Part 2: The Gulag

So I decide that I am going to have lunch with my son at school. Seems innocuous enough does it not? I figure I will go there and have a good time talking and shootin' the breeze with my boy. So I run down to the closes fast food eatery and pick up some to-go vittles for me and my son. I arrive at the school and am allowed to meet him in the cafeteria. now I am beginning to notice a few things: For starters, the cafeteria itself is not all that big and the chairs and tables are small and low to the ground. then I see the stage off to my right and on the stage sits a traffic light... You got it folks... A traffic light. The meaning of this would soon become apparent to me.

So I am sitting in the cafeteria waiting for my son to arrive and the kids start filing in. Well I notice right away that the kids are unusually quiet and not at all exuberant as kids going to the lunchroom for lunch usually are. I begin to rethink this coming to the school to eat lunch with my boy idea.

I soon see my son and wave to him. His teacher allows him to leave the line to come with me to the table I found for the two of us in the back of the cafeteria. I show him the goodies I picked up for him at the local "greasy spoon" type place and he is happy about that. We begin to eat up and we get to talking amongst ourselves. I am listening to the din of the other students in the cafeteria, when to my surprise, I notice that the traffic light is turned on and is showing green. Thirty seconds later the light switches to yellow and the teachers who are roaming the cafeteria attempting to look important loudly tell the children that the light is yellow and to keep it down. Ten seconds after that announcement is made, the light turns red and it is at this point a rather quizzical look scurries across my face and I turn to my son and ask somewhat befuddled "Hey big man... What's with the light?". To which, he replied "Oh that? That is the light that tells us when we can talk...".

It is at this point where I being to feel nothing but abject pity for my son and his fellow classmates.

"So let me see if I am understanding this... You are at lunch. Right?"

"Yes." he replies.

"And you cannot speak most of the time during lunch. Right?"

"Yes." says he.

"So when did the lunch room become a gulag?" (It is at this point that I quickly explain what a gulag is to the boy and he seemed to fully understand the concept -- and agreed).

He then explains to me that this is the way it has always been. I was clearly shocked by what I saw and took this up with the Principal of the school.

I cornered her in the hallway and proceeded to inquire about the gulag type atmosphere and the teachers walking around like Spetsnaz. She seemed puzzled by what I was asking. I then realized that the vapid and lost look on her face was caused by her not knowing what "gulag" or "Spetsnaz" meant. So after using more simplistic terms, she informed me that this was so the children would eat all their food. I protested such silly behavior and reminded her that children of my son's age (5-11 years) are going to be loud. It is what they do and quickly reminded the principal that the kids would burn off excess energy and would be more apt to better receive information coming from the teachers. This statement caused the same vapid and lost look again. So it is my mission at this point to go to lunch with my son as much as possible and be as disruptive as possible to show the teacher that the children would be much better off if the would concentrate on teaching the children instead of trying to raise them. Raising my son is my job not theirs.

Coming soon: Can we skip it?