Lincoln Loud pitched forward and fell, his tray spilling across the cold tile floor, bits of corn, meat, and green beans fanning forth. "Lol, ese!" the Mexican cried, and the other Mexicans at his table erupted in laughter.
They got him. Again. For a moment he laid there, too humiliated and angry to move.
"Hey, man, you alright?"
Lincoln looked up. A tall, thin boy with a shaved head and piercing blue eyes stood over him, a look of concern on his face.
"Yeah, I'm okay."
The boy helped Lincoln up. The Mexicans were still laughing.
"You're real funny, you fucking spics," the boy said. The Mexican who tripped Lincoln stood up.
"Yeah, come on, wetback," the boy said, throwing his hands up. A guard stepped in between them.
"Move it along."
"Come on," the boy said, patting him on the back, "you can sit with me and my friends."
The boy led him to a table against the wall. A group of white boys were eating their lunch and talking. "What's your name?" the boy asked as they approached.
"Lincoln."
"Nice to meet you, Lincoln. I'm Charlie. You're new here, right?"
"Y-Yeah."
Lincoln had been in the North State Juvenile Correctional Facility for two weeks, two long, miserable, frightening weeks.
"I apologize for our spic friends over there. They don't like white people."
"Why?"
"Because we're better than they are and they know it."
They reached the table. "Hey, guys, this is Lincoln."
Each one greeted him warmly.
"That's George, that's Brad, that's Zack, that's Tyler, and that's Jimmy. We hang out and watch each other's backs. You guys mind sparing some of your lunch? Those wetbacks made him drop his."
Without a word of protest, each member of the group passed a little food to Lincoln until he had a full lunch in front of him.
"Thanks," he said, "I really appreciate it."
"No problem. We white men have to stick together."
As they ate, Charlie told him about Nazism. "We're not about hating lesser races, we're about loving our own race and doing what's right for them. Unfortunately, the lesser races hate us, so what are we gonna do?"
Lincoln saw truth in that. In the two weeks that he had been there, the only two groups who messed with him were blacks and Hispanics. On his first day there, a black boy knocked into him and cut in line. Lincoln thought the bump was by accident, but the more he thought about it, the more he believed it was intentional. Another black boy went into Lincoln's cell and took a honey bun he bought from the commissary. Lincoln was in the dayroom and watched it happen, but didn't try to stop him.
"They're always doing shit like that. All you have to do is sit back and watch. They're like fucking animals. That's why we have to have each other's' backs. In here, you're alone. Your family...well, even if they love you, they move on eventually."
Lincoln didn't believe that, but over time, he saw that Charlie was right. His parents came less and less, letters were fewer and far between. It was a three hour drive to the prison, he knew that, but still, it hurt him when they didn't come on visiting day. He started to feel more and more alone.
Except for Charlie and the others.
They were there for him. And he loved them for it.
-2-
Lincoln Loud kept the poster of Hitler on his wall for a long time. At first, because it symbolized something, then because it was already there. By the time school started, Hitler was just a man in a picture. He took no pride in him. He did, however, take pride in his family.
On the first day of school, he tracked Clyde down an apologized to him. "I'm sorry for calling you what I did," Lincoln said, "but I'm really not sorry for hitting you. It really hurt me that you did what you did."
"I understand," Clyde said. "I've been wracked with guilt this whole time. I feel awful."
Lincoln didn't think he'd want to be friend with Clyde again, but through the autumn, they became close again. Deep down, Lincoln was guarded. Their new friendship was tinged with just the slightest hint of distrust.
On the day before Thanksgiving, Lincoln took down the poster of Hitler and all the other Nazi memorabilia, and stuffed it all under his bed. It felt strange, and made him guilty.
He didn't overcome his racism entirely. He still bristled in the presence of blacks and Hispanics, until he got to know them. Guilty until proven innocent, maybe, but he thought he was justified. You can't just accept someone and open yourselves up to them without knowing who they were first. That included white people.
That went back, he thought, to his new hardened attitude, the one Ronnie Ann pointed out to him on his second day back. He tried to change back, but couldn't. He'd seen too much, experienced too much. He was older now and, yes, harder. Outside of his family and friends, the world was cold, hard, and unforgiving. If you made one misstep, you fell.
By the New Year, Lincoln didn't consider himself a racist anymore. He considered himself a nihilist. People would hurt you, use you, and take advantage of you no matter what color they were. People in general were awful.
But not his family. They were the one thing that anchored him. Well, them and his friends.
Good people existed, he decided, but you had to look for them. And sometimes, even good people did bad things.
It was a sad fact of life.