Splinter had always known this day would come…
Even early on it was obvious that the four newly mutated pet shop turtles showed signs of human intelligence, and though he had never imagined his role as a Sensei to extend outside of a dojo, he knew it was his duty to nurture their minds as well as their bodies.
Having been born and raised in the more traditional region of Osaka, Japan, he himself had been home-schooled the majority of his youth and he tried his best to emulate the lessons from his memory. This had only worked for a short time however; as the turtles grew so did their curiosity about the world, and it soon became apparent that Splinter would need more than just words and recollections from his own distant childhood if he was to provide any sort of education for the young turtles he now regarded fondly as his sons.
At first, they had been apprehensive to change- English was a strange and confusing language with harsh consonants and inconsistent vowels spoken from the cheeks, so very different from the soft Shiin and flowing Boin spoken from the throat of the Nihongo they had been accustomed to for the first three years of their lives together, but they absorbed it all nevertheless. In fact, they took to it much quicker than he had anticipated, but perhaps that was because this time he had tools to aid him;
For such a prosperous and progressive people, Americans were extraordinarily wasteful. Rather than taking pride and care with their possessions, they tossed them out at the slightest bit of wear. Splinter had been able to scavenge many items that, aside from some minor imperfections, still had many years of use left in them. The greatest of these treasures were books.
What wonderful tools those books were! Mathematics, History, Science, and stories, so many stories- those written tomes were like windows to the outside world. And since three of his four children responded best to visual aids, a book they could hold with pictures they could see with their own eyes did far more to answer their many questions than his words alone ever could.
Unfortunately, those same tools turned out to be a double edged sword. The more his sons learned about the world outside their underground haven, the more they wondered why they were not a part of it. He knew it was only a matter of time before-
“Daddy?”
Splinter broke away from his thoughts and turned his attention to the small wide-eyed turtle that tugged at his robe, one arm clutching a children’s picture book tightly to his plastron- a picture of a small human boy climbing off what looked like a yellow colored bus on the cover.
The rat placed a hand on the page of his own book to keep his place before turning around to face the young boy, looking down as he did so; even seated he still towered over his sons.
“Yes, my son?”
“How come we don’t go to school?”
Splinter closed his eyes and allowed himself a deep calming breath.
He had always known this day would come; the day one of his sons would come to him with “that” question…. He had just not expected it to be Michelangelo that asked it.
It was not so much a matter of his youngest having no interest or little capacity for learning, quite the opposite was true. The problem was that the bouncy turtle had difficulty sitting still and paying attention for prolonged periods of time. He had a vivid imagination and was far more easily distracted than his brothers. There were times when Splinter could not help but wonder if it was some fault in his own skills as a teacher that were to blame, for as much Michelangelo was interested in learning new things, the process of doing so was challenging for him, and the rat was at a loss as to how to help him.
“My son, we have school every day after lunch.” As much as he hoped this would be a sufficient answer, a small part of him knew he would not be so fortunate.
Michelangelo’s cheeks were puffed out in frustration as he made a show of shaking his head and pointing to the cover of his book where the title “First Day of School” was written in large, bold letters.
“I mean a real one!”
Something about the adamance in the normally easy going turtle’s tone told the rat that he should tread carefully.
“While we may not do things as they look in your book, it is very much the same, my son. We practice our letters and numbers and we learn new stories, just as they do in any real school-”
“But it’s not the same!” Michelangelo had retracted the book from his father’s view and was now hugging it protectively.
Rather than being irritated at his son’s abrupt interruption, his curiosity was heightened. Michelangelo had never shown such passions toward his education before and he could only wonder at what had caused such a turnabout.
“And why do you feel this way, my son?”
He was met with silence.
“Do you believe that children who go to a ‘real school’ are learning something that you are not? Something new that you wish to know?”
Michelangelo’s only response was a hurried shake of his head as he stared down at his toes, and Splinter had to ask the question that had been weighing his mind with guilt;
“Michelangelo… Do you feel that a ‘real school’ would help you learn the things that I have failed to teach you?”
“NO!” He now had his son’s full attention again, though now it was more apologetic than demanding.
“No, I like the way you teach, daddy! I learn lotsa’ stuff!”
As touched as he was by his small son’s need to reassure him that he was not failing as a teacher, he was still certain that there had to be more he could do to aid his child in his studies. But that would have to wait another day as he still had yet to resolve whatever was currently troubling his youngest.
“Then what is it that you want from a ‘real school’?”
Easing his hold on the book in his arms, the small turtle opened it and turned its pages until he found what he was looking for, then lifted it high for his father to see.
“That.”
Splinter’s heart sank. The colorfully illustrated pages depicted a lively school yard filled with children; running, laughing, pushing each other on the swings and kicking a ball to one another.
Even as a man turned rat, he could still provide for the turtle’s basic needs; give them a safe shelter in the underground tunnels of New York City, harvesting the bountiful nutritious algae and worms that grew down there and ensuring his sons never went hungry.
As a teacher he could impart with them his knowledge and skills; not only expanding their minds with the written word and a working understanding of arithmetic, but a means to protect themselves and defend their home as well.
As a father, he could offer them all his love and support; easing their sleep with hummed lullabies his mother once sang to him, wiping their tears after each scraped knee or bruised elbow, holding them tightly when the rushing waters in the pipes from the raging storms above made their terrible sounds.
But he could not give them sunlight. Could not give them fresh air and freedom to run about as they pleased. He could not give them friends.
His sons were not all that unlike other children; they had hopes and dreams and fears, a natural curiosity and a need to grow and discover new things. They were social beings who sought out each other’s company and enjoyed playing together, but it was only natural that they would want more.
“My son…” Once again he had to take a deep breath, “You know this is not possible for us. We must remain here, unseen,..”
“But why?” It was not so much the whine in his voice but the pout on his face that made the rat flatten his ears.
“We have been over this. We are too different; humans would not understand…”
“But you could make ‘em understand! You were human, you could just talk to ‘em and tell them it’s ok!” Michelangelo was practically pleading now as he tugged on his father’s robes, the book dropped to the floor and forgotten in his earnest plight to get his point across. It was a heart breaking sight and Splinter had to close his eyes to ignore his child’s plaintive stare.
“They would not listen, my son. They would not understand and they would be afraid.”
“But why? You’re not scary at all.” The rat could feel his insides twist at such an innocent remark… His son was still so naïve, so untainted by the cruel and ugly bitterness of the world. Even though he could clearly see that he did not look like the children in his picture book, he could not comprehend why that should matter. Green skin, three fingers on each hand where there should be five, a hard shell- the differences were plain to the eye, but Michelangelo saw himself as any other child.
How does one tell their son that other children would mistake him for the monster that hides under their bed? How does one explain to their child who craves bright warmth and companionship more than anything that he is doomed to live his life in darkness and isolation? How can one teach their children to treat each other with respect and fairness when the world they live in is so unjust it would deny them their very existence?
Splinter had always known this day would come, but had never imagined he would be so ill-prepared to handle it.
He was not ready to quash his son’s hopes, not yet. There was so much joy in Michelangelo; he could not bear to see that light grow dim, not when he was still so young, when he still had so many dreams yet to dream. He could not deny him that innocence.
It was with cold resolve that he turned away from those imploring eyes, gently but firmly removing the folds of his sleeve from his son’s tiny grasp, leaving the child to stare at his father’s back as he closed him out.
“Michelangelo. This is not open for discussion. We will speak no more of this; return to the main room and go play with your brothers.”
“But-“
“SHUCHOU SHINAIDE!” He knew his sons all recognized that tone, the one that allowed no room for protest. He did not wish to be so stern with the youngest though, and glancing over his shoulder, the sight of a sincere trembling tip made him soften his voice before he looked away once more.
“Go… Play.”
He waited until the shuffled sounds of the small turtle’s footsteps faded away before he relaxed his posture and hung his head in defeat. He had accomplished nothing; at best he has stalled for time. Michelangelo would pretend to be complacent for now but he would not let this go, sooner or later Splinter would have to give his son a proper explanation, he deserved as much.
Looking down towards his lap, his expression was listless as he half-heartedly skimmed over the open page of a thick and worn American history book he had been looking through before Michelangelo’s arrival. There was an old photograph of a man with a dark complexion standing behind a tall podium, a large crowd of people could be seen gathered behind him though they were slightly out of focus. Clearly this person was of some importance to the chapter, but his current turmoil barely allowed him to register the words in the text, save for one paragraph that caught his eye;
“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
Splinter closed his eyes and tried to ignore the dampness he could feel gathering and threatening to fall down his furred cheeks.
All he wanted was for Michelangelo to dream a little longer…
