The Parents

YEAR ONE

I don’t remember my first day, but I remember my third. A woman walked into my classroom with her hair pulled back, the ponytail so tight that it stretched her skin like her face was a mask that needed to be held in place. She gave me a tense smile and strode over with military precision. I didn’t know what her job was, but I thought she would fit in among a firing squad.

“Ms. Glandis. I’m Diane Cloth, Blake’s mom,” the woman said, extending a hand.

I swiveled in my chair and stood to greet her. I gave her a reassuring smile that I hoped would ease her tension. It didn’t. “Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I said as I shook her hand, “Please, have a seat.”

Diane maneuvered around my desk and placed herself in a plastic chair. She adjusted herself so she could face my desk more directly, but it just made her position more rigid. It was difficult to imagine that she could ever have been a high school student.

“What can I help you with today?”

“Ms. Glandis,” Diane said, “You know my child, Blake, he's in your sophomore history class.”

It was only my third day, and I only had a vague idea of who Blake was, but I still smiled and nodded. "Yes, of course."

“He’s great at taking tests. He’s just not organized, so often homework slips through the cracks.”

“Ah,” I said, glad that she had a problem with a solution, “Not a problem. I can send an email to you and Blake at the end of every Monday to update you both on the assignments due this week. Is that something you would be interested in?”

Diane shook her head. “No, that won’t do.”

She didn’t explain why. I waited for a moment, but she didn’t continue. “Oh,” I said, uncertain, “Is there something else you had in mind?”

Diane’s lips curled into what looked like a grimace but might pass for a smile. “Well, I heard that you deduct 10% off homework for every day that it’s late.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I said, not liking where she was going.

“Well, Blake’s grades are very important,” Diane said, “We can’t have him losing credit on any assignment.”

“Then he should turn it in on time.”

Diane frowned at that. Although I knew I was in the position of power, I couldn’t help but feel that I didn't want to be on Diane’s bad side. “I already told you, he has trouble keeping things straight in his head.”

“And I already told you,” I said, remaining firm, “I’m willing to email the both of you every week so he can stay on top of his assignments.”

Diane was scowling now, her grip tight on her purse as she glared across the desk at me. “That’s not good enough. I’m asking you to waive the late penalty for Blake.”

“And I am telling you, I’m not going to do that. It’s important for Blake to learn time management. And self advocacy, I might add.”

Diane huffed and stood from her seat in a fluid movement. “I can’t believe this. I will talk to the principal.”

“Go right ahead,” I said, as Diane stormed out. I wasn’t threatened. I thought that would be the last I would ever see of her.

I was wrong.

Two days later, Principal Spoke called me into his office. Diane was seated, smug, in the chair across from him. He told me I had to waive the late fee for Blake. I protested. He insisted. Turns out, Principal Spoke always sided with the parents.

It was on day five when I decided I didn’t like the principal.

Diane began complaining about me before I had left the room. I stayed by the door once it closed, just to see what Principal Spoke might say.

“Yes, teachers can be challenging. But you know, I heard about this new technology…”

His voice fell to a whisper and I couldn’t hear the rest. I went back to my classroom and tried not to think about it.

YEAR SIX

A Holocaust survivor was coming to speak to the entire school. It had taken months of planning and preparation. All the teachers had agreed to take time off from second block so every student could listen to him speak for an hour, and I was thrilled.

The auditorium was filled, but for once the sea of teenagers was silent as the survivor’s quiet voice echoed throughout the room. I watched as students grew teary-eyed when the man recounted his escape from the concentration camp, and the decades-long search for his parents that yielded no results.

It felt like the most important moment I had achieved as a teacher. This was history made tangible—empathy contextualizing statistics. I knew of everything I taught, this was what they would remember.

After the man finished, he opened it up to questions from the audience. For the most part, the students exceeded my expectations. They were insightful and thoughtful, and I felt a swell of pride to see that they not only listened to his story, but were curious to learn more.

Then one student asked, “What do you think about the president?”

There were murmurs throughout the crowd. A couple days before, there was a protest where white supremacists marched through the streets waving a Nazi flag. While the president wasn’t openly in support of them, he didn’t disparage them, either.

“He’s not my favorite,” was all the Holocaust survivor said.

There was a smattering of cheers and jeers throughout the crowd, but for the most part the students remained quiet—undisturbed by his non-committal response.

I breathed a sigh of relief. If he had said anything extreme—which in his case, I would think would have been warranted—I knew I would never hear the end of it from the parents. Thankfully, I figured I was in the clear.

So I was surprised the next day when Principal Spoke called me into his office.

I walked in, and Diane was there once more. It had been six years since her first child was in my class, but I still wasn’t able to shake her. She had three kids, and her shadow would mar my classroom door for two more years until her youngest finally graduated.

I couldn’t wait.

“Diane,” I said through a tight smile, “Principal Spoke.”

“Ms. Glandis,” said Principal Spoke, “Please sit.”

I took a seat on the edge of the chair, perched like a bird prepared to take flight. I eyed the door and silently vowed that I would walk out as quickly as possible.

“Ms. Glandis, it has come to my attention that you have let your politics affect your teaching,” Principal Spoke said, leaning forward as he steepled his pudgy fingers.

I furrowed my brows, genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re teaching our children to hate the president,” Diane cut in, her voice sharp as she pinned her icy-blue eyes on me.

I guffawed. “I am not! Where did you get that notion?”

“I heard the Holocaust survivor yesterday spoke ill of him,” Principal Spoke said, and he tucked his chin so he could look through his lashes at me like a disapproving parent.

I shook my head. “Hadly. He was prompted by the student, I don’t know what else you wanted him to say.”

Principal Spoke arched a brow. “You could have directed him beforehand to remain strictly apolitical.”

I scoffed. “The man is eighty-eight years old! I was busy ensuring he had everything he needed and that he was prepared to tell his story, I wasn’t thinking about politics.”

“So you weren’t doing your job?” Diane said.

I bit my tongue and forced myself to look calmly at Diane without glaring. “My job is to teach your children history. I did that.”

Principal Spoke sighed and folded his hands together. “Well unfortunately, Ms. Glandis, this incident has forced my hand. That man is not welcome back on this campus.”

My lips parted, my jaw slack. I was rendered speechless, and I fumbled for a response. “You can’t be serious.”

“He is,” Diane said, seemingly pleased.

I shook my head without stop, like I could shake their words from my mind. “He had already promised me he would come back next fall. Please, you have no idea what this means to the kids. There are so few survivors left, it’s important for them to see the effects of history for themselves before only stories are left.”

Principal Spoke shook his head sadly, but Diane only sneered. “Then you should have thought of that before you let him fill our children’s heads with vitriol,” she said.

“Vitriol?” I looked between the two of them, once more at a loss. “I don’t even remember what he said! ‘He’s not the best,’ maybe? How is that vitriol?”

“Ms. Glandis,” Principal Spoke said, his faux sadness at once replaced by stern eyes and a locked jaw. “This is my final decision. And, since this is not your first incident—”

“Or her second,” Diane interrupted with another glare my way. I fought the urge to kick her shins. I was reprimanded two years ago because in teaching the children about slavery, I was apparently placing guilt on their shoulders. My curriculum now included entire lessons on white figures who were against slavery, even though by doing so there was little time for the more prominent abolitionists, like Frederick Douglass. And so history was rewritten.

Principal Spoke nodded toward Diane. “Or her second,” he agreed, “I have no choice but to place cameras in your classroom, so that the parents can monitor your activity.”

I stared at him. I waited for him to introduce an alternative, or maybe rephrase it as a threat should I step out of line again, but his lips remained sealed.

I stood from the chair with such force that it was knocked backwards. Red spots swarmed my vision and I dug my fingers into my pants to ensure they stayed at my side.

“You can’t do that! That’s an invasion of privacy. How am I supposed to do my job with dozens of eyes analyzing my every move?”

Principal Spoke splayed his fingers on the desk. “I’m sorry it’s come to this,” he said, “But the parents have a right to know what their child is being taught. You have a responsibility to them to—”

“My responsibility—my only responsibility—is to the children,” I seethed. “It is my job to educate the next generation so they can understand where they fit into the world and where we live in time. I take that job very seriously, and I do it well. But I can’t do it well if parents continue to interfere!”

“This is the way things are now, Ms. Glandis,” said Principal Spoke slowly. “If you don’t like it, you can leave.”

With that my anger dissipated, and cold fear took its place. He knew as well as I did that no one in the district was hiring, and I had children to support. There was nowhere I could go.

“Consider yourself lucky,” Diane said, a smug smile dancing on her lips. “There were more… extreme alternatives he could have taken.”

I frowned at her. What could be more extreme than this?

YEAR EIGHT

Over the next two years, my curriculum changed over a dozen times. Under the scrutinous gaze of the parents, each lesson had to be tailor-fit to what they wanted their child to learn. It made for an unbalanced story, as the parents highlighted some areas in history while leaving others completely untold. My job was no longer to pass on the truth of our past, but whatever truth the parents deemed fit.

It was only a matter of time before I did something that warranted further punishment. After a trip to Vietnam, I brought back items to use in my lesson plan for the Vietnam war. I showed the children different hats that they wore and I dressed in a T-shirt depicting the Vietnamese flag.

Principal Spoke called me into his office only an hour later. The parents had accused me of disseminating communism. Somehow, after all these years, I was still surprised.

Of course, Diane was with the principal when the accusation was delivered. This time, though, before they told me what my consequences would be, they left me in the office alone while they went to “fetch something.” I squirmed in my chair and secretly hoped they were bringing back my termination papers.

That was when I noticed a glint of something silver behind a frame on Principal Spoke’s desk. I looked around but his room, unlike mine, was camera-free. I leaned forward and plucked the object from the desk.

It was a small piece of metal—no more than an inch long and incredibly thin—with a miniature circuit board on the surface. I twisted it in my fingers but I didn’t know what I was hoping to see, I didn’t know anything about electronics. Still, I knew that something was off. I held the object closer to my eyes, and my stomach dropped.

On the corner of the object a single droplet of blood had stained the surface, with a bit of tissue directly atop. It looked like a chunk of brain.

“Ah.” I jumped and the object slipped through my fingers. I didn’t bother picking it up as I turned to see Principal Spoke standing in the doorway, his broad figure silhouetted by the hallway light. “I see you’ve found the prototype.”

“P-prototype?” I stuttered.

Diane slid out from Spoke’s shadow boasting a familiar smirk. “We’re calling it Parental Control.”

I shook my head and took a step back, but they were blocking the only exit. “What?”

“Parental Control,” explained Principal Spoke. “It’s a device that will be implanted in your brain. It preemptively detects your thoughts and, with the help of the operator, can change them.”

I felt sick. My vision swam and Spoke and Diane blurred together. Was that a third figure now, or was I seeing double? “Implanted in my…”

“Don’t worry,” said Principal Spoke, “It will only be active at work. At home your thoughts will be your own.” A man in a white lab coat was walking toward me. He had a needle in his hand, and I had the distinct feeling that I was an animal about to be put down.

“We just want to be sure that our children are only being taught the right information,” Diane said, and she looked practically gleeful. “We need to be able to trust that when we send them away, they’re not being turned into someone they’re not.”

The man in the white lab coat grabbed my arm, and I jerked away. “You can’t!” I exclaimed, “I quit.”

But Diane was shaking her head. “It’s too late for that, I’m afraid. It’s a new executive order. Any teacher who steps out of line automatically gets Parental Control installed after the third offense. As I’m sure you can recall, Ms. Glandis, this is much more than your third offense.”

I backed into a corner of a room, but they were closing in on me from all sides. There wasn’t enough air in the room for me to breathe. “So what?” I asked, “You’re just going to program lesson plans into me like a robot? Why not just get a machine to do that, then?”

“We want a human touch,” said Diane, “It’s important for the kids to learn trust and empathy, which we believe only a person can deliver.”

“And we would never take jobs away from the American public,” added Principal Spoke.

“Never,” Diane agreed, with a firm shake of her head.

“You can’t do this,” I whispered.

Diane only smiled. “Yes. We can.”

YEAR TEN

The class was waiting for something. I tried to remember what, but it was difficult. It felt like the memory was shrouded in a haze, and every time I tried to peer through the mist, it drifted away. I probably would have been lost forever if the girl in the front row hadn’t repeated her question.

“Ms. Glandis? Do you think the US was justified in dropping the atomic bombs?”

Ah, that’s right. Now that the question was fresh in my mind, the answer came easily to me. Not in the form of a simple yes or no, but in facts, quotes, and testimony. I could recount President’s Truman’s thoughts on the matter, Emperor Hirohito’s reaction, a survivor’s account, the number of those who died immediately and those who died years after, the arms race that began in the aftermath and the national allegiances that shifted. I could deliver it all to the expectant students in a succinct summary, and allow them to decide for themselves whether the action was justified. As I had decided years ago, one of the most important skills I could instill in my students was critical thinking, and this was an excellent opportunity to encourage that.

But just as the thought entered my head, it drifted away. In its place were fuzzy ideas with no clear connection, like a discussion board with too many answers.

The bombs were bad…

But they ended the war?

Lots of people died.

Don’t place that burden on the kids.

Don’t mention the arms race, that’ll scare them.

Just say something and move on.

“The bombs weren’t great, but they may have been necessary. We’ll never know for sure.”

The children seemed unsatisfied. So was I, but I couldn’t remember why. I smiled at them in an apology and glanced back at my slides to reorient myself. What was I talking about? Oh, right, the end of World War II.

I turned back toward the students with a smile. I opened my mouth, and the parents spoke their truth.