“Surviving” is the True Magic
Charles Payne
It was my first-year teaching at a charter school in Phoenix. Late afternoon, and I was in the school parking lot when I heard screams.
Help! Mister! Help!
I looked up and saw my eight-grade student Joana’s long, jet-black hair being pulled by the wind as she sprinted towards me, and a grown-ass man in a souped-up Kia Rio driving beside her with his arm out the window. My heart dropped. Arizona is one of the top states for missing persons.
There was no way I was letting Joana get taken. I had mere seconds to fight, flight, or freeze. Punch-drunk with adrenaline, angry as a mama bear, I grabbed a tire rod out of my trunk and sprinted towards Joana to put myself between her and the car. We slowly backed up together around the iron gates of our school to the front door.
But the front door was locked.
Dude then drove up to the front of our school like he was there for parent pickup. His horn blared. I didn’t flinch. Then the dude pulled a machete from under his seat. Still, I didn’t flinch. My heart was racing because I was irate, and the only thing on my mind was to attack him before he had a chance to touch my student.
Time slowly slipped through my fingers as we stared at each other. Dude must have either seen the crazy in my eyes or saw my frame as bigger than it actually was, because he sped off.
After Dude’s car was way out of sight, the school leader jolted me out of my protective rage by unlocking the front door and coming out to help. He told Joana to go inside and call her dad. Then the school leader proceeded to say to me,
Mr. P, I gotta write you up for that. I know this is your first-year teaching and all, but what I saw from the office was reckless and risky. Next time, just let the police handle it.
The police? This man knew nothing about the neighborhood where the kids and I lived. This man and the school’s relationship to missing students was something they had the privilege to experience at arm’s length.
Ugh. His words cut. Knowing there were hundreds of missing students was way too real for me to ignore. I licked my wounds until I could hand Joana off to her dad. Time stood still as her dad shook my hand with wet eyes. Wet eyes that would haunt me all night.
The following day, I arose from a restless night, and drove to school shattered, sleep deprived, and sick to my stomach. I signed my probation letter with the school leader and then talked to the police officer waiting for me. It took them a mere twelve hours to respond. I made my statement. A statement I knew he wouldn’t use, because them boys in blue don’t like to come to the avenues. And to make matters worse, Joanna came in late with new scrapes and fresh dirt on her arms and legs.
Late again, Jo-Jo?
Are you angry Mr. P?
Naw. I'm just worried. What happened to your arms?
Mr. P, I was late because I picked you this.
She hands me an apple. I couldn’t grasp the significance of this gift, and I thought to myself, why would Joana give me this weird little apple? But a childlike joy came across her face after she handed it to me, so I tried to take a bite. That childlike joy faded into horror and disgust.
Mr. P what are you doing?
Eating an apple.
Mr. P, it's a Pomegranate.
A pomawhat?
Mr. P, the pomegranate is a symbol for righteousness. I wanted to thank you for not letting that gringo take me.
My whole class erupted like a volcano.
What? What? Joanna almost got taken!
Well, there goes my lesson, I thought to myself, I’m gonna get fired.
All the while, everyone was circling around Joana for an impromptu story time.
Everyone except Jesús, who secretly collected the pomegranate from my hands, walked to a dark corner in the classroom, pulled something sharp from his long, black socks, quietly cut my pomegranate in half, and brought it back to me.
Slashed open, it looked nothing like an apple. It looked more like a hard grapefruit composed of dozens of cranberry seeds.
Eat the seeds, Mr. P, eat the seeds!
So I put a handful of seeds in my mouth: bitter with a hint of sweetness underneath.
Now, every time I taste pomegranate, time drags as I remember the write up that I’ll never be proud of, the wet eyes that I’ll never forget, and Jesús opening a pomegranate of possibility while they all chant in unison eat the seeds, Mr. P, eat the seeds…
Charles Payne (he/him) is the 2025 inaugural Swanson Emerging Poet Fellow. As a child, Payne loved hearing the sound of Paul Harvey's voice, Harvey’s innate ability to describe every intricate detail truly inspired Payne to tell stories himself. And, yes, he can't wait to give you the rest of the story. Please check out his essay on a Washington D.C. field trip here and find more of Charles’s work for the Isthmus here.