Post 10 Daddy and Principal George

All of this would become a moot point when, after an impressive performance during the fall grading period, I was moved from my initial first grade placement to the advanced learning class. I cried. Leaving my original group meant leaving my friends and my beloved Mrs. Grant, an angel in human form who made learning as fun as it could possibly be. I left Mrs. Grant for her polar opposite, Mrs. Sheffield, the devil in pencil skirts and patent leather flats.

Mrs. Sheffield was old-school, as in feudal. Despite the unpredictability of six-year-old digestive systems, Mrs. Sheffield believed in order and discipline—and waiting to go at assigned times. Unfortunately, my system never synced with her strict schedule, and after multiple denied requests, on a brilliant October afternoon I sat quietly in my seat and messed my pants.

It was my first encounter with humiliation, and I didn’t like it.

Returning home that afternoon, I barely reached the front door before bursting into tears. After recounting my story to Mama, punctuated with sob after sob, I got cleaned up. And then Daddy came home.

Daddy wasn’t much of a talker. However, he did a fair amount of talking the following morning. He drove me to school, which would happen only twice in the entirety of my grade school years. We went immediately to the principal’s office.

I sat quietly in the outer office with Mrs. Truford, whom I adored. Small, compact, with perfectly arranged auburn hair, cat-eye glasses, and a perpetually warm smile, Mrs. Truford was the perfect buffer for her boss, Principal George.

Principal George made a point of visiting every classroom, every week, to impart words of wisdom, mostly about discipline and the consequences of the lack thereof. He often brought his three-foot, one-inch-thick oak paddle with him, absent-mindedly spanking his palm as he talked. There was nothing subtle about his delivery; even we first-graders got his meaning.

Waiting with Mrs. Truford, we both heard murmurs and then raised voices on the other side of Principal George’s office door. I was certain that Daddy was now in trouble and would soon be paddled. This was what an angry Principal George did. My fears must have shown, and a reassuring Mrs. Truford mouthed to me, “It’ll all be ok.” I was startled as the door to Principal George’s office swung abruptly open, and I was motioned into the inner sanctum.

To my relief, Daddy was seated comfortably across from Principal George’s desk. There was no sign of the paddle. My relief soon gave way to a very real worry that I was the person in trouble here.

“Your daddy and I were just having a conversation here.” Principal George looked over the rims of his reading glasses. He cut an imposing figure, compact in a US Marine-like way that telegraphed order, business, and authority. “It seems that Mrs. Sheffield may have misunderstood your need,” pausing to look sternly first at me and then at Daddy, “to use the restroom yesterday.”

Before I could even draw a breath to speak, Daddy spoke. “There was no misunderstanding.”

I was mortified. No one ever contradicted Principal George. Yet, there it was.

“Well, then. Moving ahead.” Principal George seemed to be dancing for time. I hadn’t seen him this way before, off balance. “Anyway. Drew, in the future, when you need to use the restroom, you can simply raise your hand. I will be sure that Mrs. Sheffield will answer you quickly. Now. How does that sound?”

I looked over at Daddy, unsure if I should remind Principal George that I did raise my hand and asked—three times—before Mrs. Sheffield told me, firmly, to wait. I detected a faint smile on Daddy’s face that said we had gotten what we came for.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do that, sir.”

Standing to end the meeting, Principal George took charge again. “Well, Mr. Carter, and Drew, thank you for coming in. I’m glad we could come to an arrangement that will work.”

“If it doesn’t, you can be sure we’ll talk again,” Daddy said firmly but cordially. Principal George seemed to understand. I waved goodbye to sweet Mrs. Truford over my shoulder. Daddy held my hand as we walked to Mrs. Sheffield’s classroom, where they exchanged icy hellos. I never had a problem with Mrs. Sheffield again.