I had a heart-pounding incident today as I was sitting in the front office with Crystal trying to work on invitations to our students’ parents for an upcoming program. A swarthy, well-dressed, but ill-shaven man walked in. He was not tall, but he had an air about him that made him imposing nevertheless.
“I want to see my daughter’s teacher,” he demanded with a thick accent. Neither Crystal nor I recognized him as one of the parents we see regularly, so we had to ask “Who is your daughter?”
“Alisea Roula.”
Crystal stepped forward in her self-promoting way. “I’m Alisea’s teacher. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t like the way you have been treating my daughter.”
Crystal took a step back and gestured to me. “Mrs. Baker is also Alisea’s teacher.” (Thanks so much!) Alisea’s father turned his glare on me as Crystal headed for the door.
“What exactly are you concerned about?” My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could hear it, but I did my best to keep the fear out of my voice.
Just a few days ago, Linda had been regaling me with tales of one January registration process from the past where a parent of the same nationality as this parent got physical with her when he didn’t get what he wanted. There had been somewhat of a history of that in this school. I wondered if this was going to be another such moment. I try very hard not to stereotype or have prejudices, and I love all my students, no matter the nationality. However, one can’t help noticing certain patterns of behavior among the parents.
“You said nice things about another child’s picture, but you didn’t say anything nice about Alisea’s!”
WHAT? I wracked my brain at 90-miles-an-hour trying to figure out what he was talking about. What picture? What did I say? I flashed back through the last few days of classes and activities. Finally, I remembered…we were painting pumpkin pictures. We were getting ready to go home, and I was trying to check and see if the paintings were dry enough to be sent home. They were, so in the midst of the chaos of children packing up and getting their jackets on, I was also trying to call them over to get their pictures.
As I was handing them out, one little boy asked me, “How do you like my picture?”
“Oh, it’s lovely” I replied automatically, as I often do. Do you have any idea how many times a day a child asks me how I like something or if I know something or if I want to watch them do something? I’m pretty sure Alisea was the next child in line to get her picture. She must have overheard me with the little boy. She didn’t ask me my opinion of her picture, and I wasn’t commenting on anyone else’s picture as I was handing them out. I was just trying to get a small herd of four-year-old children organized and out the door somewhat on time.
I couldn’t be sure, but Alisea’s father seemed to be enjoying my confusion and discomfort. His eyes had narrowed, and he almost had a smile on his face.
“Was it the pumpkin painting?” I asked.
“Yes!” he said, surprised.
I explained what had happened, that there had been no intentional slight to his daughter, that no one else (other than the questioning boy) had received a compliment from me either, it wasn’t that kind of a situation, and that I was quite surprised that Alisea had taken offense over it. She didn’t seem to be upset at the time it happened. I told him I was sorry for the misunderstanding and asked him to try to explain to Alisea what had happened and that I did, indeed, like her painting. By that time, he hadn’t warmed up to me exactly, but his stance was less aggressive, and he began to back toward the office door.
“I just wanted to make sure she was not being treated badly.”
“Not in the least, we love having Alisea in our class.” At least, we did until this happened. (I included Crystal in my comment even though the coward was nowhere in sight.)
After he left, I sank back in the chair, shaken. I replayed in my head the encounter and the class period when we had painted the pictures. Earlier that day, Crystal hadn’t let Alisea play with something during center time when she wanted to, because it was time for her to work with Crystal on her handwriting. It was the first time Alisea had actually tried to defy a teacher, but Crystal hadn’t let her get away with it. Alisea was mad. Could that be what this was really all about? Could a four-year-old child already be that vengeful and manipulative? Hmmm.