By Aurore B. Reales

Meandering among those picturesque houses, we slowly arrived, our disorganized selves. Entering the castle of otherness, where it all seems so perfect that seams are bursting and the puss is about to explode… We were invited to dinner.

Robot, the husband, in his vaguely discomforting mixture of success and self-hatred, kept himself on a self-constructed pedestal where he contemptuously looked down on us with helpful tips on how to lead our lives, unaware of his unsympathetic tyranny.

The invitation to such talk was apparently my recent parent-teacher conference with my son’s classroom teacher. It didn’t go so well, since the teacher told me I should have him assessed for ADHD. Not only that, but apparently she thinks he has an attitude of not caring about school and no insight into how her attitude may very well damage all his future chances for college and later success in life.

I asked her if she had a rapport with him, knowing my child is conscientious and cares, if anything too much, about all sorts of things.

“Children should be busy and aren’t they?” Robot again. His daughter crying on the way to piano lessons on the days she is not taking swimming lessons – the best in her class and isn’t she pretty? Poor thing refuses to eat.

“Even in our household…”, the wife begins. “Even in our household” betraying her true need for friendship with me. Well, too true… we don’t have much household to speak of. Their marriage a sour and cynical affair where the players can’t even conceal their contempt for each other when a guest is around. Tension creeping up and threatening to strangle us in the middle of the meal. “See, I can’t cook anything, nothing is ever good enough.” “My wife is too lazy to drive the kids to their classes and comes up with all kinds of excuses.”

Yes they are just as concerned about our public school. Frankly it is too much for me. Even the teacher has the timbre of the ghetto. She is white, I’m not trying to be racist here. I’m talking about the American Anger. I can’t take it anymore.

When we first moved here I never wanted to have my kid go to a secluded white European private school. I wanted him to learn the real American society. But that was before I was confronted with the reality of it. Now it doesn’t feel like a safe environment I should expose my kid to. Children don’t get the attention they need, let alone the education they need. School cuts lead to large classroom sizes and unhappy teachers, and the building is dirty.

The school yard atmosphere is rough, tough and harsh, lots of bullying.

Boys are being ostracized. Normal active, bright boys are labeled hyper and the ADHD accusation flies around too often. The kids are not supposed to question, but to follow. They are stuck with mind-numbing repetitive tasks that they quickly see through. Still they are supposed to walk in line.

“What are you reading kid ?” He asks my son.

“Mostly mangas.”

“What are mangas?”.

“The old story of the battle between good and evil like in the ancient myths, excellently drawn,” I inform my opponent.

And he means no harm, he probably thinks he means well.

Upside down world. I think we would not be so obviously different if we still were in the seventies. I mention something like that with a sigh. I decide to give my son a haircut and remember my friend, a psychologist who lucidly said, “Parents who don’t love their children, buy them expensive clothes.”

Why would you put so much time on the surface of things when nothing underneath is right? We may be disorganized in my small family and have our issues, but we are emotionally clean, mentally strong and most of all, we know how to love.

Another kind of poverty and decay is to let go of those values.
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By Cathy Paige

Two years after our encounter with Katie’s “situation,” I got an update on what was going on with her at school. Since second grade when my son and Katie were separated on the school yard, they were never placed in the same classroom. No problem there. I was happy to forget about Katie and her mother. But as it happened, in fourth grade an informed school staff person – let’s call her Ms. P – updated me on new developments. More

By Cathy Paige

This all happened toward the end of Peter’s second grade. Summer vacation started shortly after that and by third grade the school had almost forgotten everything. After all, we were not the only ones who had bad experiences with Katie and her mother. And anyway I had certainly been a more visible member of the school community than Katie’s mother and I am sure any doubts anybody had about my character did eventually vanish. But the whole incident certainly hurt both Peter and me.  More

By Cathy Paige

The more I thought about the whole thing the more uneasy I became. At first I had thought nothing of a couple of seven year-olds being curious about each other’s body parts. But then I started thinking about what the inspector had said about how kids who are exposed to certain “situations” at home act those out at school. Frankly, I started getting grossed out. What exactly had gone on between Peter and Katie? What had she suggested to him? Even, what words had she used?  More

By Cathy Paige

One afternoon a few years ago when my son was in second grade I answered a telephone call that took me quite by surprise. “This is inspector Bradley from the juvenile division of the police department,” the caller said. “The mother of one of your son’s classmates has filed a complaint against you for frightening her daughter.”  More

By Aurore B. Reales

It happenend again.

One year my son gets a good teacher and the next year he has stomach aches and hates school. Second grade was great and he wanted to become a teacher like his beloved Ms Smith. This year, third grade, he breaks down on me again, crying in deep despair and says he hates school.

I wish he'd said "I don't like school. I don't want to go." But no. "I hate school" is what he says and he also says that he NEVER is going to be able to do fourth grade homework and be good enough to enter college and learn a profession he really likes. And he says he wants to be a retired adult.

I don't ever want to be a retired adult, I don't see any appeal to it, so it really worries me.

So I go to his teacher and tell Ms Pleist that my son is really frustrated and feels like he can't finish his work and that he also had to stay inside during recess to finish it and that I don't think that's a good idea. She put her fists on her waist and yells at him, "I don't understand why you are saying this, it has only happened once or twice." My son is sucking his lower lip, looking up to the teacher who towers over him and shakes his head, mumbling, "No, it happened more often." She continues angrily, saying, "I don't know where that is coming from. I just put him in the advanced learners group and he's doing a lot better, but if you are complaining," adressing herself to my son again," then I will put you back to the regular learners."

Well, I set up an appointment with the principal, since it didn't seem like she could handle a rational discussion.

I told the teacher that I would call later in the day to confirm the Parent Teacher Conference. When I called she said, "Who is this? Oh, I thought it's Sherley." Sherly is my ex-husband‘s new wife; my name is Cheryl.

So I expect the parent teacher conference to be irrational, bordering to tears (on her side) and I will have to steer back the discussion to my son.

To be continued.
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What are they teaching girls—and boys about girls? More

By Katie T

Well, we all know raising children is hard work. Even in the most ideal circumstances – happy family, supportive community, peace and prosperity, etc. – it is still hard work. We can’t really complain about that because the idea is that we should not have kids until we really know what we’re getting into. But there are parts about being a mother that are not just hard work but unnecessary hardship. Those, I absolutely hate and cannot get used to.

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By Jane Wilkins More

Join the club. Tell your side.
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