Teach Your Children Well

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.