“Is everyone here?”
“I think so.”
“Then let’s begin with proper introductions.”
“Hello I’m Tamara Bankhead, and I’m the Resource Compliance Specialist.”
“Hi, I’m Chandra Skinner: Speech and Language Pathologist.”
“Hello, I’m Maxine Winters: Physical Therapist.”
“Hello, I’m Jasmine Sosa: Occupational Therapist.”
“And I’m Clark Gibson: Pre-Kindergarten Teacher.”
There was no friendly smile. No nervous chuckle. “Hello everyone.” The Amazon across the table made a point to turn her head and make contact with everyone sitting around the table; everybody except me. “I’m Martha Dunwhich; Emily’s mother.”
An overlapping wave of “Hello” and “Nice to meet you” followed. Everybody is always friendly to the parent at an I.E.P. meeting, even when the parent has a stick up her you-know-where. Education is just as much a service industry as it is a profession, if not moreso.
“We are gathered here today,” Bankhead all but read from a pre-approved script, “to review Emily’s academic and developmental goals for this calendar year and to ensure and clarify understanding among all members of her Individualized Education Plan Team.”
Translation: “Emily’s mother is terrified that a Little will be educating her daughter and wants to be reassured that he knows what he’s doing and that there will be enough Amazons and even Tweeners so that Emily’s education won’t be ruined by a baby teaching her baby.” This kind of thing happened at least once at the beginning of every year. I knew it was going to happen, less than a week ago, when parents and students were allowed to walk campus and find their children’s classrooms.
After ten years I’d gotten good at recognizing that politely outraged look in an Amazon’s eyes.
To be fair, by the end of the year, if not sooner, this woman would see how good of a job I was doing, and be singing my praises by this time next year. To be fair, she was an Amazon and thus possessed of a nearly overpowering maternal instinct and was likely taught her entire life that the only school someone my size belonged in was a daycare. To be fair, Emily was her only child and according to her file and my experience over the last three days was nowhere near potty trained and lacked a whole bunch of basic pre-academic skills; and so her own guilt and anxiety was likely causing her to project a lot of things.
But I didn’t feel like being fair just then. It was a crap day so far. I was going to have to pay a good chunk of change to get my washing machine fixed. I was on my last pair of clean and neatly pressed slacks and was going commando because said machine was on the fritz. My shaving razor was getting dull, so I’d had to practically scrape the stubble off my cheeks; my beard trimmer wasn’t much better.
And to top everything off, I was missing my lunch again, so I was getting hungry. These things always seemed to be scheduled right when I was supposed to have lunch.
So yeah, I was in no mood to be fair just then. Life wasn’t fair. So why should I have to be?
My face was a placid mask of calm as I quietly thought bad things about Bankhead. Bankhead was a Resource Compliance Specialist: Essentially, a glorified secretary whose sole job was to keep minutes for and run these types of meetings, as well as make sure everyone else had their paperwork properly filled out. It was a thankless job, but she made more money than me, so she didn’t need thanks. “For this meeting-”
“Excuse me,” Emily’s mother cut Bankhead off. “I don’t want to waste everyone’s time and would like to skip past the red tape. Can we please just get to discussing my concerns?”
Bankhead stopped, and my coworkers and I exchanged quiet but anxious looks. I might be the only one standing on my chair, but we were all on our toes. Yup, this was going to be one of those mothers. Even the way Martha Dunwhich was dressed-high end navy blue skirt suit with bleached blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail and sunglasses resting on her head- just screamed “I want to speak to your manager” levels of entitlement.
Bankhead was shaken a bit. “Oh um…of course.”
“I’m sure that Mr…Mr…” Mrs. Dunwhich paused as if looking for the right words. She looked at me. “What was your name again, honey?”
I smiled back politely. “Gibson.” I said. “Clark Gibson.” Typical Amazon. Couldn’t even be bothered to remember my name ten seconds after I’d said it, never mind all of the times she’d already seen it in meeting invitations and classroom announcements.
“While I’m sure that Clark is very good with children, I’m not sure if the classroom he’s in is the best possible setting for my daughter.” Wow. That was a new one. Not only could she not bring herself to call me by my last name, but she couldn’t even verbally confirm that it was my classroom; just the classroom that I happened to be in.
Bankhead adjusted her glasses. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dunwhich, but Oakshire Elementary has only the one Pre-Kindergarten classroom.” Bankhead was opening with the old ‘you-don’t-have-a-choice’ gambit.