Attack of the Black Rectangles

by Amy Sarig King

They seem to believe that rules equal safety—by making more rules, they are keeping us all safe and keeping the town’s reputation spotless.

I just think Ms. Sett and the adults around here should mind their own business. I don’t think any town is perfect and I don’t think any town is in the toilet of the world. I think life is what life is and we just have to try our best.

It’s not that I don’t respect the founding fathers, but I do have some problems with how they did stuff. Mostly how they bought and sold people. I definitely have a problem with that.

Grace is a good thing to have. It’s like jam. It sweetens things.

But we can’t pretend it didn’t happen—because when you pretend a thing didn’t happen, that means it can happen again.

“Why would anyone be afraid of a book? There are guns and snakes and all kinds of other stuff for sale that could actually kill you.”

Because most of my school and this town is populated by white people—like 97 percent of it—we rarely talk about stuff like this. It’s seen as too serious or too sensitive or even impolite, and some people think that it will make white kids feel bad, but if we want to change the world so it’s good for everyone, it’s important to talk about the truth.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but you seem to be acting like this isn’t a problem. This is a problem.

I should have been born at a time when adults didn’t pretend something is okay when it’s not. I don’t know if that time ever existed. Maybe I needed to be born in the future.

“So you want us to learn lies?” I ask. I am way too mad right now and I know I’m being disrespectful. I know better, but if she doesn’t respect us enough to let us read regular words in a book, I don’t see why I should respect her while she teaches lies.

felt a lot of anger today and I don’t even know if that makes me okay or not okay.

“Don’t you dare be sorry for crying,” Grandad says. “Crying is one of the most important things to learn how to do.”

But the people in the story don’t know—just like in real life. It’s eerie and you can tell something terrible is about to happen, but at first, it’s just … normal.

What occurs to me right then is that my feelings about this scene are horror, sadness, and shock, but because she made the scene about her own censorship rather than the content of the book, I feel distant because I was more curious about the black rectangle than I was paying attention to the book. It makes me even more determined to fight the whole thing.

Being fake is like lying and I hate lying.

I cry for her and for all those people who lived through something so impossible to understand. I cry because the world is a cruel place. I cry because sometimes things don’t make sense. I cry because I feel bad for crying.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why am I scared of everything now? I thought getting older would make me less scared.”

“I don’t want to scare you, but fear is something that gets worse before it gets better.

“I’m scared that school is just a series of lies and people just keep repeating them and then we all have to live inside a big world of lies and I can’t live like that, Grandad.”

“Shame is private,” I say. “Only if you let it wreck your whole life, it’s private,” he says. “Which is what most people do. I aim to bring you into the light, Mac Delaney. Shame is no way to live. And you have nothing to be ashamed about.”

I am sick of having to fight about dumb stuff like history! Or censored books! I can’t stand people who don’t want to learn new things! Why do they treat kids like we don’t mean anything?

“We’re all a mess,” he repeats. “The biggest lie ever told to children is that the adults around them aren’t a mess.”

“The best I can do is use my life for something good. Not just for other people. For me, too.

“She was. She made me care about myself.” When I think about it, that’s exactly what Grandad just did for me. In public. On a city street. In the rain.

We say goodbye. I say sorry one more time and he says, “We’re best friends, dude. I get it. I’m here for you. Just ask.”

Grandad comes upstairs and pretends to yell at us for playing the music so loud, but really he came upstairs to dance with us.

Maybe this makes me too nice. So what? Then I’m too nice. Maybe it makes me a pushover. Whatever. Then I’m a pushover. If I got rid of all my feelings so I could be a mean person, I don’t think I could ever forgive myself.

Aren’t grown-ups strange?

That must be hard. Some people have a lot of anger. I’m glad you’re channeling yours in the right direction.

I don’t understand how people can’t see that hating something that much is bad for them. My grandad says most people are running from shame.

I think lies are the same as crossing out words in a book. I mean, isn’t it a lie to think you know better than everyone else?

“People think weird stuff about feminists. It’s so unnecessary. Like—my dad told me that if I’m a feminist, I won’t get any doors opened for me or any flowers from my future husband or whatever. He said that boys won’t kiss me because I’m a feminist.” “Feminists want equal rights, fair pay, and stuff like that,” I say. “Right? I mean—what does that have to do with opening doors?”

We’re twelve. Come on. This stuff is for later. Or maybe never. You be you—whatever the case, Marci’s right: You’re not alone.”

“It’s better to think about things you can control instead of things you can’t control.

all that adult stuff is up to the adults.”

It’s funny. When I think of Dad, I’m grateful that he taught me what not to be and what not to do,

“I didn’t know meditation had anything to do with thinking,” I say.

‘When you get to death’s door, you regret all the things you could have learned but didn’t.’

“Six million of my people were murdered. Six million women, men, and children. And this district is crossing out words for body parts? I’m not shocked. But it’s funny, don’t you think? That you’re concerned with a word when six million people died?”

Until we started our protests, people thought they had to follow rules no matter how weird the rules were. We reminded them that just because someone says something is the way it should be, it doesn’t mean that’s the way it should be.

What happens next is people start making their own minds up about all kinds of things. Based on the truth.

“I wish for a day when the truth isn’t hidden in the long grass,” I say.