Open House

The high school held their Freshman Open House tonight. Teachers meet and greet all incoming freshman and their parents; we stand in our doorways, smile a forced smile to all who we make eye contact with, and answer any questions we can. We are the welcoming committee: a relaxor. We set your child’s mind at ease.

“When do we get our lockers?” “Can you tell me where Mr. Billingsley’s room is?” “Where is the main office?”

We answer the ones we can and bluff our way through the ones we cannot. A teacher without an answer to your question, in a parents point of view, is a school that is disorganized and flying by the seat of its pants.

We are extensions of the school and how we act and how we are organized is representative of how the school will perform for the next 10 months.

And then there is the bitter parent, the one who feels that their kid is getting shafted. For these parents, nothing we do can be correct.

“Excuse me, Mr.” (looks at nametag) “Parizo.”

“Yes, can I help you?”

“Yes. I was wondering, where are all the Honors Freshman classes?”

(clearing throat) “All Honors Freshman students are integrated within the CP classes, all freshman students work side by side.”

“You mean, my son/daughter will be taking regular classes with… them?”

“Yes, ma’am. We feel that this will…”

“Thanks. Where is the principal?” (leaves abruptly with you mid-sentence)

These conversations occur over and over again. The same thing, reworded slightly. The bottom line is that some people feel that their kids do not belong in “integrated” classrooms. The spoiled Americans: better than everyone else.

Towards the end of the night, the forced smile becomes more difficult to muster -- my twelve hour shift has collapsed my soul. I can manage a closed mouth grin to anyone I make eye contact with. When I pass them and they are out of view, I breathe out in relief. I spotted a family standing in the hallway. They stood in a circle and quietly whispered to each other: a mother, father, and three daughters all hovering over a piece of paper, a schedule.

Somehow I pull the last piece of "teacher" out of me, approached them and said: “Hi folks, do you have any questions that I can answer?”

The father smiled and nodded. “Can you tell me what this means?” he asks me in an accent, pointing to the schedule.

RM 116 – DOMING – CIT. – FIRST BLOCK

“Sure, this first number is the classroom. Which is right here,” I say pointing to the door behind me. “Then this is an abbreviation for the teacher, Mr. Dominguez. This is an abbreviation for the class: Citizenship. And…”

“What is Citizenship?” asks the oldest of the daughters – the incoming freshman I assume. She hides behind her father’s arm.

“It’s a class about American government. How the government operates. How America, as we know it today, came to be. How it was created, the mistakes along the way as well as the successes.”

“You mean, I will be taught about the government?”

“Yes,” I say. “The class is called Citizenship because it teaches our students how to be citizens of the United States.”

The oldest daughter stepped from behind her father. “What else?” she asked me. “What else will I learn?”

I tell her about famous speeches she will learn; the people who wrote them and why they were written. About how the government functions, the roles of each branch, and responsibilities of people in power. With each comment she comes out a little further. By the end of my conversation, she is standing directly in front of me and I am telling her about Patrick Henry’s “Give Me Liberty or Give Me Death” speech to the Virginia House of Commons, my personal favorite.

Her father looks me in the eye and says, “We are from Afghanistan. She has not attended school in three years.”

They are refugees from Afghanistan fleeing from the Taliban. The children have only been in America for two weeks, they know absolutely no one, and are completely scared out of their minds. My little rant about government, was this little girl’s first experience with certain freedom’s she has never experienced before – things she was forbidden to learn her entire life.

I spent the time walking around the school, showing them each room she would go to and I gave quick synopses of each class. I take her to the Art room and tell her about the projects she will be working on: painting, clay, and drawing, and I thought for sure she was going to cry.

I said my goodbyes and told them that I was looking forward to seeing her on Monday. I showed her where my office is located and that she could stop in at any time.

As I say goodbye to them, I notice that smiling is easy now. And making someone feel welcome is no longer a part of my job, but something that I can embrace for once knowing that it is pure.