Before the shots start flying, let me state up front that yes, I know that they're your kids, not mine. Yes, I know that you have every right to be concerned about the quality of education, their grades, etc. Yes, I really do enjoy and see the need for parental involvement in schools, not just pay it lip service. Remember, I'm a parent first and a teacher second.
But you have to remember some things, too, parents. Yes, I really do know what I'm doing. No, I don't have it in for your kid. No, yelling and dropping the f-bomb on me will not make me more amenable to agree with you. And f*** no, threatening me, especially with lawsuits, will not cause me to cower; quite the opposite, in fact.
So what are over-involved parents? I won't address the situation at high school. Anyone who's overinvolved wouldn't see him/herself in the description anyway. And besides, using actual tales, even without names, has the potential to create problems I don't want to deal with. So go read the AP article on what some parents are doing at colleges. Some of the problems cited:
1. parents' calling college administrators to complain about their children's dorm assignments,
2. parents' calling college administrators to complain about their children's roommates,
3. students' calling mumsie every night before going to bed,
4. parents' arguing with college administrators, arguing that paying tuition entitles them to whatever they want, and
5. (one I read in another article) students' handing a cell phone to the guidance counselor during class registration and saying, "Here, talk to my mom."
I like this response from an administrator:
"We get quoted the price tag frequently," said Dean of Student Affairs Jim Terhune. "But what you're paying for is an education, not a room at the Sheraton, and sometimes that education is uncomfortable."
Cut the cord, people.
Some day perhaps I'll tell the story of my first day at West Point.
6 comments:
Will they call their bosses as well?
It wouldn't surprise me if it's already happened--with the result Suzi identified!
Darren,
You MUST tell us about your first day at West Point now! I am all atwitter with excitment!
No, really, I DO want to know about your first day at West Point.
OK, My First Day At West Point.
Now, you're not going to hear about the lines, equipment issues, drill practice, etc. You're going to hear only about the part that relates to this post.
It had never occurred to me to have my parents escort me to West Point. In fact, I just naturally assumed that everyone would show up as I did, alone. In the acceptance packet were offers from several hotels in NYC, each offering us a room, a tour of the city, and a bus ride to West Point on July 1st. I booked one of these hotel packages.
I don't remember how I got from the airport to the hotel on June 30, but I apparently did so. The next morning there were several buses lined up in front of the hotel, and hundreds of us boarded for the hour-plus drive up the Palisades to West Point. We were dropped off at Michie Stadium (pronounced "Mikey"), the first place I saw parents. We were welcomed with a couple speeches, and then the "new cadets" were invited down to be taken to the cadet area.
Like I said, it never occurred to me to have my family there. I was shocked to see people saying good-bye to their families, moms crying, etc. I had said good-bye to my family at the Sacramento airport.
As soon as we walked into one of the tunnels under the stadium, the smiles on the faces of the seniors disappeared. I remember clearly, "From this point forward there will be no talking." That's the last thing I remember *clearly* from that day. The rest is only a blur.
Several years later, and several years ago, I had the strangest experience. It was in the early 90's, and I had purchased a package of undershirts. When I ripped open the plastic wrap the smell of those white cotton shirts hit me--and instantly I was transported back to that first day at West Point. In the several seconds that the sensation lasted I experienced the sights, sounds, and even emotions of that first day. I've heard that smell is a powerful key to unlock memories, and I have no doubt that it's true.
Smack, now imagine being a beanhead in Viking 9, and having a West Point exchange cadet fresh out of Airborne School in your squadron.
Creepy thing is, you weren't even born yet. Gawd I feel old sometimes.
Ok, time for another story. It was probably my first day there, and one of the beaners walking by in the squadron noticed that "one of these cadets is not like the others" (sung to Sesame Street tune). He made a snap decision and greeted me thusly, using the appropriate squadron greeting: "Valhalla, Midshipman Miller. Proud Viking 9!"
For those of you who don't know, a midshipman is an attendee of the Naval Academy. He guessed my uniform incorrectly. Or, as the knight said in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, "He chose poorly."
"Irwin!", I called out. "Do I look like I have 8 arms and 8 legs to you?"
"Sir, I do not understand!"
"Do I look like I have 8 arms and 8 legs to you?"
"No, sir!"
"Then why are you calling me a squid?!" Light hazing ensued. Irwin survived :-)
My Mother-in-Law is a counselor at a university in the Pacific Northwest. "Helicoper Parents" are her departments #1 headache.
Recently, she said it was getting worse every year.
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