MAKING THE GRADE
It all started with a note from our daughter's high school guidance counselor. "Your daughter received a C-minus on an English Lit paper," she wrote, "and we need to see you at your earliest convenience."
You need to see us over a C-minus? What the hell is so ominous about that? I'll admit, it's not the greatest grade in the world, but a school conference?...at your earliest convenience? It's not like she pilfered the vice-principal's petty cash drawer during detention, as I was once accused.
So anyway, with great anticipation my wife and I go meet with the guidance counselor. When she entered the room, her stricken look indicated she had grim news.
"I'm sorry we have to meet under such sorry circumstances," Dr. Schlanger said solemnly. Your daughter's English Lit teacher wrote me a shocking note and I felt the need to communicate it to you as quickly as possible."
"Of course, of course," we said in unison. "What? What?"
"Your daughter didn't write this paper, did she?" the counselor said, shoving the assignment towards me.
After a quick glance, shameful shame came over me. Years of guilt welled forth and, coupled with my fear of authority, it all became more than I could bear. Falling on my sword, I spilled:
"Oh, Dr. Schlanger," I said, trying not to smirk while enunciating her evocative name, "I am soooooo sorry. Look at me. Look how sorry I look." I curled my lips for emphasis, and in my best English, continued:
"It was a dark and stormy night, and my daughter couldn't seem to complete her assignment. I begged her to focus on the task at hand, but alas, she fiddled with her lip gloss and rearranged the items on her desk a dozen times -- anything but buckling down and doing her best work."
At this point I looked up to make sure Dr. Schlanger was sufficiently empathetic. Satisfied, I continued:
"Anyway, I was sooo tired, and I knew I couldn't stay awake much longer, so I sat down at my daughter's computer and tried to coax the words from her lips. But still she fiddled -- this time with her iPod accessories -- and then she changed the subject altogether -- to her ridiculously long Christmas list."
Again, I locked onto Dr. Schlanger's eyes to see if I was having any impact. Seemingly on a roll, I ramped up my confession.
"Soon, I found my fingers typing words I was hearing, but -- I'm sooo sorry -- this has never happened before-- the words I was hearing, quite possibly, may not have been hers. I fear I may have written that paper -- with the best of intentions, of course -- only to restore peace, and to ensure that my ever-so-tired child receive enough sleep to achieve a better tomorrow."
When I came out of my trancelike speech, both Ms. Schlanger and my wife were slack-jawed. Silence filled the room. Was it that bad? Could I go to jail for this? Had I overdone it a bit? Or, perhaps, not gone far enough? Must I start to cry?
I began to begin again, when Ms. Schlanger cut me off. "Thank you, Mr. Reynolds, for your honesty. But I haven't called you here today to talk about your daughter."
Well thank God for that, I thought, giving my wife the thumbs up sign under the table.
"Your daughter's doing great," Dr. Schlanger said. "In fact, she got an A-plus on the last paper she wrote in class."
"Now we're talking," I said. I winked at my wife.
"What I'm concerned about," Dr. Schlanger continued, "is that a large, 50-something man would get a C-minus on a freshman-level English Lit paper."
It all started with a note from our daughter's high school guidance counselor. "Your daughter received a C-minus on an English Lit paper," she wrote, "and we need to see you at your earliest convenience."
You need to see us over a C-minus? What the hell is so ominous about that? I'll admit, it's not the greatest grade in the world, but a school conference?...at your earliest convenience? It's not like she pilfered the vice-principal's petty cash drawer during detention, as I was once accused.
So anyway, with great anticipation my wife and I go meet with the guidance counselor. When she entered the room, her stricken look indicated she had grim news.
"I'm sorry we have to meet under such sorry circumstances," Dr. Schlanger said solemnly. Your daughter's English Lit teacher wrote me a shocking note and I felt the need to communicate it to you as quickly as possible."
"Of course, of course," we said in unison. "What? What?"
"Your daughter didn't write this paper, did she?" the counselor said, shoving the assignment towards me.
After a quick glance, shameful shame came over me. Years of guilt welled forth and, coupled with my fear of authority, it all became more than I could bear. Falling on my sword, I spilled:
"Oh, Dr. Schlanger," I said, trying not to smirk while enunciating her evocative name, "I am soooooo sorry. Look at me. Look how sorry I look." I curled my lips for emphasis, and in my best English, continued:
"It was a dark and stormy night, and my daughter couldn't seem to complete her assignment. I begged her to focus on the task at hand, but alas, she fiddled with her lip gloss and rearranged the items on her desk a dozen times -- anything but buckling down and doing her best work."
At this point I looked up to make sure Dr. Schlanger was sufficiently empathetic. Satisfied, I continued:
"Anyway, I was sooo tired, and I knew I couldn't stay awake much longer, so I sat down at my daughter's computer and tried to coax the words from her lips. But still she fiddled -- this time with her iPod accessories -- and then she changed the subject altogether -- to her ridiculously long Christmas list."
Again, I locked onto Dr. Schlanger's eyes to see if I was having any impact. Seemingly on a roll, I ramped up my confession.
"Soon, I found my fingers typing words I was hearing, but -- I'm sooo sorry -- this has never happened before-- the words I was hearing, quite possibly, may not have been hers. I fear I may have written that paper -- with the best of intentions, of course -- only to restore peace, and to ensure that my ever-so-tired child receive enough sleep to achieve a better tomorrow."
When I came out of my trancelike speech, both Ms. Schlanger and my wife were slack-jawed. Silence filled the room. Was it that bad? Could I go to jail for this? Had I overdone it a bit? Or, perhaps, not gone far enough? Must I start to cry?
I began to begin again, when Ms. Schlanger cut me off. "Thank you, Mr. Reynolds, for your honesty. But I haven't called you here today to talk about your daughter."
Well thank God for that, I thought, giving my wife the thumbs up sign under the table.
"Your daughter's doing great," Dr. Schlanger said. "In fact, she got an A-plus on the last paper she wrote in class."
"Now we're talking," I said. I winked at my wife.
"What I'm concerned about," Dr. Schlanger continued, "is that a large, 50-something man would get a C-minus on a freshman-level English Lit paper."
posted by R. Reynolds at 7:34 AM
10 Comments:
whenever you walk the halls of our local elementary school, you can always pick out the projects that had parental involvement. it doesn't end there. i know some parents who are still writing or editing their kids papers in college. these parents are called "helicopter parents" because they hover so closely. how will their kids ever fly on their own?
it's good you suck at english, rick. it will empower your kid to do her own work, which will enable her to do better in the world.
"How could a large, 50-something man would get a C-minus on a freshman-level English Lit paper?"
Just show her samples of PNL - that will explain everything.
I'd let you ghostwrite my column any time, ed. There are many dark and stormy nights (and days) in Chappaqua, so could work.
classic.
this may well be your funniest piece yet. you had me at "look at me. look how sorry i look."
My mother told me that as a small child I always said, "Look at me. Look how sad I look." Rick, you are my inner child.
LOL. You kill me.
Bilbo, you remind me of the Listerine ad: PNN is the blog you love to hate, five times a week.
yes bilbo, never make fun of a man making fun of himself. he died on the cross for us.
Rick, this was brilliant. You had me on the edge of my seat feeling sorry for you. My inner head kept saying, "Shut up, Rick. Just listen to what the counselor has to say". But you didn’t and I’m glad. I need the PNL's. -- USCE
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