I am pretty sure by now, that most people who know me have
the understanding that I am a bit "high strung". Some of you have had
the distinct displeasure of watching me blurt inappropriately snide commentary
on the events that are going on around me. I am not saying that it is a
congenital defect however, lately when I meet someone new, I feel compelled to recite
a boiler-plate disclaimer as we shake hands. I could be wrong on this, but I
think there is a big difference with what I do, and blatant lying. I could be
wrong. But probably not. Until now, I had thought it was learned behavior, but l
am beginning to wonder if it is a heritable condition. Much like the theories
spouted by early geneticists, it seems that if you wear a hat long enough, your
child will be born with the same hat.
Many of my little stories include the whole family or both
boys, but my youngest child Johnnie, a second grader, has exhibited behavior
that warrants his own chapter. First off, let me clearly state that I love my
little boy. He is bright, talented and very loving. He is a straight A student,
plays soccer, is learning both piano and ukulele. Frequently I get complimented
on how well behaved he seems to be. On the other hand, he tends to like
slapstick humor and often laughs a little too hard when he sees a video of
someone running into a wall, getting hit in the fly with a soccer ball,
crashing a bike, etc. I like to tell
myself that he is really a good-hearted child, but then I remember that many
career criminals started out as adorable children too.
Last week Johnnie got sent home with a note to sign from the
teacher. He waited a day and then presented a cunningly folded up document that
had only the signature line exposed and told his mother that the teacher needed
her to endorse it, and that it was not necessary to read it, it was just a
formality. Dessy unfolded it to find a disciplinary action form where John had written
a statement saying he was aware that lying was wrong and that he was sorry for
stealing candy and that he promised to never do it again. When I asked Johnnie
about it, he first told me that another student had dared him to do it, and
then he revised the story to it was simply a case of forgetting that he had
already gotten his treat from the teacher.
I immediately wrote to his teacher requesting a face to face conference
on the next school day.
Johnnie spent the weekend being extra good. He remembered to
do chores without being asked. He practiced his piano and ukulele on his own. He
voluntarily helped with doing the dishes. He remembered to put his dirty
clothes in the hamper. He even ate all his veggies. I was skeptical, but then
he sat around singing and playing “Somewhere, Over the Rainbow” in such a high
wispy voice that was both cute and adorable, yet patently obvious that he was
playing us to the hilt. I steeled my self for the coming bad news, but I was
not prepared for what he had told his teacher.
Monday afternoon, I clocked out from work and drove to the
school. Dessy and I went to the teacher’s room approached the conference table.
The table was low, and the chairs were the size that was suitable for a normal
second grader. I sat in the little blue plastic chair, and you could hear the
creaks of protest all the way down the hall. The chair made some funny noises
too. Johnnies teacher, who is a very nice young woman who clearly loves
teaching, and truly cares for her students, started out by telling how
wonderful our son is in class. He is well liked by his peers, he gets good
grades. She said that usually he is a real role model. “Usually” being the
operative word here.
Johnnies teacher told us how she witnessed Johnnie saunter
over to the candy box (meant to reward the children for good performance)
slowly look around and when the time was right snatched an extra piece of candy
and slunk back to his desk. She pulled
Johnnie aside and confronted him on the action. We discussed Johnnies side of
the story, what he had told us his parents, and what he had told the teacher,
none of which incidentally, aligned with each other.
Then came the bombshell. The teacher asked us about Johnnie’s
head injury from childhood. I relied; “Uhm, WHAT head injury?” His teacher went
on to explain that John had told her how at age 4, a neighbor child had hit him
in the head so hard with a bicycle helmet, that now he had memory issues, and had
no clear recollection of stealing the said candy. My wife, who had been sitting
silently up to this point, boldly announced that this trait was most decidedly
not from the Indonesian gene pool, so it had to be my fault. I on the other hand sat there with a dropped
jaw and silently mouthing “The hell you say?” It was at that moment that I knew
that although he looked like an Indonesian on the outside, he had taken all my
teasing and stories to heart and reshaped them into a vehicle to escape the
scene of his crimes.
On the drive home, I pulled over to discuss the issue. He
had several excuses ranging from the head injury to being goaded into it by
some imaginary 5th grader, who by the way was nameless and was the
brother of a 1st grader who coincidentally had no name either. About
ten minutes into the conversation it was apparent that my son may be needing
some intensive therapy, and by ‘therapy’ I mean he has an appointment to pull
up a couple thousand weeds from the front and back yards.
