Yesterday, I was privy to a conversation between my father and another teacher.
It concerned several policies that our superintendent imposed involving the debate team and the specifics of how we get to the NFL national competition. I'd heard about them before, but I'd forgotten about them entirely until they were brought up yesterday. The policies are as follows:
-Coaches who are also staff members of the school system cannot attend a regional or national competition with a qualifying student if that competition falls within the school year (Relatively reasonable. But our competition falls in finals week. A robot could give an exam). Parents will attend the competition with the child (At a national debate tournament, we must provide a qualified judge for our qualifiers. A parent doesn't meet those requirements).
-As a team, we cannot fundraise for nationals. We also are not allowed to use our budgeted funds to sponsor our trip to the national competition. So, these two policies combined means that the full burden of paying the fees of a national trip falls on the parents, which creates a hierarchy among the qualifiers: Those who are wealthy get to debate at a higher level.
*I need to make it clear that by changing these policies, the debate team, or any other club or team, would not recieve any more money than they already do from the administration and taxpayers.
Well, hearing about the injustices again fired up my passion against our superintendent, who I disagree with on most things, and who strikes me as prime material for the role of Scummy Politician. I'm sure that she's a nice person. But I don't get along with most anyone who's got their fake smile plastered on 24/7 and speaks with the oral skills of Hillary Clinton. So, I resolved to send a letter to the superintendent, presenting my entirely logical arguments, and starting up a campaign to change these policies. If she doesn't explain any valid reasoning behind her decisions, or doesn't respond to the letter, then I'm going to attend a school board meeting to present a speech about the issue. I think it's important. Maybe it's not the top priority, but it's still important, and ought to be changed.
So, I spent the better part of yesterday afternoon writing my letter. I've never written a formal letter before, and I had to google it to make sure I was doing it right. I wore my Harvard baseball hat, because it made me feel smarter. Dad helped me some by offering objective information about how we funded our trip (Dad is a teacher and the debate coach. Sooo, a little bit of bias, but what can you do?), and proper protocol in a situation like this. He pointed out that it would be proper to run this by my principal before sending the letter. Woah, woah, woah. Stop right there.
Run it by the principal? I almost ran and hid under my bed at this suggestion. It's not like I was doing anything wrong, but then again, you probably haven't heard my principal's reputation. I go to a big school, and have seen him around maybe once or twice.
You have to know a few things about the man I will hereafter refer to as Mr. N.
Mr. N is old. Very old. He's pretty much been here forever.
Mr. N likes to glare. A lot.
He has a lot of liverspots, and those liver spots glare too.
Last year he had his picture on the front page of the paper. He glared in that picture too. I think he wanted to look special for such an occasion, so he folded his arms over his chest to accessorize the look.
A few years ago, he rolled his lawnmower, and broke a leg, four ribs, and punctured a lung. He was going to retire after that, but no one wanted the job. That's because no one in their right mind would want to be principal of a high school. I've always been convinced that Mr. N took the job and keeps the job because he's strict and militant enough to get away with doing it without being terribly involved.
I knew that to make sure that all of the administration knows I mean business, I had to bring the letter to Mr. N. So, I printed off two copies. One to give to him, and a back up in case the lasers that beam from his eyes toasted the first when he tried to read it. I went to the office today, and asked if he was in, and they told me to go check, hardly looking up from their Very Important Business. So I peered into Mr. N's office, which I have never been in. Somehow, I always thought it was between the offices of the two assistant principals, which are on the edge by the hallway, and have an outermost wall made of bulletproof glass (my freshman year, some kid threw a stapler at one of the assistant principals through the bulletproof glass. I guess it's not staplerproof). But instead, it's tucked in a corner in the innards of the main office. The only reasoning I can think of behind this floorplan is that the principal can make a quick escape out the window if someone snaps and starts shooting the school. The room seemed larger than the other office, and Mr. N's desk was in the middle. The first thing I noticed was the jar of M&M's in front of his computer. They seemed to contradict everything I had heard about him, and so I straightened up, ready to deliver my Very Important Letter. The setup seemed similar to that of the Oval office, and Mr. N ruled supreme in his own little office. His bloodhound's eyes glared up at me from underneath liverspotted overhanging eyebrows, and his mouth seemed to be permanently droopy. I was concerned that it would just...slide off his face. I handed him my letter, briefly explaining its contents, and sat in one of the simple, assembly line chairs lined up a good five and a half feet from his desk. They were in a perfect row, not touching the wall, and far enough away from Mr. N that he could probably tell when students (or staff) tried to text in his presence. He leaned his soft, jello body back into his office chair, and commenced in reading my letter, which I had handed to him before sitting. As he read through, his head moved with his eyes, looking like a short pendulum, as if to say, "Yes, I am reading this. One. Line. At. A. Time". His jowels flabbed up and down, like he was chewing something. Possibly his tongue. Maybe he liked gum? I pondered the sorts of gum that Mr. N might favor, and decided that he was a Big Red kind of guy, because it was strong enough that his geriatric tastebuds might be able to almost taste them. As he chewed, the drooping sides of his face morphed into one fleshy ocean with his saggy chin, and then became seperate again as his teeth were brought together. The transition fascinated me, and I wondered how long the structure of his face had been able to change shape, like Flubber. Finally, after an eternity of trying to not stare too hard at the wrinkled curtains of skin, Mr. N put the letter down, sat up straight and said to me, after a pause, "Very well done".
I think I might have exploded a little bit in gratitude. I had been so nervous.
Mr. N continued on to say that he wasn't sure of what the superintendent's reaction would be, but that her decisions probably had to do with the budget cuts. I refrained from pointing out that we weren't asking for more money, and instead took my letter back (unsinged), thanked him, and went on my way.
If I get my way with this thing, I might send him a pack of M&M's.
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