The other day I took my motley crew of Albany Free School four- and five-year-olds to the New York State Museum for a special class with Paul Weinmann, one of the excellent in-house teachers. There were eight kids altogether: Indya (a she tiger), Solomon (a chocolate brown wise boy), and Guillem (whose parents moved here from Barcelona last year), all five; then the fours—Zaire (who wants to be just like Solomon), Julia and Addie (two sweeties that could be twins except that one is white and one is light brown), Javon (the world's largest four-year-old—Shaquille O'Neill could be his daddy) and Freddie (his parents run the local Catholic Worker House).

Upon our arrival we are informed by the receptionist that Paul has called in sick. So we hold a quick conference and decide to stay and do our own thing. Because the museum is only four blocks away we are regular customers, especially in the winter months.  Off we go on our now-familiar rounds: first the "A" train to downtown Manhattan and back, then the antique fire truck collection. I am forever grateful that the Sesame Street exhibit has absolutely no allure.

At this point in the year I just turn the kids loose to explore this cavernous, lightly visited wing on their own. Before long an old security guard approaches, the grumpy one. I figure I'm in for it now, even though the kids haven’t been racing around or particularly noisy today. But his “Hey, make sure you keep an eye on those kids!” is only an aside because what he has really come over to tell us is that Governor Pataki is giving away quarters to kids in the museum. “Follow me, and hurry! The TV stations are here and everything!”

He rushes us to the rear of the building, where apparently a big press conference is underway. The place is lit up like a Christmas tree and swarming with well-groomed Pataki aides, all dressed in blacks and grays. The guard deposits us at the back of the throng and I whisper copious thanks to him as he scurries back to his post. The Patakiites look a bit nervous at our arrival. Clearly we are the uninvited guests and no one is quite sure what to do with us. A young political lion with mousse in his hair hands us each a milk chocolate coin from a large caterer’s bowl. Twice he asks us to PLEASE be quiet.

The kids devour their candies and quickly grow restless because they can't see what's going on. After the third shhhh!! from nearby adults I figure we better get the hell out of here. But just then an angel of the Republicans appears and says in a hushed tone, “Come with me, I'll try to get you closer.”

“No” doesn’t appear to be an option, so without even thinking I pull the kids into step behind the angel. She parts the crowd with her magic touch and leads us three-quarters of the way down the right-hand aisle where we manage to squeeze ourselves into various sitting and kneeling positions on the faded commercial carpet.

Finally we get a good look at what all the fuss is about. It is the official unveiling of the New York State quarter. There is a podium set in front of a majestic backdrop, with four or five dignitaries, including the Governor, seated to the left. Ringing the foreground are a half-dozen school groups sitting in folding chairs. Television news cameras surround the perimeter.

The Lieutenant Governor is just finishing her speech as we settle in the best we can. Apparently the Secretary of the Treasury and the head of the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia that struck the new coin have already said their piece. Our neighbors greet us with furtive glances. I'm my usual long-haired, bearded, disheveled self, dressed in sweatpants and workboots. It makes me nervous being so close to the front with my reckless band of rowdies, who remain clueless as to what is going down.

When I relax enough to survey the scene more closely I note that all of the other children are white. So that's why we were sent here today.

The Lieutenant Governor’s words are followed by mild applause and then the Man himself. I always forget how tall and Lincolnesque Pataki is, with his slight stoop and sardonic, drooping half-smile. He pauses politely while he is peppered with flashes from the dozens of cameras belonging to guests and print reporters. I'm praying for a very short speech because three or four of my crew are already "whispering" to me that they want to leave. When Zaire “whispers” it sounds like a tornado tearing through Tiffany’s.

The Gov first addresses the assembled young students, whom he names by school and thanks for coming. Obviously they're all from the best suburban districts. But at least he speaks mostly to the kids and not the grownups, and this helps to quell my kids' impatience. With a broad gesture, Pataki points to his left to a huge blow up of the new quarter. The back of the coin prominently features two New York state symbols: the Statue of Liberty and the Erie Canal. "These are both important symbols of freedom unique to our state," explains New York's highest official. The Statue of Liberty was the beacon of freedom to immigrants coming to America in search of opportunity. And the Erie Canal represents the road of freedom westward."

The Governor then calls out the names of three students and asks them to please stand. The girls are all from the middle grades of a New York State "Elementary School of the Year" and apparently are the winners of a contest that has been held to design the new quarter. I barely record the polite, muffled applause of their classmates because I am still musing over the governor's descriptions of the symbols the girls selected. I'm thinking of the facts Pataki neglected to mention. How westward expansion very nearly drove the native peoples of this land to extinction. How so many of those who passed through New York Harbor in search of freedom were forced by racism and economic necessity to deny their ethnic heritage and disappear into a melting pot Americanism. And how, unbeknownst to the coin design contest winners, their school teaches only a highly sanitized version of their state's history.

I'm especially stuck on the irony of the whole scene, where the leader of one of the most powerful states in the most powerful country in the history of civilization is rhapsodizing about liberty and democracy to a handpicked group of privileged children who will spend their entire childhood in schools largely devoid of either.

By the end of his speech, which thankfully the Governor keeps under ten minutes, the same half of my group is starting to lose it again. I decide to make a break for it under the cover of the applause and renewed flashbulb assault. Unfortunately the other kids, being Free Schoolers, begin to protest (too loudly)—they want to remain a part of this charade.

But now is no time for a democratic discussion. Muttering obscenities under my breath, I start grabbing the arms of the resisters and trying to part the crowd at the same time. Where's that angel when I really need her? Every second counts because the next speaker is already at the microphone. I manage to snake the kids back up the aisle without too much commotion, where we are met by another Patakiite who asks me if the kids would like one of the new quarters. Duh.

“Follow me!” she whispers urgently and then leads the kids hastily away from the press conference. Luckily this was of the rare instances when I had bothered to count the number of kids I took with me when I left school. Instinct tells me to do a quick check. Shit, only seven. My brain races to figure out who's missing. It's Guillem, the one who objected most strenuously to leaving. I'm completely screwed—the woman has already led my group out of sight—but come on old boy, this is no time to panic. I dash back over to the throng and praise the lord, my lost boy is just emerging from the aisle, looking pretty freaked. I take him by the hand and whisk him away before he has a chance to flip out.

We run to find the coin lady, who hasn't even finished handing them out yet. Phew. When she's done I remind the kids to thank her and we head for the lobby. Shiny new quarter in hand, Guillem seems to have forgotten all about his recent abandonment. But after a dozen or so steps, it occurs to me that my little guys still have no understanding of the magnitude of the event they just witnessed, or the significance of their gift. They're too young to relate to concepts like governors and state quarters, or even the 2001 stamped on the front.

I stop to examine my coin’s penultimate shininess and have a sudden inspiration. I call the kids over to a brightly lit exhibit and say excitedly: “Look at your quarter. Have you ever seen one so shiny?!? That's because you are the first human being to ever have it. It was made in a money factory by a big machine and put into the wrapper the lady just opened for us. It's never been in anyone's hand or pocket before, never been in a store, never been in a bank. It's brand new and extra special because the boss of all of New York State was the one who gave it to you. Everyone else will have to wait to get theirs at the bank, or when they get change at the store.”

Most if not all of them seem at least somewhat impressed, so I add, “Come on, let's get outside and see how our quarters look in the sunshine.” 

In the doorway to the lobby we meet back up with the grumpy old guard. I tell the kids to show him their shiny new quarters, and I thank him again for tipping us off. He smiles like I don't ever remember seeing.

Postscript: The front page of the following morning's Albany Times Union carried the story of the coin ceremony. Alongside the text of the article the editor ran two large color photos of the invited young guests listening to Pataki's speech. The pictures were hysterical. A study in boredom. One kid is yawning uncontrollably, another is slumped over his fists staring gloomily into his lap, and the eyes of all the others are completely glazed over. God never rests.

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