You sit in a chair the color of pink flesh. A sign on the wall says: “Gentlemen, please remove your hats.” Tall file cabinets are topped with thick binders labeled: “Saturday School” and “Suspensions 1999-2000.” Your son stares blankly at his hands. You fidget.The vice principal arrives with the school police officer or a teacher or another offended party. A laundry list of complaints ensues. Your son’s belligerent “This class sucks” speech in math. Smoking on school property. Possession of drug paraphernalia.
His grade is 12 percent in at least one class. Your son might be able to bring that up to a “D-” by the end of the semester if he works hard enough. But alas, his unexcused absences mean he’s already failed the class.
You begin to lose hope. You doubt whether your 15-year-old will ever graduate from high school and be a productive member of the community. You realize that you are a failure, a bad mom. Good parents, who have now become vice principals and counselors and cops, have straight-A students who earn letters in band and basketball. These parents of good kids have advice for you. Give your child more responsibility, they say. Maybe you don’t spend enough time with your son or daughter. Maybe you are too lenient. No, you must be too strict.
You cry and don’t sleep for weeks.
You try talking to your son. He’s taller than you and likes sharp metallic objects. He repaired a ripped backpack with straight pins. Using pliers, he bent the pins into loops with sharp points turned outward. Bristly blond fuzz is growing on his chin, a kind of junior goatee. He scowls at you, and you can’t help but remember the warm cuddly toddler who used to curl up on your lap to hear Dr. Seuss’s Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? for the 485th time.
Now he calls you clueless.
“You could write a list of everything you know about me, and it’d be about this long,” he says, holding his thumb and finger about a centimeter apart. “You know nothing. The person you think I am doesn’t exist.”
His band practices in the garage, but he doesn’t want you to listen.
“You won’t like our music,” he says. “We’re angry.”
“Angry with a point or mindlessly angry?” you ask.
“We’re mad because we’re here,” he replies. “Pissed off because we were conceived and didn’t want to be.”
You cry and lose more sleep. But you love him. You ask to know where he is when he’s not home. You take him to meetings with his probation officer and cook him breakfast before dropping him off at Wittenberg Hall for weekend work crew.
You talk to people who can help him make up academic credits. The nice people at Washoe High School help you with a plan. (Please note that Washoe High offers help to many kinds of students, not just kids in trouble.)
You tell your son that you want to know him. You make it clear you care, but there are still loud fights. You don’t quit. Neither does he.
Finally, with age comes perspective. Your son attends classes at Washoe High regularly. He “sells out” and gets a job. He passes his proficiency exams on the first try because he is, after all, a smart kid. He turns 18 and gets a large tattoo on his back. These are his decisions. You realize that these years have been more about his choices and less about your parenting skills. Maybe you are not a failure.
On Mother’s Day, he buys you dinner at a favorite Asian restaurant.
And Saturday at Lawlor Events Center, he will graduate from Washoe High. He’s already enrolled in Truckee Meadows Community College.
Your heart explodes with pride.