Let me preface this by stating, unequivocally, that I am not a curmudgeon, uptight, rigid, or unreasonable.  I am not crotchety or cranky.  

There.  Now I can go on and tell my story.

Recently my writers’ group (three of us present or former teachers) set off for the Bronx to see the Holiday Train Show at the Botanical Gardens and then to the famous Arthur Avenue for a diet-busting authentic Italian meal.  I could tell you about the amazing train exhibit, describe the earthy ambience of Arthur Avenue, and make your mouth water reading about what we had to eat.  Instead I’m going to tell you what happened at the restaurant that renews my empathy for teachers.  And makes me sad at the same time.

The maitre’d led us to our table, nicely set with white linens.  This was not Chucky Cheese.  It wasn’t McDonaldland.  It was not the kind of place with peanut shells and sawdust on the floor.  It’s important to know this.

Nearby was a table of nine children, ranging from, I’d guess, six to eleven.  Their parents sat at a table nearby, chatting, sharing a bottle of wine, some appetizers, some witty conversation.   Meanwhile, this party of nine youngsters disrupted, interfered with, and generally ruined our dinner, and that of everyone else in the restaurant.  They shouted, squealed, threw straws, napkins, and who knows what else at one another, pounded on the table, slipped out of their chairs, crawled around beneath the tablecloth, got up, ran in circles, nearly tripping the waiter, and rolled around wrestling on the floor.  Their parents?  Eating, drinking, laughing, selectively blind and deaf.

We asked our waiter if he’d ask the kids to settle down.  “Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” he responded. (Why in the world not?!) The misbehavior escalated to the point where we couldn’t even hear the waiter reciting the specials.  Well…the teacher in me (and the parent!) just couldn’t take it another minute.  I walked calmly to the crazy table and said, in my best, firm but respectful, “teacher voice” – “Excuse me children.  I know you’re all having a great time.  But, you are very loud and, unfortunately, you’re disturbing our dinner.  I’d appreciate it if you would settle down.”

This was a cue for one of the fathers to jump up, step indignantly beside me, and say, “I’ll handle this.”“Thank you,” I replied.  “If you would have handled it, I wouldn’t have had to.”

I’d like to say that the children settled down, that their parents supervised them, that they were encouraged to behave with courtesy and respect.  But that’s not what happened.  And, as we suffered through our meal, trying to ignore the mayhem, I thought about how this kind of benign neglect and refusal to guide children toward responsible behavior winds up affecting what teachers try to do every day.   And how often teachers take the rap for “not being able to control these kids.”

So, what does this have to do with writing?  Nothing, except that it felt good to put it down on paper.