One of my colleagues shared an all-too familiar story the other day. She witnessed one student throwing pencils — the sharpened variety — at another student, so she kept the thrower in for recess.
The next day, the thrower's mother called my colleague, indignant that her child was forced to accept the consequences for their actions. "My son would never throw pencils in the classroom." And then the coup de grace — "My son never lies."
I attended elementary school in the anything-goes Sixties, too young to go to San Francisco and wear some flowers in my hair. But I was old enough to live those heady days vicariously by reading my mother's Life magazine, and gazing at the wonders revealed on those colored, glossy pages.
My mother never changed the radio station when Grace Slick wailed, "Feed your head!" during a trip to the grocery store, but she never shirked her duty as a responsible parent when it mattered. One incident, in particular, comes to mind.
Neither Jimi Hendrix nor The Doors held any sway with my music teacher. She was a traditionalist to her core. One day, while my classmates hit all the right notes in the refrain, "And Bingo was his name-o," my buddy Macon and I decided to screw around. I wish I could remember what we did, but whatever it was, it caught the attention of the teacher, who then silenced the class before she withered Macon and me with her stare. We received the private, stern lecture after class, and I thought that was the end of it.
A few afternoons later, while at my next-door neighbor's house, I heard my mother call me. I ran in through the back door and into the living room, where my mother sat with my music teacher.
The heat of the hell fire I felt at that instant coursed through my body, as if I'd become a lighted match. Nothing was said, because words weren't necessary. I suspect my mother had been told about my misbehavior, and decided to punctuate my experience with an exclamation point. Point made, in spades.
Today's entitled generation — parents and their children — see things differently. My son is misunderstood. My daughter thinks you don't like her. My son didn't do his homework because he had soccer practice. If you only knew my daughter like I do. My child deserves six chances ...
I wasn't turned to stone when my mother held me accountable for my actions. As a teacher, I find it's more and more unusual for a parent to admit that their child isn't perfect.
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John Edmondson is a teacher in Hampstead.
