Lost in the Meritocracy (v5) by Walter Kirn Read Free Book Online Page A

soldier it was addressed to would be dead by the time that it arrived.
    Because it allowed him to talk about the war and other topics he found infuriating, Mr. Applebaum’s favorite subject was social studies. At first the units were textbook-based, but later he dismissed the books as biased and adopted an informal approach using stories from the news. He emphasized student riots, gun control, and violent crimes committed by drug abusers, coming always to the same conclusions: American men were becoming “soft old ladies,” young people weren’t getting enough exercise, and no one knew the value of money. When he stopped ranting, he asked for our opinions, urging us to argue with him, but we knew better than to comply. We confined ourselves to asking questions formulated to inspire fresh diatribes. Most of these questions were asked by me, since few of my classmates followed current events and knew just which subjects (the Arabs, ecology, acid rock, Jane Fonda) were most likely to arouse him.
    In return for playing to his obsessions, I expected good grades from Mr. Applebaum. I got them. But I didn’t quite win him over. On the comment line of my first-quarter report card, and again in a parent-teacher conference, he remarked negatively on my “adjustment” and the quality of my “detail work.” I felt betrayed. I also felt exposed. The charges seemed vague to me but also justified, pointing to a weakness in my makeup that I’d grown increasingly aware of. Something was missing in me. Some central element. Not intelligence but whatever guides intelligence. Self-discipline? I wasn’t sure. What stung was that someone as nutty as Mr. Applebaum could see into me at all. I feared this meant that I was crazy, too.
    In February, the man got worse. He became obsessed with Wounded Knee, a violent confrontation in South Dakota between a group of radical Indians and a squad of FBI men backed by armored vehicles and helicopters. Our social-studies units turned into updates about the developing situation. Shots fired from inside the compound. Fire returned from the perimeter. No casualties among the lawmen, an unknown number of wounded among the Sioux. As Mr. Applebaum described him, the Indians’ leader, Russell Means, was a threat to the Constitution, whatever that meant, as well as a secret ally of Russia. Photos of Means were passed around the class, presumably so we could focus our revulsion and maybe so we could spot him in a crowd should the Pine Ridge rebels break the cordon. Mr. Applebaum took this possibility seriously, and he encouraged us to do the same. South Dakota bordered Minnesota, also the home to many Indians.
    “This thing might go national,” he said one day.
    When there was no news from the front, Mr. Applebaum strove to place the crisis in a wider, historical perspective. The Indians, he told us, were a proud, resourceful people who’d ruled the Great Plains from before the days of firearms, but when the white man entered the scene with his forged metal tools, conflict between the groups became inevitable. War was to history, he said, what rain was to a garden. Without it, society would wither. He praised the Indian fighters for their fierce spirit, but he lambasted them for not accepting defeat. America’s tribes, he let us know, had never formally, legally surrendered. Having retreated to their reservations, they were still plotting a final campaign.
    “We have tanks, though,” a kid beside me said.
    “But will we use them? Do we have the will?” Mr. Applebaum turned to me, his telepath. “Explain to Brian why today’s Americans don’t have the guts to use tanks on Indians.”
    “We don’t work hard or get enough fresh air.”
    My complicity in these dialogues left me feeling dirty when the bell rang. Eager to breathe fresh air myself, I asked my father to take me fishing one evening, a few days after the season opener. The frosty stone steps from our house down to the river demanded