I'm sitting in a hard chair in an auditorium listening to a middle school principal tell us how everything is going to be OK for our little darlings. He's detailing the 37 clubs, 29 intramural sports teams, and the 80 different one-day classes in which our precious angels can participate. He shyly defends his practice of letting students run around outside on occasion during one of their rare free periods. His defense is couched in terms of "stress relief" -- the word "fun" is not uttered once during the entire presentation.
Most of us are sitting back listening attentively. But, as with any other function I've attended at this suburban school, there are always a few parents who make me wonder if they are raising children or forming robots.
Exhibit A is the Strato-Yuppie to my left, dressed in a wool business suit. She rushed in a minute late and pushed her way to the front of the auditorium. She immediately raised her hand, wanting the principal to repeat every word that she had missed. He was remarkably good at ignoring her. Finally, she had to lower her hand to balance the notepad upon which she was transcribing every word of the evening's proceedings. I can only wonder if her kid is the one who cries every time she gets less than 90% on a test.
But at least A is quiet. That can't be said for Exhibit B, who pipes up during the discussion of foreign languages. You see, our district's language choice (French, Spanish, German and Latin) isn't enough for B. He thinks it is "a little lame". Where's the Chinese and Arabic? Isn't this the 21st Century?
Fear not, B, the principal says. Next year the district will be adding Mandarin to the list of languages that sixth graders can take. Because it is never too early to prepare 11 and 12 year-olds for their place in the global economy.
At this point, I felt like James Stewart's character in Vertigo: completely out of touch with a world that's spinning out of control around me. Here I was, quietly mourning the loss of recess for my little one, feeling thankful that this principal didn't seem like the petty tyrant I remembered from my school years. Yet, on the same planet, at the same time and place, lurked these strange alien parents, parents who didn't care that their kid would play less during the day, who didn't think that 80 one-day courses and 37 clubs and God knows what else was enough for a kid who has just barely learned to wipe his or her ass properly.
I hope that we're laying in strategic stockpiles of Zoloft and Xanax, because with parents like these, the next generation is going to be shoveling in that shit like candy.
