P.T.A.- Painful Truths Admitted

By: Tziri Frank

DISCLAIMER – Any reference to or mention of specific individuals is this article is purely fictional and presented only to enhance the story line. I am truly in awe of all those professionals who have the ability to plant the educational seeds that will result in the growth of our future.

For some people it’s Yom Kippur, for others it might be that moment in the doctors’ office for your annual checkup, when the supercilious P.A. asks you to step on the scale. For me, the time I most fear all year is the annual educational ordeal of P.T.A.-Parent Teacher Association, otherwise known as the experience of Painful Truths Admitted.

As early as mid October, I begin to get the phone calls.

“Mrs. Frank?” will come a stern voice.

“Yes,” I reply hesitantly, glaring in advance at the nearest child.

“WE have a problem.”

Gulp.

“I will not accept insubordination in the classroom! Am I clear?” asserts the strident tones of, what I presume, is a teacher.

“Perfectly,” I whisper obediently into the telephone, “but, could I ask just one question?”

“Well, all right,” says The Teacher, “but just one. I have a lot of things to do, you know!”

“Well, it’s just that I have four children in school,” I bravely continue, “and, well, I’m confused…whose teacher are you?”

“Really, Mrs. Frank,” exclaims the horrified tones at the other end of the telephone line, “this is not a laughing matter! I begin to see where _______________ (and here you can fill in the name of any child) gets his/her attitude from!”

And for the next several weeks various forms of the same conversation will take place with increasing regularity. So, you can well understand the trepidation with which I approach the scholastic event known as PTA (Please Take Advil). In truth, I have often felt that the actual meeting is extremely unnecessary, since by the dreaded PTA (Pretend To Agree) in question, I am in constant correspondence and/or telephone contact with just about all teachers who have been blessed with a Frank child in the classroom. I usually communicate more with them, than I do with my own mother. Actually, now that I think about it, by the time PTA (Peaceful Thoughts Aside) night arrives, the teachers and I are feel a certain kinship as we mutually admire how another adult manages to enjoy a Frank child.

This year (Panic Time Arrives) PTA was pretty much what I expected.

“I can tell you that your daughter is very bright,” began the conversation with each of my oldest daughter’s sixteen high school teachers. I should probably point out that one of these instructors was me.

“Oh. Thanks,” I hastily agreed, thinking if I just got them to stop talking right now, I would walk out of the room a proud Mama.

“Yes, academically, she is at the top of the class, her marks are really quite wonderful.”

“That’s just great!” I cut in, “well, I don’t want to take any more of your valuable time, there are so many other parents waiting,” and I hastily attempted to make my exit.

“BUT,” inevitably came the suddenly firm authoritative voice, “I could not give her the mark she deserves.”

“Why not?” I questioned, though I already knew the answer.

“Because your daughter enjoys class too much!”

“Is that a bad thing?” I asked, honestly puzzled.

“It is when what she enjoys most is talking to her friends!” came the instant reply.

Seventh grade PTA (Professors Tell All) was no better.

“Your daughter is lucky that she is so bright,” began the various educators.

“I’ll tell her you said so,” I smiled brightly, “Gotta go!”

“Not so fast!” came the resolute tones of those that I once considered my friends, “the reason she is lucky is that she is able to get good grades even though she is not working to her potential at all!”

Gulp.

“Just think of what she could accomplish if she wasn’t so busy being sociable in class!” came the edict.

Gulp. Gulp.

I didn’t fare much better at fourth grade PTA (Plenty To Announce).

“Academically, your daughter is doing well,” began the professional mentor.

“Wonderful!” I said trying to maneuver myself out of a desk made for a nine year old.

“Socially she’s doing well too,” continued the teacher completely oblivious to my convoluted attempts to discharge my postpartum figure from the narrow confines of a child’s writing table.

Bravely, I smiled at the educationalist to acknowledge this piece of news, but I could not talk because I could not breathe.

So, she went on. “You might even say she’s doing a little too well socially. She has a great deal of trouble making any distinction between being group ringleader during recess and the leader of the pack during class-time!”

And I felt myself deflate.

I was a little more hopeful at my son’s Pre-1-A PTA (Please Tip Accordingly), partly because I figure that in a boy’s Yeshiva his behavior can’t be that extraordinary, and partly because my husband is his Rebbe.

“It’s wonderful to see Sonny shine academically,” began Rebbe formally.

“I know,” I interrupted, “I get such nachas from listening to him do his Kriah each and every night. By the way, have you had time to fix the broken closet door yet?”

“BUT,” went on the unyielding tones of a suddenly professional Mechanech, “he is much too leibedik in class!” And with this, Rebbe suddenly leaped out of his chair, and danced around the class to illustrate his point.

“I don’t know where he gets that from,” I murmured to myself.

“Such behavior could be manageable if that was the end of it,” sang the definite tones of my son’s role model as he pranced around the desks, “but the other boys in the class only want to imitate whatever Sonny does!”

At this, I must confess, I felt a surge of poorly placed pride. I quickly squelched it and bit down on my ravaged nails to stifle a smile.

“You can be sure he will be dealt with appropriately at home,” I said in grave tones, “though I must confess, my husband is much better at these things than I am!”

And then I hastily made my exit, before I could hear any more, but I did manage to grab the credit card.

So, it was with bowed shoulders and a heavy heart that I walked through my front door after a long day of PTA (Precious Time Allocated), weighed down with the burden of four flimsy paper report cards. I was fully prepared to reprove, rebuke, and reprimand my wonderfully smart, yet amazingly vociferous children. Except, that the sight of a telephone receiver being thrust in my face stopped me. Now, everyone knows, you cannot chastise offspring when someone at the other end of a telephone cord might hear. So, with very clear body language I expressed my inner feelings as I silently took the phone.

“If this is a teacher, principal, or any individual connected with the education system, you’ll have to save it for tomorrow,” I began, “I have had as much PTA (Parent Teacher Association) as I can handle for one day.”

“Hi, it’s me,” responded the chipper voice of my severely handicapped son’s social worker, “have you got a few minutes? I’d like to talk about Yossi.”

Immediately all extraneous thought fled my mind and I snapped to attention.

“What’s wrong,” I demanded, ever the eternal pessimist.

“Nothing’s wrong,” said the friendly voice, “but I have Yossi’s team sitting here in my office. We are about to go over his quarterly progress report, and we thought you might like to join us via speakerphone.”

“Yossi is doing so well,” began his physical therapist, “it’s wonderful to see how much he enjoys the progress he is making with his head control. He’s at the top of his class, and deserves the credit he is receiving in this area!”

“”Yossi is a delight to work with,” said his occupational therapist, “he is learning to hold onto his spoon and help his aide guide it to his mouth. He is really working to his potential!”

“I’m so proud of Yossi,” praised the nurse, “he is definitely the leader of his group, because he has managed to make it through the whole quarter without being rushed to the emergency room!”

“Yossi enjoys our sessions immensely,” chimed in the musical therapist, “he is really quite leibidik!”

For the next fifteen minutes, I had nothing but nachas as I listened to these licensed professionals extol the virtues of, mentally and physically challenged, Yossi.   Reluctantly, I eventually hung up the phone. As I turned around, four expectant, nervous, and worried faces brought me back to reality.

“Who was on the phone,” asked one in an attempt to delay the inevitable.

And then the irony struck me. All through PTA (Please Take Action) that day I alternated between pride in my children’s academic achievements and concern over their scholastic behaviors. With this phone call, however, I felt only happiness and pride.

I looked at each of my normal children meaningfully and said, “That was nachas, that was joy, that was a (Pleasure to Accept) PTA!”