Between 7th and 10th grades, I attended an alternative charter school on the Vineyard. I realize the phrase “alternative charter school on the Vineyard” might make people like Glenn Beck and Laura Ingraham crap their pants from sheer disdain, with words like “liberal élite” and “with the terrorists” stuttering out of their mouths as they soil their bloomers. Yes, the Martha’s Vineyard Public Charter School was Hippie Headquarters. But it was that good, old-fashioned, pure brand of Islander hippiedom that trendy urbanites have tried to co-opt with their fair-trade gourmet coffee and Toyota Priuses; the kind of hippiedom that can only come from having been to Woodstock, having actually fought for causes rather than just participating in Facebook memes, having kept livestock, having lived in a tipi, having raised a family with only hard work, a coal stove, and maybe a couple strains of cannabis growing in your backyard to call your own. The MVPCS was built from the ground up physically and spiritually by these old hippies, and it was a labor of love. But sometimes, even the hardiest of old hippies can’t be prepared for everything.
One tradition at the Charter School was a program called Project Period, where for a few weeks at the end of a semester, students took one class that focused intensively on one subject with emphasis on creating a comprehensive project to show for it at the end. One that I participated in back in 8th grade was called North Country Trek. The object was that everyone would pick an aspect of northern New England to study for two weeks in the classroom, and on the third week, we would journey northward to experience it firsthand. People chose things like wildlife, farming, business, culture, and history. I studied the weather patterns. We were to travel through New Hampshire and Vermont, and hike briefly into Maine.
The Vermont leg of the journey took us through the town of Lowell, a town of 700 about fifteen miles from the Canadian border. The linchpin of its economy from the 1940s through the ’80s was the Belvidere asbestos mine. I never thought I’d see a town sleepier than my own hometown, but lo, here it was. The local high school offered to put us up in the gymnasium for a night, so our wagon train rolled into town on that frigid January day and set up camp. On the trip was my good friend at the time Charles, and we spent most of our free time writing a brilliant song entitled “School Van,” about the school’s battered 15-passenger Econoline that served as the flagship for the journey. He and I spent most of that night in the van with his guitar, writing lyrics and talking about girls. Charles, who was a few years older than me, was a peculiar character; he was somewhat introverted, but very intelligent and opinionated. He was the first friend I had that smoked marijuana on a regular basis, and had already had a fair share of sexual experiences by the time he was in his early teens. He taught me a lot in those formative years.
The following morning, we all awoke to a beautifully clear but freezing day. I had never known cold as penetrating and incisive as that found in northern Vermont in January. We donned our heaviest winter clothes and commenced an epic snowball fight with the thick blanket of snow that was on the ground. However, this snow had been on the ground a while, and had gone through a few cycles of partial melting and refreezing, so there were bodacious chunks of ice in it as well. Charles and another student, Jesse, had engaged one another in close-range combat. Charles hucked a rather sharp and sizable ice ball at Jesse, which caused the latter to go into full revenge attack mode. Jesse, being considerably overweight and none too bright, was at a significant disadvantage to Charles, whose lithe frame gave him speed and agility. However, Jesse was able to land one of his ham hands upon Charles’s tattered flannel shirt, and rip a huge tear in it.
This changed everything.
Charles blew a fuse. If Jesse was Lou Ferrigno, Charles was Mr. Hyde. It was like the Trinity nuclear test; no one had seen this before. He was berserk with anger. Apparently, Jesse had made the grave mistake of tearing Charles’s favorite tattered flannel shirt. Chuck chased after Jesse like a furious blue streak, screaming obscenities that many of our pre- and early-teen ears had never before heard. I had also never seen Jesse move as fast as he did, with the specter of Charles’s bottled-up rage barreling towards him. We all stood in stunned silence, watching the horror unfold. I feared for my own safety. The teachers and chaperones raced after Charles and physically restrained him, throwing him up against a car “Cops”-style. Four grown adults were needed to keep him from breaking loose and killing Jesse—and believe me, if he had his druthers, he would have literally killed Jesse. This shit was not funny. “IT WAS MY FAVORITE SHIRT!” he bellowed, undoubtedly causing a cave-in down in the old asbestos mine. The teachers manhandled him into submission. Jesse scurried away into the football field, and I made for a teacher’s Jeep, locking the doors. The teachers attempted to question Charles as to the motivation for his psychotic episode. “FUCK YOU!” he screeched repeatedly. This was a new frontier. Not only was Charles cursing in the presence of faculty, but he was cursing at faculty, using the f-word no less. His goose was surely cooked, I thought. The rest of the students had dispersed and gone to hide in various vehicles. I breathed heavily, fearing I would somehow become embroiled in the fracas.
As luck would have it, Charles was assigned to the same car I was riding in. As we pulled out of the high school parking lot, there was stony silence. I dared not say a word, I dared not even move, for fear of setting off Little Boy once again. Eventually, Charles broke the silence. “I HAVE NO REMORSE.” Our teacher, DeeDee, made futile attempts to talk it out with him, but he never changed his tune. That shirt really was his favorite. We all assumed he was facing suspension or expulsion; however, punishment would have done no good. It would be like sentencing a member of al-Qaeda to death. Charles was a man of principle if anything, and he had handled the situation as he’d seen fit. The school, being the hippie haven it was, did not expel or even suspend Charles; he merely had to submit a written apology, to which he reluctantly capitulated. I had seen true fury that day, and never went near Charles’s wardrobe from then on.
The Reverend and Chunky Dog Electric Variety Hour 