Laura on Life

A note to the teacher

By Laura Snyder

[September 13, 2008]  I salute the teachers of America. Their job is, basically, to take a group of ungrateful, know-nothing students and turn them into ungrateful, know-something students. They have only nine months to accomplish that impossible feat. They're not paid well for it, and the only rewarding thing about it is to see a group of children pass into the next grade level as they receive yet another group of ungrateful know-nothings.

Teachers are kind of like shepherds, herding their flocks toward success. Like shepherds, teachers may come to know the individuality of each member of their bleating flock, but in order to run an efficient class, they cannot always treat them individually. So, when a kid has a problem with the protocol, it's rare that they can get a teacher to change it just for one student. So they will call upon their only ally in such situations: their most sympathetic parent.

It is the parent's job to intervene on the child's behalf if the situation calls for it. It is also their job to gently, but firmly tell the child to "suck it up" occasionally. Sometimes, though, it's difficult for the parent to interpret the severity of the problem and deliver the correct response.

"Mom, can you pleeeease write a note to my teacher?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't want to sit where she told me to sit in the lunchroom. The kids there are annoying me."

"OK. Let's see..."

Dear Teacher,

My son doesn't want to sit in his assigned seat in the lunchroom because he is annoyed.

No, scratch that.

"That excuse is not going to fly, Son. Why don't you want to sit there?"

"Because they stink."

"That's not nice!"

"But they really stink, Mom -- like underarms -- and it's hard to eat with that smell."

"Oh, that kind of stink."

I stared at the note, trying to figure out how to word it. I gave up.

"Honey, I can't tell your teacher to move you because her other students don't shower."

"But the boy sitting next to me talks funny and keeps spitting into my food every time he says something."

"Oh, that's gross!"

I consulted the unfinished note again.

"... because ... because ... because one of your students has a seriously explosive lisp."

No, no. I can't write that!

I wadded up the note and looked at my son.

"What else ya got?"

"Well, I keep getting elbowed while I'm trying to eat!"

"Now that's something! Physical abuse is not allowed in school!"

Dear Teacher,

Please move my son's seat in the lunchroom. The boys next to him are assaulting him while he eats.

My son read the note. "I didn't say they were assaulting me, Mom. I don't think they did it on purpose or anything. They just jump around a lot."

Hmmm. I ripped up the note and started again.

Dear Teacher,

Please move my son's seat in the lunchroom because the boys sitting next to him have a tendency to flail in random, spasmodic fits so as to cause my son undue stress and possible indigestion.

I looked at the note. I looked at my son, who was smiling. I slowly took the note, wadded it up and tossed it into the trash.

"Have you got any bruises?"

"No."

"A bloody nose?"

"Not yet."

"A fat lip?"

"No, but I'll probably get one if I stay there."

I looked at my son again, who had stopped smiling and hung his head.

He said, "I know, Mom. Suck it up, right?"

"I'm afraid so, son. Because, unfortunately, your teacher's right to seat you where she wants exceeds your right to an odorless, slobber-free, non-stressful lunch."

[By LAURA SNYDER]

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