I was sitting at the computer tearing my hair out, trying to figure out just why a test web form wasn’t posting. (I still haven’t figured it out.) The phone rings. I let it ring once, so I can see who is calling. Plumber? OmegaDad? Someone else?
Someone else: T. Biggle, sayeth the little LED screen.
T. Biggle just happens to be the principal of OmegaDotter’s school.
Instantly, the worrier in me rose up full force. OMG, the dotter’s been sent to the principal’s office! OMG, the dotter is hurt and they’re letting us know! OMG, it’s yet another recorded message about school spirit! We have been getting message after message from Mr. Biggle related to school; there’s a before-school barbeque, remember to register this week, first day of school is tomorrow and we’re all excited to see you again, join the PTA, blah, blah, blah. I mean, yeah, it’s nice that they communicate, but maybe they could communicate just a leetle less? Or do two–two–two messages for the price of one?
Anyway, there it was: T. Biggle on the phone.
I punch the button.
“Hello? Is Mrs. OmegaMom available?”
“This is she…” OMG, it’s not a message, what’s wrong?!
“Nothing is wrong with OmegaDotter–” Obviously, he’s used to parents panicking when they get the phone call from the principal. “–and she’s done nothing wrong.” Obviously, he’s used to parents thinking their kids have gotten into trouble when they get the phone call from the principal.
“But there was an incident that we thought you should know about.”
So, out of the blue (apparently), while the dotter and this other kid were putting things away, he tells her, “I don’t like little Chinese girls!”
I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite as much like someone kicked me in the guts as I did when I heard Mr. Biggle tell the story. He said that OmegaDotter was very upset, her feelings were hurt, she was crying, and that he thought I should hear about it so that we could give her some extra lovin’s when she got home. He assured me that The Perpetrator was reprimanded, and that the school takes things like this seriously. (Well, hellyeah, when they actually call me about it, I’d say that was “taking it seriously”, which actually makes me feel pretty damned good about the school.)
So, still feeling like someone had kicked me in the guts, I posted.
And I called OmegaDad, who promptly wanted to boil someone (The Perpetrator) in oil.
And we both agreed that I should do a little something with the dotter when she got home.
And we both worried that she wouldn’t say anything about it, and how the hell do you open up a conversation like that, and what do you say?
So I waited at the bus stop, wondering if she’d be a limp, noodly crying child, or would need a hug, or just ignore things. The bus arrived, she got off, she barreled into me with a hug, we walked off down our street holding hands. I’m racking my brain for a good way to start the conversation, and she says:
“Mr. Biggle is going to call you.”
Well! Whaddaya know! I didn’t have to start things off at all! And she wasn’t a puddle of tears, just matter-of-fact. So I allowed as how he had already called, and did she want to talk about things.
“No.” She darted off to grab a brilliant red leaf from a shrub, then said, “Oh! I need to give you a note about the bad thing I did in music today.” “Bad Thing”? What’s this?! I haven’t heard about this! I think to myself. She stops dead in the middle of the street, pulls her backpack off, requests that I hold it, and starts rummaging around in it.
Oy! One thing after another!
She hands me a “Thinking Page” which shows a drawing of a little girl bouncing about, a written “I wuz takking”, and a drawing of what she was supposed to be doing (sitting still and listening).
I’m supposed to sign this thing and return it. In the meantime…
Of course, the plumber appears right then, so while she was rummaging about the garbage disposal, the dotter did homework, and finally the plumber leaves (no fixed disposal, but a new one coming tomorrow a.m.) and I say, “Let’s go get ice cream.”
So we went to C0ld St0ne Creamery, had ice cream, and she told me the story pretty straightforwardly.
Seems that she and Jay were working with their pattern blocks (? don’t ask me.) and they started arguing about something. And arguing. And finally Jay said–fed up–”I’m going to tell everyone that Chinese girls are mean! I don’t like little Chinese girls!”
So: The Perpetrator is a six-year-old boy who has been in class with OmegaDotter for a year, who said this in the heat of an argument.
My stomach feels a lot better. It wasn’t out of the blue, it wasn’t something learned at home, it was something in the heat of the moment. Still not nice, but hellalot better than I thought. However, we have re-iterated to the dotter that (a) she should be proud to be Chinese and American; (b) if anyone says something like that to her, here are some things she can say; (c) it was a mean thing to say; and (d) if anyone says anything like that to her again, she should tell us.
(My contribution was she should say, out loud, “I’m proud to be Chinese. It’s better to be born Chinese than to be born mean.” OmegaDad’s contribution was she should say, out loud, “I’m sorry you feel that way. You’ll miss out on getting to know lots of cool and interesting people–like me–if you feel like that.” For what it’s worth.)
