From the Archives - Careergate

Introduction

I recently came across a letter to my brother from 1995, recalling a shameful episode from my past, dating back to first grade. This being a slow news day, I figured I’d post it here. I’ve fleshed it about a bit, from memory. Believe me: I remember this ordeal all too well.

Careergate — July 9, 1995

In first grade, we did a big unit on careers. First we watched some film loops (remember those?) about various careers including middle manager, quality control technician, and comptroller. Naw, just kidding, it was the normal assortment of clichéd vocations like doctor, nurse, construction worker, teacher, farmer … the stuff it’s easy to imagine and picture, even if it represents only a sliver of the wide variety of actual careers out there. Various parents came in to talk about their careers as well, though I didn’t pay much attention. The only one I remember well was a long-haul truck driver. He described, in great detail, the methamphetamine regimen that kept him awake at the wheel, along with its various side effects. (Okay, fine, I made that part up.) Then we kids had to decide what we were going to be when we grew up, and make a big poster showing ourselves on the job. The year before, my brother Max had chosen “ambulance driver,” mainly (I believed then, and continue to believe) because he thought he could draw a pretty cool picture of an ambulance. My parents were pleased at his choice and made a nice fuss over him.

I didn’t put much thought into deciding on my career. I believed at the time, naïve as I was, that I would have a chance to revisit this decision later. I had no idea that this initial stab at a career plan would forever cement my reputation among my peers, my teacher, and my parents. So I thought about the project for about thirty seconds before deciding I could probably draw a TV set, and that it would be fun to draw a TV showroom with not only a few TVs in it, but also a big picture window, through which you could see the street and a cyclist riding by. I thought it would be a nice challenge to draw this well enough for the window not just to look like another TV. So I chose the career goal of TV salesman.

It is probably the case that Mrs. M— explained how the posters would be put on prominent display for all to see, including the parents who, on Parent Teacher night, would be pleased as punch at how Bear Creek Elementary, and Mrs. M— in particular, were grooming their children for highly successful and prestigious lives. But I wasn’t paying attention and thought this was another pointless project that would be soon forgotten. That is, I didn’t realize I was about to shame myself and my entire family, as I was too engrossed in the task at hand to see the big picture. I thought my drawing came out fairly well. It showed a man at a counter taking some money, and the happy customer with his hand on the TV set. In the background was a window: if you looked closely, you saw, through this window, a bicyclist riding by. I was most proud of that scene through the window. I felt it embodied happenstance—a little snapshot of life, caught by random, totally unrelated to the sales transaction. Naturally, I didn’t think these things in these words, but the feeling was there.

I find it noteworthy that I undertook the project without so much as a glance at what my classmates were doing. I was accustomed to being unorthodox, since I was raised if not by wolves, at least by slightly odd parents who in some ways diverged from mainstream society: we didn’t watch much TV, certainly didn’t follow sports (I mean, we didn’t even know the basic rules of football or baseball), used good grammar, were often ignorant of pop culture, and were put on the swim team instead of in Little League. I so often felt lost in the world that I’d just learned to accept this feeling and went through life in a fog, long pondering a great many mysteries but never thinking to ask anyone about them. For example, I couldn’t understand the Snickers ad showing a candy bar being sliced up to show off the peanuts and peanut butter nougat, and ending with the words, “No matter how you slice it, it comes up peanuts.” I’d never heard the expression “no matter how you slice it,” so the entire ad was a mystery. Who, I wondered, goes around slicing up Snickers bars, and why?

And, when I listened to the Carole King album “Really Rosie,” and its title song, I couldn’t fathom the point of the lyric “I’m really Rosie and I’m the most/ Beat that drum, make that toast.” I mean, okay, beating a drum to celebrate someone, sure … but making toast? “Wow, you’re really the most, let me make you some toast. Whole wheat or white?” I had no idea people clinked together glasses of wine or champagne while wishing each other well … I’d never seen such a thing. In my family we drank powdered milk from plastic cups and never offered up good tidings.

So, when I finished my career poster and happened to glance at what my classmates had done, I think I actually felt smug at how hackneyed their career plans were, compared to mine. All the boys in my class chose fireman, doctor, policeman, or U.S. President, and the girls chose actress, nurse, or nun, maybe even saint. You’d think Mrs. M— would kind of snicker at the utter predictability of it all, but she fawned all over them like they were child geniuses. When she got to my poster she kind of turned her nose up. “Where did you get this idea, TV salesman?” she asked, with a distinct note of contempt in her voice. “We didn’t have any parent presentation on this. It wasn’t in the film loops. You wanna sell TVs?”

I just shrugged. I had long before written Mrs. M— off completely. She had lost my respect by tearing masking tape with her teeth, while telling us not to do it; by chewing me out for wiping my nose on my sleeve, which I knew full well was an unassailable privilege of childhood; and by holding a special meeting with my mom to discuss my poor attention span. (My mom described to me the entire encounter. She’d been unconcerned, either because she didn’t see my daydreaming as a problem at my young age. Confronted with the negative report, Mom replied, “I’m sure he’ll come around eventually.” Mrs. M— slammed her fist down on the table and retorted, “That time has got to be now!”)

Anyway, I wasn’t about to reassess my career goals: the picture was already drawn. I asked Mrs. M— what she thought of the bicyclist in my poster, seen through the window, frozen in time. Isn’t that cool? A lone rider trapped forever in a two-dimensional depiction of life itself? Pedaling, and yet going nowhere? Caught in the act of existence? Alas, it would take someone with a college degree in literature to assemble the body of rhetoric necessary to defend my picture, and I was just a dumb kid. I pointed at the bicyclist, and said, “Look at him! He’s not on TV, he’s really there, through the window!” Mrs. M— just rolled her eyes and moved on, freshly flabbergasted by my idiocy.

Even after this icy reception of my poster, I was kind of proud of it, hanging right there on the wall with all the firemen, presidents, nurses, and doctors. I remember feeling a strange kind of pride: nobody else had a window in their pictures. And besides, Chris Phillips’ fireman looked exactly like David Brown’s. Same ladder, same fire hose, same burning home in the background, everything. Moreover, what I saw were a lot of hats. Fireman’s hat (well, helmet), policeman’s hat, nurse’s hat. Like on “Sesame Street,” with its “These are the people in your neighborhood” song. Such simple, foolproof choices. Nobody had even attempted to capture the essence of simultaneity: the skew paths of the featured persons (salesman, customer) vs. this unimportant background character, who is unaware of the brazen, undiscriminating promiscuity of existence, like a nameless renter in a giant apartment building who’s unacquainted with the neighboring tenants. If nothing else, I derived a peculiar pleasure from being the only future TV salesman in my whole class.

Well, I hadn’t heard the end of it yet. I guess it was one thing for my mom to shrug off Mrs. M—’s criticism of me in a private conference, but to have her kid’s utter lack of ambition showcased there in front of all the others at Parent Teacher Night didn’t go down too well. Perhaps she was oppressed by all the proud parents there, all of them giddy in the anticipation of their children’s futures, entranced by the obvious nobility represented by their career goals. Firemen saving homes and families! Nurses helping doctors! Doctors saving lives! And what was her kid planning? To facilitate mass brain erasure by selling televisions?

When she got home Mom gave me a hard time about it. She seemed disappointed, and possibly embarrassed. I could no longer be cavalier about it… I had to face the evil of my ways. I took a hard look at myself, and I didn’t like what I saw. A TV salesman … it was disgraceful. I hadn’t been brought up to sell TVs; our dad didn’t even allow us to watch TV! Since he was so seldom home to police this, he had removed the knobs from the TV set so we couldn’t operate it, forcing us kids to reach in with needle-nose pliers and endure powerful electric shocks! Officially at least, TV was beneath our family’s intellect. So where had I gone wrong? How could I so breezily trash my personal brand among my fellow students, not to mention with my family? Was this what I stood for: a livelihood based on brainless transactions, selling boob-tubes to people so ravenous for simple entertainment, all I had to do was basically collect the money, like some schmuck working a toll-booth?

My mom’s criticism was like catnip to my eavesdropping brothers, who treated this like a major scandal, like I’d murdered somebody’s pet or something. They endlessly mocked me for it, to the point that our dad overheard (or had my mom actually told him?) and now he was all sore, too. Looking back, it was kind of an amazing academic performance on my part: I’d made an entire family feel bad. I was miffed at my parents for making such a big fuss, angry at my brothers for teasing me, and felt bad about myself for having so little ambition. My brothers, though delighted at the dustup, surely lost (even more) respect for me; my parents felt bad about me, of course, and also about themselves, and perhaps about my school. Perhaps my mom even wondered if my TV salesman ambition was rooted in some kind of rebellion, lashing out against my dad’s prohibition of TV in our household, in which case this shameful episode may have increased her animosity toward him. As for my dad, who knew full well that he himself was perfect, any defect in us kids was surely my mom’s fault, so he was probably almost as miffed at her as at me. I think it takes a pretty special school project to do all that.

One thing was certain: all of this could have been avoided if I’d just toed the line and gone the conventional path, deciding to be a cop or fireman or doctor, instead of following my fancy. It’s a good thing I was an arrogant little bastard and mostly uneducable, or I might have taken a bad lesson from Careergate. Instead, I just kept muddling on in my clueless way, shaken by the incident but not stirred to any action, such as trying to do better. Story of my life, I guess.

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Fiction - The Lice Letters

NOTE:  This post is rated PG-13 for an instance of mild strong language.

Introduction

What follows is a work of fiction.  The normal disclaimers apply.  Even the language used, though it bears a strong resemblance to American English, is made-up and used fictitiously.  The single reference to an actual person is purely jocular.

The Lice Letters

Midvale Elementary School

3312 Bean St

Anytown, USA

February 27, 2012

Dear Parent,

Yesterday, a student in your child’s classroom was discovered with a case of Pediculosis Capitis (head lice).

Pause for a moment and let that sink in.  I, too, feel it like a hard ball in the pit of my stomach.  This is a serious matter.  But rest assured, it was not your child who was discovered to have this condition.  If it was, you would be well aware by now.  The child in question was sent home immediately and I’m sorry to say his mother was not able to pick him up.  She was at work and sent her boyfriend, Steve, in her place.  This did not make it any easier on the child, I hasten to add.  Steve—who is on the “approved guardian” list in the office—was able to come right away because he is unemployed and probably spends his days playing violent video games.  I would like to take this opportunity to downplay the altercation some of you may have heard transpired when Steve came to the school.  It was merely a loud exchange of words:  our custodian innocently pointed out to Steve that his (Steve’s) P.T. Cruiser shares the chassis and engine of the Dodge Neon (which happens to be true), and Steve did not take it well.  No assault actually transpired and nobody was taken into custody.

Though your child was not discovered to have head lice, he or she yet may.  Lice spreads quickly at schools because of the jostling and other physical contact that persist among children.  You should prepare yourself for the possibility that your child will be next.  If this does happen, rest assured that head lice does not mean your child is “unclean,” “filthy,” or an “unwanted immigrant.”  Every year a few million Americans—born American—come down with head lice.  Many of these people are quite clean in their habits.  In fact, some studies show that blown-dry and/or chemically treated hair makes a less hospitable environment for lice.  As such, the school is relaxing its prohibition of brightly colored hair among students (though I still have trouble not snickering when I see a grade-school kid wearing a t-shirt featuring a rock band whose members are old enough to be his or her grandparent).  On a related note, if you have a daughter this might be a good time to turn her on to the music and style of Sinéad O’Connor.

There are simple precautions you can take against your child getting head lice.  If you have more than one child, make sure they don’t wear hats.  Even if they promise not to trade them around, they always do.  (Yes, one of our students is allowed to wear a hat at school.  That’s because, for medical reasons, he has a bald spot that the other kids would tease him about.)  Also, please  don’t allow your child to attend slumber parties, where pillows can be shared.  Though these precautions may help, the sad truth is that head lice is mainly a result of parents not loving their children enough.  (No, of course that’s not true, but since so many mothers would believe this anyway, I might as well say it.)

Please inspect your child’s head regularly.  Lice are hard to see, especially by fathers who a) don’t actually care very much, and b) tend to be so old, from what I’ve seen at this school, that they’re bound to be farsighted.  Look for “dandruff” that turns out to be alarmingly mobile, and the cobweb-like networks of eggs (nits) that collect at the base of the hair shaft like glue.  One other symptom would be a child who is falling behind in school.  This is because his or her brain is literally being sucked out by these little parasites (though it could also merely mean he or she watches a lot of TV).  Remember that it is far better to discover head lice at home than for our staff to discover it!  If you do discover lice, please keep your child home until the lice are completely eradicated.  You may fib and tell us your child is “sick,” and as necessary we will help perpetuate your cover story.

Every year there seems to be a lice outbreak at this school and we are determined to put an end to it.  To that end, we have decided to cancel this year’s Spring Fling, commonly known as “hot dog / crazy hat day,” if the lice are not controlled by early May.  You don’t have to be an epidemiologist to understand our rationale, given the opportunities for contagion presented by hundreds of kids wearing makeshift hats.  And while I’m on the subject:  assuming that the Spring Fling does take place, please tell your child not to ask if the hot dogs are grass-fed.  They aren’t, okay?  We don’t have the budget for grass-fed so every single frank represents dozens of cows from several continents and all the other atrocities Upton Sinclair wrote about.  (No, we won’t consider turkey franks, because they taste like ass.)  If you don’t like this, ask yourself what member of our generation didn’t grow up snacking on lead paint chips.  Get over yourself.  [Gloria—give this the usual tone-down but don’t take out the grass-fed thing, it’s important.]

Thank you in advance for you assistance in this important matter.

Sincerely,

C. Roger Nelson

Principal

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Midvale Elementary School

3312 Bean St

Anytown, USA

February 27, 2012

Dear Parent,

I am writing to apologize for the highly inappropriate letter that was sent home with your child earlier this week.  I have a highly unusual writing style—really more of a “venting” mechanism than anything—and rely heavily on my secretary to edit my letters for length and content.  The letter about head lice should have been edited down significantly, with certain details omitted, particularly the instance of crude language.  This letter “slipped through the cracks” in that my secretary never had the opportunity to edit it.  Somehow, the initial draft was sent out before she even saw it.

Of course much of my letter was inappropriate even for a rough draft and it is a huge embarrassment to me that my private snideness has become public.  All I can say in my defense is that it is hard to maintain the proper attitude when my scalp has the tickly sensation, almost certainly psychosomatic, of being infested with parasites.

The management of Midvale Elementary School, the District, and the Superintendent of Schools are working with the PTA to determine the appropriate disciplinary measures for my misconduct.  I hope that I shall be allowed to continue as your Principal.

Once again, please accept my humblest apologies for the letter.

Sincerely,

C. Roger Nelson

Principal

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Midvale Elementary School

3312 Bean St

Anytown, USA

February 27, 2012

Mr. David Ferguson

Superintendent of Schools

1123 Toll House Road

Anytown, USA

Dear Mr. Ferguson,

Yesterday I discovered that what had originally appeared to be an administrative error in the matter of the head lice letter was actually an act of perfidy on the part of my secretary, Gloria Johnston.  She actually did receive the rough draft, and though she had initially edited it per our normal arrangement, she subsequently propagated the initial draft.  What tipped me off was the little accent over the “e” in “Sinead.”  I do not even know how to type that special character.  That was one of her initial edits to the revised version, and the sole change that survived in the final version.

The fully edited version of my letter—the one that should have gone out—was found on Ms. Johnston’s computer.  When confronted she confessed to her treachery.  Her employment has been terminated.  We are trying to keep this affair as quiet as possible and have cited “budget cuts” as the reason for her dismissal.  In the event that members of your staff desire the “inside scoop” on this matter, I encourage you to suggest that Ms. Johnston was discovered to be a carrier of head lice and a long-time contributor to the frequent outbreaks.

I understand that my situation is, as yet, unresolved and will decorously accept whatever decision you hand down.

Sincerely,

C. Roger Nelson

Principal

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