Three young, black children (ages 7-8 approximately, a girl and two boys) are bouncing on three out of the four colorfully painted steel animals which are welded to long pipes, in turn welded to a centerpiece on strong springs, facing each other as they ride.
The strains of a familiar tune meet my ears, but the lyrics are not the original ones. It seems the little girl is taking the composing lead. They all have good strong voices, and I am within 100 feet of listening distance.
So far, they are belting out the first line, then lowering their voices so that I can't make out the next one. It turns out that this is because they are still trying to compose the second line, running the possibilities of the unfinished ditty by each other. It's driving me crazy, because I'm certain it will only get better, and I want to hear how it will end.
It's sung to the tune and in the manner of the Barney Theme Song (big, green dino on a toddler-level kids' learning show, which my oldest got mercilessly mocked for by her classmates for admitting that she still liked the show at her age). The original ditty is: I love you. You love me. We're a happy family...etc.
When the unsupervised young kids on the playground reach agreement on their remade song (or someone has dominated the group or the other two give up straining their brains), it sounds like this:
I hate you. You hate me. Let's get together and kill Barney... B-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R (imitating the sound of an automatic weapon).
Hilarious—why? In a nutshell, at their tender young ages, they have understood and summarized the ties that bind people who travel together on a journey of hate, be they Baltimore hoodrats plundering neighborhood businesses that their grandparents depend on, or ISIS sawing away at a white neck with a dull knife, etc., etc., etc.
For an incomparably thorough recounting of violent acts, keep reading from Mr. LaFond's incomprehensibly prolific list which seems to be in no danger of slowing down, thanks to the fodder, both locally, nationally and historically, which he has so graciously researched for those of us who cannot submerge ourselves overly long in such subject matter.
Signed,
Just one of his editors
(...since a single one of us could not keep up with his productivity, and here, I am reminded that his group of editors is not unlike the stable of ready mares he has alluded to keeping in his writing, probably found in Your Trojan Whorse, just don't ask me to remember where I read it).
Barney is purple. The green one is Baby Bop.