit the joint with a small plastic lighter, took a hit, and passed it to me.

The door swung open and a portly man in a worn gray suit waddled in.

"Show's over," he said, like a bartender closing for the night. "I'm the new teacher. If you're not in this class, leave now."

The new teacher stared down at me.

"Young man, please don't use drugs in my class," he said.

"But the Palestinians don't get math," I said.

I took a deep drag on the joint and then started coughing uncontrollably. It was strong stuff. I passed it to Nathan.

"I hope you're happy, Jenkins," the new teacher said. "This boy could be permanently scarred by your classroom antics."

"I'm liberating their occupied minds," Jenkins said.

The new teacher's neck veins shuddered.

"Leave right now, Jenkins," he said.

"We're not leaving this room until Israel leaves Palestine," Jenkins said.

The class applauded.

"What about to go to the bathroom?" I asked.

Jenkins shrugged his shoulders.

"It could get messy," he said.

The class applauded again.

"Do I have to get the police?" the new teacher asked.

"You'll have to get more than that," Jenkins said. "We'll resist non-violently until the bitter end."

"Have it your way." The new teacher walked out the door. There was a long, loud round of applause. Eventually, the clapping died down and Jenkins continued with his lecture.

I felt my heart pounding in my foot. And I had only taken one hit. Maybe the weed was laced with something. I worried I might die.

Jenkins brushed his hair out of his eyes. "Last night, Israeli agents called my father on the phone. They disturbed him right in the middle of dinner. Then they proceeded to threaten his life, demanding I stop criticizing Israel. All of this is prohibited by the Geneva Convention. Israel tears down the homes of innocent Palestinians just for being related to suicide bombers. Now they're threatening my father, just because I exercise my free speech."

"Notice how he doesn't mention the Hispanic servant," I said to Nathan.

I might have said it too loud.

Like I said, the drugs were really strong.

Jenkins was glaring at me, like when I made the Gary Condit joke. The whole class turned and looked at me. I had a flash of sobriety. My heart pounded in my chest.

"You called my father," Jenkins said.

"Yeah, sure," I said. "And the Jews killed John Lennon."

"If you didn't call, how'd you know about Consuelo?" he asked.

"You seem like the type that would have a Hispanic maid," I said.

Jenkins ran straight at me. If the pot hadn't slowed my reflexes, I might have been able to react. He flying-drop-kicked me in the face. I felt a crunch as my nose caved in. Blood and teeth fragments shot out from my mouth. He punched me in the side. I heard my ribs crack and felt a sharp pain. I saw Nathan run out the door, but there was no time to feel betrayed. Jenkins grabbed my head and slammed it into the floor. The whole room was spinning. The class non-violently watched Jenkins slam my head into the floor again and again.



I opened my eyes and saw a white ceiling.

"You're awake," I heard my mother say. I was lying in a bed and felt nauseous. My mother came up and stood over me. She looked tired and gray.

"Don't try to move," she said. "You're filled with tubes."

She pressed a button next to my bed, probably calling a nurse.

"Dad's coming," she said. "He's on a plane now."

My father always traveled for business. My mother put her hand on mine.

"You have a fractured skull, six of your ribs are broken, and your pelvis has turned to dust," she said.

"I don't remember him breaking my pelvis," I said.

"There was a stomping," she said. "He stomped you after you fainted."

"I didn't faint. He knocked me out."

She pushed the button for the nurse again.

"You also have quite a few stitches," she said.

"How many?"

"Oh, I don't know."

"About how many?"

"I really don't know."

"Eleven? Five hundred?"

"Oh, more than that."

She put her hand on my forehead.

"Now I know you just woke up from your coma," she said, "but..."

"I was in a coma?"

No wonder she looked gray.

"Just a light one," she said.

"For how long?"

"I don't know exactly."

"Ten years? Twenty years?"

"Just a few hours."

She pounded on the button for the nurse.

"The paramedics found a pack of cigarettes in your pocket," she said. "Do you smoke?"

I looked to the door, hoping the nurse would show up.

"You can't smoke any more," she said. "You've only got one lung now."



Later, my father and I were alone in the hospital room. He stood over my bed, cracking his knuckles.

"I already know, so you might as well tell me the truth," he said. "What really happened?"

"He's anti-Semitic," I said.

"He beat you up cause you're a Jew?"

"He thought I threatened to kill his family."

"Did you?"

"No. Well, maybe a little."

He glanced at my I.V. bag, like he was thinking of doing something to it.

"Why would you get involved in something like this," he said. "Every time I turn on the car, I'm gonna have to check for bombs first."

"He said the Jews were behind September eleventh. I should just sit there and let him say that?"

"Why not? Nobody listens to their teachers."

He shook his head.

"You got your whole family involved," he said. "The terrorists are gonna go after everyone
named Rosenstein now."

"They already were."

"Don't talk to me like that. I'm the one paying for those tubes. Now I'm gonna have to change our name. From now on, the family name isn't Rosenstein. It's Rose."

"What? Bad enough you won't stand up for Israel. Now you're changing your name so it doesn't sound Jewish?"

"I'm changing it so your teacher's friends don't crash a plane into our house."

"You're doing exactly what the terrorists want you to do," I said.

"We let you study theatre," he said.

He looked down into my bruised and shattered face.

"You'll have to be a character actor now," he said.