It was 3:15 in the afternoon and I was waiting in my car at the bus stop when my cell phone rang.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Hello, this is Ms. Kalowsky, I’m the principal at Claremont Elementary school. I had your son in my office this afternoon because one of his fellow students reported to me that he used the F-word on the school bus yesterday. He admitted to me that he did in fact use the F-word and we had a very long discussion about how that language is inappropriate. I don’t think a punishment is necessary at this time but if this behavior continues, I explained to him that there will be consequences. I would very much appreciate you speaking to him about this.” I was tongue-tied but managed to say, “Uh, yes, of course, I’m terribly sorry. I will certainly speak to him. Thank you for calling. I’m sure this will not happen again.”
I hung up the phone and could feel the anger building exponentially in my gut. All I could think of was,” I’m gonna kill this kid.” My breathing became rapid, so much so that I had to get out of the car and start pacing beside it. The bus pulled up and out popped my son jumping and laughing as he swung his backpack over his head. When he saw my face, he stopped in his tracks. “Get in the car,” I said through my clinched teeth.
As soon as the car door closed, I began to bark at him using my most intense crazy mom scream. You know the one, when your face turns red and the veins in your neck pop out and your voice cracks at the beginning of every sentence and you run out of breath before you can finish what you want to say.
“What did you do?! What is wrong with you?! Since when is it OK to use the F-word under any circumstances for any reason!” I bellowed.
“But mom,” he said with his head hanging low.
“Don’t ‘but mom’ me! I honestly don’t know what to do with you,” I ranted.
He squeamishly asked, “Can I tell you what happened?”
“No!” I cut him off and continued yelling until I got tired or sick of listening to my own voice, I can’t remember which. It was only then that I let him speak. And he explained:
“Mom, Ricky was on our bus yesterday afternoon, and he was telling Matt that he was a really bad basketball player. He made fun of him because Matt did not make a basket all season. Ricky started laughing and telling Matt that he should quit the team. That’s when Matt started crying. But you know what mom? I’ve been playing basketball with Ricky for years and he’s never made a basket either. What do you call it when someone is bad at something but makes fun of another person for being bad at the same thing?”
“Hypocrite,” I interjected.
“Right,” he continued. “Hippo… whatever you said. But I couldn’t remember that word, and I was really mad, so I used the F-word. The other kids on the bus were on my side and I guess Ricky got embarrassed, so he went to school this morning and told on me to the principal.”
“Did you tell the principal what happened?” I asked.
“Well, no, she just wanted to know if I said the F-word and I told her I did,” he admitted.
I felt like such a fool. In a perfect world, I would prefer my son not use the F-word, but he was not just a foul-mouthed kid. He was a foul-mouthed kid who defended another child who was being bullied and was honorable enough to admit his mistake. Certainly, I would rather my son be that kid than the snitching bully. But the bully secured the upper hand that day. Ricky successfully enlisted the help of the principal to punish my son and he was viewed as innocent because the adults in the room, including me, did not ask the right questions. The simple and most obvious question to ask was, “What happened?”
But it was me who learned a lesson that day. I took the bully’s side before I knew what happened, just like the principal. I accepted the principal’s scant version of the events because she was an authority figure. And my son did not relay what really happened because principals are intimidating. It dawned on me that the principal had no idea what had transpired on the bus. But I’m his mother, the one person in the world who is supposed to have his back and instead of giving him a chance to explain, I assumed he deserved a severe punishment and went on the offensive. I thought of a million questions I should have asked the principal when she called but instead, I just took it on the chin and vowed to punish him. Why does that always happen? Why do we always think of the perfect retort approximately twenty minutes after being confronted with a situation.
This time, I decided my retort needed to be heard so I called the principal the following morning and relayed my son’s account of the events that afternoon on bus 104. I didn’t offer it as an excuse for his inappropriate language but in defense of his character.
Unfortunately, this was not the last time the principal would call about my son. But I was better prepared for the next time. Whenever the principal called, I asked questions, and instead of assuming my son was wrong, I promised the principal I would talk to him to get all the facts. And I never again began my conversation with him by asking, “What did you do?” From that day on, I always asked, “What happened?”
