I should have taken this and gotten a picture on the spot; I apologize for my failure as a blogger.
My day began with an irate parent in the office– before I was even able to get to my desk and put my stuff down. She’s mad that a teacher has sent a note home without any “useful” information on it, including her signature, and is furthermore angry that her daughter was prevented from leaving the gym at the end of the day so that she could go to said staff member and acquire this all-important signature. She’s demanding to speak to the teacher in question immediately.
Right away I smell a rat, for several reasons, not least among which is the fact that the teacher in question has gym duty at the end of the day and would, therefore, be in the gym. I ask to see the note. The parent hands me two pieces of paper: her daughter’s progress report, which has every single grade carefully scratched out with what appears to be both black pen and Sharpie, and the handwritten note from the teacher.
Note that the parent is mad at the teacher, which means that I don’t help her mood any when I immediately start laughing and tell her daughter that she has exactly one chance to tell the truth before we have a serious problem. Because this is basically the note:
YOURE DAUTERS GRADES ARE INCORRECT THESE IS THE REAL ONES:
SHE IS DOING A LOT BETTER LATLY PLEASE CALL US IF YOU HAS ANY QUESTIONS.
I didn’t memorize the motherfucker; I remember there was definitely one word in there that had a superfluous “e” in it somewhere, but you get the idea. Furthermore, every letter on the page has been gone over at least two times in a way absolutely no adult anywhere writes but is currently a popular affectation among teenage girls.
Note also that the students have eight classes, not seven.
What’s Mom mad about? That the classes aren’t labeled. She apparently hasn’t noticed the… uh… various other issues with the note. She then proceeded to get mad at me for declining to punish her daughter at school; sorry, lady, this one is clearly your problem. I’m not doing anything about it.
And, say it with me: if the daughter doesn’t pass ISTEP, it’s my fault.