The Principal Called, Oh Dear
She telephoned mid-morning, more than a little upset to tell me that Mr. Hubbard had called. Mr. Hubbard? I thought to myself, who the hell is he? As she spoke it became clear that Mr. Hubbard is the principal of our granddaughter's school. The new principal; we were familiar with the name of the old principal. He called to ask if she wouldn't mind driving back home to bring to the school a more appropriate garment for her child. Her home room teacher had complained about the length of the skirt Angelyne was wearing. This was a skirt she had selected from Value Village only the day before, and which she had excitedly described to me over the telephone the night before, promising me I'd see it the next day as she intended to wear it to school.
The child's teacher, upon seeing her outfit that morning had instructed her brusquely to go straight to the principal's office. Evidently another one of her teachers had hauled out a rules book a week previously to show Angelyne where it said no sleeveless blouses were to be worn to school once summer was over. Another sartorial gaffe. But on this very morning it was the pleated denim skirt with the nifty little tie in the back that had aroused righteous indignation in her teacher.
No, my daughter said to Mr. Hubbard, it had taken her a full hour to drive in to work that morning, did he really expect her to return all that way to fetch an alternate garment for her daughter? If he preferred, she offered, she would telephone her mother and father, Angelyne's grandparents, and ask them to pick her up and her offending clothing from school. No, Mr. Hubbard responded, he didn't want her to miss another day from school. Angie had been absent from school the day before; she had been up during the night retching for some odd reason, but seemed fine later in the day. "Too much chicken soup" she said to me; her mother had cooked chicken soup for her which she loves, and she said she had eaten too much of it. Little does the child know that chicken soup heals what ails one, but that too is another story.
Mr. Hubbard, my daughter said, do you really think these teachers should be focusing on such incidentals, have they nothing better to do? Shouldn't they be concerned with teaching rather than zeroing in on what they perceive to be affronts to a subjective dress code which they themselves at times scorn? Her daughter was wearing opaque brown tights, the skirt was not tight, she could see nothing wrong with the outfit. Actually, Mr. Hubbard confided, he thought that Angie looked very nice. The wimp. Was he so cowed by the withering anger of a repressed female that he might not have advised the teacher that it would be sufficient to tell the child she would be expected to wear something more 'appropriate' the next day at school?
In our granddaughter's class is a little boy who has scores of problems, most of them revolving around his lack of social civility. This little boy is a reluctant bully. It is a sadly circuitous situation where the child does physical harm to other children in the class, and as a result, no one wants to play with him. He lashes out at others, in the same token, because he is left alone. Angelyne did try to befriend him, but she found him to be so burdensome that she then tried to dissuade him from friendship. He visited violence on others, not her, but he is upset and bitter that no other children see any virtue in him. He has had mini-suspensions on a number of occasions. Particularly when he has screamed pretty vile imprecations at his teachers.
There are a goodly number of children who are not particularly good students, who obviously need a great deal of attention and encouragement to reach academic expectations. One would think that teachers have more than enough to do to assist these children, to focus also on the needs of social outsiders like those who strike other children, leaving little time to sniff askew at dress code infractions.
When Angelyne came home after school with her friend Stephanie in tow, I heard about it from her perspective. Mind, I wasn't able to fully question her because her friend was over and they were just too full of the joy of life in all its unexpected permutations. They had snacks to gobble down, they had a raft of greeting card packages which had accumulated in the mail from various charities to go through, to make selections and divide between them. After which they had to practise their push-ups and X-and-O exercises, flailing and falling all over the family room floor in exuberance.
But Angie did bring my attention to her outfit, to ask if I liked it, the long-sleeved blouse bought yesterday, along with the little pleated skirt. And I did like it, and told her so. Even her grandfather, prepared to be critical of the outfit after the morning's revelations, had to admit it was very nice. I know some of the lingua franca of current society, and in this instance I would like to tell my granddaughter's teacher to "get a life". I told Angie that I was prepared to meet with her teacher, or to send her a letter informing her of my opinion of her behaviour, and Angie was horrified. "No!" she said, it's over, finished, I don't want to do anything about it, just forget it. And guess what? She's right. For the time being, at any rate.
posted by Pieface @ Wednesday, November 23, 2005
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