AMERICAN HISTORY X

By

Darwin Watterson

Re-edited by Gumball Watterson and Edward McKinley

DATE: May 23, 2020

PART 1: Mein Kampf Mistake

I guess we have to start from the beginning—eh, Principal McKinley?

Well, let's begin.

You brought me in—even though I had to sit outside—while I was overhearing with you and Mr. Small—even though you thought you closed the door.

You guys were discussing about my paper. It was a good paper, in my opinion. I still don't see what was wrong with it. My teacher, Mr. Small, our beloved world studies teacher, told us that we could pick any person who we look up to that had anything to do with the civil rights movement.

I chose Adam Hitler, the leader for the Nazi political party. I had to read Mein Kampf. Reading that book took me about a week to finish it. I gave my all on it and deliver, what I believe to be, an A paper.

Yet again, Mr. Small didn't see the true potential of the paper. He grabbed it, went to my desk, and grabbed me by the arm, where we land at your office, Principal McKinley.

I overhear you guys yelling about me.

"We have boundaries, McKinley, he has crossed it!"

"Is this a personal issue?" Principal McKinley said.

"—" before he could Say anything, he had to go by the door and shut it. Just because you closed it, doesn't mean I can't hear. We all have ears to use—except William, don't know how that fucker can hear—let's use them. God gave us ears for a reason; we hear, bah seethe this sin if not I, then though shall not grant entrance to heaven, our place with the lord (that's my impression of our so-called God, I don't care of the bad grammar or the annoying computer error that won't shut the fuck up).

He closes the door and says: "I dated his mother for only three years, but that's it!" Small said it in an angry whisper, as if he didn't want me to hear (too bad Small, I could hear since these walls won't cover up the conversation).

"Sounds like you patronize him as a demon."

"Come on—we have limits in this school!" Mr. Small said. "This just goes too far, McKinley."

"Listen, he learned this from his brother, and he can unlearn it." Small would look around the room, just so he can spot a reason to argue against it. "Have you lost faith in him, Small?"

"No. But, we can't let this," Small holding my paper, gripping it in his hands, "pass."

It was the last word he said before leaving your office. I had a little American flag, with the pole in my mouth, I saw Mr. Small coming out, when I knew it was him that ratted me out on my paper.

I said, "I knew it was you." I was tailing him down, while he was walking down to the door at his right, without even looking at me. I just stood there smiling.

Then I heard you yell, without evening pressuring out any air out. You said, "WATTERSON! WATTERSON! TEN! NINE! EIGHT! SEVEN! SIX!" But by then, I was still lost in a trance while Mr. Small had left the main office—or your waiting room for your other deviants that try to disobey the American dream of possessing society with brats that can't spell worth shit.

I decided to walk back to the office, even when you were still counting—"FIVE! FOUR! THREE! TWO!"—and by then I was there.

"WATTERSON!"

"Yeah?"

"Get your ass right here, and shut the damn door!"

I did your bidding as I obeyed your one command for the greater good of society (hell, maybe I could lead a rebellion of stupid high school idiots that can easily be manipulated for such trash that comes on).

I stood there, looking at you, now holding my paper.

"What is this?"

I stood silent.

"This is unacceptable." He—you, McKinley—looked at me with those dead-on eyes.

"He told us to pick anyone, and to write an A paper," I said. "And that's what I did."

You looked at me, grabbed the nearby mini trash can—"I should expel you," you said—and threw my paper in there.

It got serious, from then on and now.

You stared at me, I stared back at you.

"From now on, I will be your world studies teacher. We will begin with you writing me a new paper. We'll call this class…American History…X. You will turn in a new paper tomorrow—"

I was shocked.

"Oh, come on, it took me a week to write Mein Kampf," I said, nearly I couldn't believe it. But, by the look on your eyes, those dead-on eyes, you were serious.

"What do you want me to write?"

"I want you to write about your brother, Gumball."

I stood quiet. Thinking about Gumball was…—it's not first time though—thinking about someone I lost that was close to me. I pictured it, as if it wasn't enough, my mom would sometimes feel lost without him. I felt we needed him back. I needed him back.

"I want you to write about the events, chronicling the lives of you, your mother, your sisters, but especially about you. I want to know how it all impacted you, along with your brother's side of the story.

"It will be your first assignment, and if you don't do it, you'll be expelled."—

(Again with those dead-on eyes)

—and with that, I knew I had to spend one whole night writing about my brother. Can it help? Doubt it. Will it save the world? Fuck the world. It couldn't hurt to try. Will it reunited my family—make us so happily, that we decide to go back out to the beach, and play there like when me and Gumball were younger? Not a possible chance.

Then again, it couldn't hurt to try.