The
clanging phone jolted me right in the middle of this great thought!
I reached across my messy desk and pressed
F10 on the 725DX super-duper computer to save what I had just written on the great
American novel, short story, movie, TV mini-series, novella, whatever it will be.
"Hope I don't forget that idea.
It was effulgent!"
"Hello...Robin here."
"Mr. Robin..dis is Mrs. Johnson,
principal at your child's school."
"Yes...Is there a problem?"
"Well sir, if dere were not a problem, I would not be
calling you, would I?"
"Shouldn't that be, "If there was not a problem?
Just testing you, ma'am."
"What I am calling about, sir....is dat dere is a problem
witt your child and I want you to be here in my office as soon as you can."
"Is it his school work?
I taught him to read when he was five...and when he was six, I taught him
multiplication and division...what can possibly be the problem?
He's only in the second grade."
"No,
Mr.
Robin...it's not his school work.
It's far
more serious den dat."
"Well then...is he giving the teacher trouble?
Is he a discipline problem?
I'm
his dad and I know he's really great kid.
I
can't imagine him giving anyone trouble in class. He always says,
"I love school...I love my life!"
"Mr. Robin...I really prefer not to discuss it on duh phone.
I want bote you and his mother here in my office
as soon as you can git here...and I want you to bring an extra shirt for him and his birt
certificate witt you."
"If it's that serious, ma'am,
I'll certainly be there at one O’Clock,
okay?"
As I the drove the seven miles to the school,
I just couldn't stop thinking... "That was
the principal of my kid's school?
Maybe
I'd better begin to pay more attention to what's happening in his life?
She's the principal of a school with 800
kids. I wonder how they're supposed to spell
the word with? Is it now
WITT? Is
both, B O T E?
Is birth, B I R T...or Burt?
Maybe she has a speech impediment or she's
from Brooklyn which would explain it?"
The sight of the school office was a shocking surprise.
It was uninhabited and appeared as if it hadn't
been cleaned, dusted or painted for several
years. The floor had splatter marks as if
someone had spilled coffee or coke and then sixteen hundred little gooey feet had ground
their footprints into the vinyl.
The high
reception-counter was cluttered with stacks and piles of stapled paper,
the printing so faint it seemed the mimeograph
machine had barely made a mark.
A young woman,
brown
eyes, brown hair, brown blouse, brown rimmed glasses, brown jewelry,
brown freckles,
peeked over one of the heaps of documents, "May I help you?" "Mr. Robin here
to see Mrs. Johnson. Something urgent, she
says."
"Please wait.
I'll
see if she's in."
I study the paintings on the walls of the office...artwork by the kids.
Some pretty artistic stuff. "Save the Whales". "We love Mother
Earth." "Save the Animals." "Save the Ozone." "Save the
Rain Forests." "Save the Earth." Save, save,
save... but nothing about people. Hummmm. These
kids must be getting real nervous. So much pressure on these little
angels.
"Mr. Robin...please come in.
Didn't you bring Mrs. Robin witt you?
I
asked to see bote of you," a woman's voice boomed from behind one of the tallest
piles of papers.
"Sorry, ma'am.
She's
doing something somewhere. I couldn't find
the papers but I brought a shirt."
The principal frowned at me between the stacks.
"Well, let me git your child here from his
room and we'll go into my private office."
I'm always anxious to see my wonderful little son.
He's the greatest thing that ever happened to me.
I always tell him,
"Christopher, when I grow up I want to be just like you."
We both laugh, and then he'll say, "But, Dad....you're already grown up!"
My answer is, "Only my body is grown up...but you're brand
new, and that's why I want to be just like you.
You're
just full of love. That's why I want be just
like you when I grow up."
There's the noisy clap of size-one-Reeboks approaching the office
door...and then he enters. What a wonderful
sight! This perfect little person.
We both smile and he runs to me for a huge hug.
I pick him up and squeeze him until he gasps,
"Not so hard Daddy, I'm just a kid."
He's
still in my arms and looks directly into my eyes. "What's wrong, Daddy?
Why are you here?"
The principal calls out for us to follow her.
Still holding him in my arms, we move slowly down
the dingy hall to her office.
"Do you notice dat your child has his shirt on inside-out,
Mr. Robin?"
"Okay...so I'll change it.
Please give me your T-shirt,
Christopher."
He quickly pulls the tiny white, red and green shirt over his
head and hands it to me.
"No,
no, no,
no, no,
no, Mr. Robin,
you
don't understand," growled Mrs. Johnson.
" It's supposed to be inside-out.
Just look at what's written on duh front of dat
T-shirt."
I turn the T-shirt around and look closely.
There on the front of the shirt is a cartoon
picture of a cute little kid holding a sign which reads,
"GOD LOVES ME".
"Mr. Robin...we cannot have dis kind of blatant religious
message here in Los Angeles Public Schools.
Haven't
you heard of duh separation of church and state?
Dis
T-shirt is an open invitation for law suits and litigation of all kinds.
Duh mention of God does not belong in our schools.
Dere are many, many people in dis school district
who are extremely humiliated and offended at dis display of religion.
It's duh purpose of duh school to teach children,
not indoctrinate dem."
"I'm very sorry ma'am.
I wasn't aware that this little shirt was offensive.
He got it at his summer school and the kids had to wear them every time they went
on a field trip," I explained.
"We
certainly wouldn't do anything to cause anyone discomfort or embarrassment.
Is that what you called me about?
This was the emergency?"
"Yes.
Whoever's
in charge of dressing dis boy must make sure dat he doesn't wear a shirt witt dis kind of
message ever again or we'll have to take more serious action."
"We'll be very careful from now on,
Mrs. Johnson.
I really want to apologize for causing you this trouble."
As my seven-year-old son and I left the office,
we passed a man and a woman who were just exiting
a third grade classroom. The woman wore a
T-shirt that read, LIFE SUCKS.
The man's T-shirt read,
SHIT HAPPENS!
My son looked up at me and said, "That's not nice,
Daddy!"
I smiled sadly at my best friend,
"Yes, my son...but that's called freedom of speech."
c.r.
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