My first grader goes to a charter school that demands
excellence from their students as well as their families. Academic rigor from
the students, absolute surrender from their parents. Each month we are required
to donate at least four hours of our time "volunteering" to help out
in and around the school. Not that I am overtly complaining, mind you. I am
grateful for the care that the staff shows to our little munchkins.
Today, I was scheduled to participate in a fatherly activity
called "Watch D.O.G.S. It stands for Dad's of Great Students, although in
my case it should be renamed to Father's Assisting The Academically
Successful Student, or F.A.T. A.S.S. for short.: It amounts to me
showing up in the early morning, working as a crossing guard, then providing
security patrols to the campus and helping a little in the classroom and the
cafeteria.
Now, when I signed up for a day to help, it was the first
week of school, when it was warm, and I was not thinking of Colorado's
convoluted weather patterns. The day I was scheduled finally arrived, and it
was 5 below zero degrees. I rushed around trying to get the kid ready for
school, and out the door we went, totally prepared to deal with the cold. I had
warm ski gloves, a thermal carafe of extra stout coffee. I jumped in the car
and hurried over to the school. Parked in a special designated spot just for
the Watch D.O.G.S. volunteer. Josh came with me, because they like to take a
picture of student and father for the "Wall of Fame", which turned
out to be more of a pictorial line up to identify those who botched things up.
After I had parked, climbed out of the car, grabbed my
gloves and coffee, I realized I had forgotten a coat. No worries, I thought to
myself, I like the brisk weather. I walked up to the security door, and
followed a set of cryptic entry instructions that were scrolling on an old
style monochrome blue LCD and keypad next to the door. Nothing. No answer. I
tried it again, and again. Josh looked at me with all the admiration of an
awestruck child, and said, "Dad, no one ever has this problem!" then
ran off to meet his crew on the playground. Five more tries, and finally
someone buzzed me in. They gave me a safety vest, two pages of instructions, a
STOP/SLOW sign on a stick, walkie talkie, and a metal whistle, and told me to
go to my post.
I walked on over there, and cars were already dropping off
kids. One stopped near me, rolled down their window, and asked why I had no
coat, because it was 3 below zero. I answered that I was on a weight loss
program, where I could freeze off the fat.
The twenty something mom, svelte, blond, buxom, and driving a Lexus
looked me up and down and casually remarked that it was not working very well
for me. A few minutes later, some kids show up needing to cross the parking street.
I turn the sign to the stop position, and motioned for the kids to cross. A car
was not paying attention and was moving toward the crosswalk, so I took grabbed
the whistle, and blew it. There is a certain physical peculiarity that occurs
when a piece of frozen metal touches skin. Much like the kid who touches his
tongue to a frozen flag pole, my lips were glued to the whistle. To make
matters worse, my nose was now running, so as I exhaled through the whistle, a
bubble of steamy snot formed, then popped, followed by a faint toot of the
whistle. It was so mesmerizing to the children that a crowd formed to watch,
and 23 children ended up being tardy to class.
After the classes had started I was summoned to my son’s room
to assist the teacher with filing of papers, passing out supplies to students,
and other busy work. While I was cutting up construction paper for an art
project, the teacher called up a student for show and tell. A little boy got up
and showed his treasure, a dream catcher. Now, this kid was as fair skinned as
an Irish choir boy, but he was telling how he believed in the protective powers
of this Native American artifact, and how he and his father had gotten all the
feathers dangling off of it by shooting a hawk with a .22 rifle. This captured
my attention. Notwithstanding that hawks are an endangered species in Colorado,
but that this kid was explaining how he hunted and expertly relieved a poor
bird of its life spirit so that he could not have nightmares delivered to his
slumber. After he got done with his presentation, the children were allowed a
question and answer session. Most of the questions were what you expected,
"How does it keep the nightmares out but let good dreams through?",
or "What happens to the bad dreams when the catcher is full?" I
raised my hand and the teacher said, "Go ahead, Mr. LeClere, ask
away." It was a shame that no one had warned her ahead of time to not let
me interact directly with the innocent hearts and minds of the children.
"Yes, I do have a question. Aren't you a little bit too vanilla, to be
acting like you have a tribal affiliation?" The teacher gasped and asked
me to go see if I was needed elsewhere for a while.
I made my way to the cafeteria to help take out trash and
monitor the playground. In the center of the lunchroom, there is a table with
an ice bucket chilling squeeze bottles of mayo and ranch dressing. Apparently,
when children balk over eating veggies, they are coaxed into eating them
smothered in fat and cholesterol. This turned out to be a blast, because I asked
the kids if they wanted ranch on all their foods, except the veggies. "Hi
kid, howsa bout some ranch on the sammich?" The kid stammered. "But,
it is peanut butter and jelly!" "Yeah, that’s what I am talking
about, a PB,R&J sandwich was my favorite when I was a kid!" Blank,
confused stares. Another kid raised his
hand, wanting to be excused to go to recess. I walked by, and he asked very
politely, but I answered, "Pardon et moi, mais je n'est parle pas Anglais!"
The kid next to him said,"What did he say?" and I replied in Spanish,
"No habla ingles, soy no comprendo!" The third kid, looked at them
and tried to gesture that he wanted to go outside, so I used sign language to
ask him if he wanted to go outside. I
walked over to another table and saw a child whose Indonesian parents are
friends of ours. The little girl beamed and said how I was her uncle. When the
kids looked at me and commented I did not look like her, I told them I was a
rare albino Indonesian, and was starting to tell them about how my tribe was
famous for being warrior headhunters in the islands, when a woman introduced
herself to me as the dean of students, and asked me to go empty the trash cans.
As I headed out the door to the back playground where the
dumpsters were located, a kid lobbed a snowball at a window near my head. Out
of nowhere, a short haired woman saw me and started yelling at the kid,
"DID YOU THROW A SNOWBALL AT THE WINDOW? Why is my Watch D.O.G. out here?
DID HE SEE WHICH ONE OF YOU KIDS THREW IT? ANSWER ME!!!" I was not
interested in being part of this disciplinary process, and blurted; "Who
are you, R.Lee effing Ermey, from the effing Marine Corps? Stunned silence. I
made my way to the trash cans, and hid for a while.
Soon it was time for the kids to go home, and I took my
place back in the crosswalk. I was not there 1 minute when the drill sergeant
shows up and apparently I am in her spot. I politely ask, "What would you
like me to do?" She glared at me and spit out; "I would LIKE you to
die in a fire, but why don't you go to the other end of the parking lot and
stay there?"
I walked away and started to make sure the kids got safely
to their parents who were driving up single file to pick them up. I was getting
along alright, when a quiet little boy walked up and stood near me, waiting for
him mom. As it turned out, she was Deaf, and as she pulled up in her car, she
signed a hello to him, and then flashed the "I Love You" sign to him.
I looked at her, and signed right back, "Thank you, I love you too, hot
stuff!" A look of embarrassed horror crossed her face and I think that she
momentarily considered gunning her engine and running me over. I saw her sign
to her child who immediately picked up a cell phone and started dialing. 2
minutes later, the assistant principal came out, and told me how my volunteer
hours for today would count for the rest of the school year, and added that my
son was remarkably well adjusted, given what they imagine his home environment
must be.
I took it as a compliment.
