oil paint
patience, Lana Swindle I had apologized over and over, but he wasn’t “Please, sir, your son is a pleasure to have in listening. class.” I didn’t know why I was apologizing so profusely. Perhaps it was to avoid conflict, to keep him from complaining to the administration, to keep my job. But no matter how many times I insisted that I was merely informing him of my observations in class, he refused to acknowledge my comments. I had looked to his wife for support, but she remained silent, staring at the ground. It was my job to minimize the tension in the room, organize the chaos, but I found myself incapable of doing so. His outlandish remarks about my class, teaching, and language skills were unjust, based on anger more than fact, but I could say nothing in response.
He huffed something under his breath, pushing up from his chair. “This is ridiculous.” He grabbed his wife’s arm, pulled her into a standing position. Her detached expression twitched for a moment. It was barely noticeable. Just the hint of a frown, a tiny crease of her eyebrows, the first expression of defiance I had seen. I stood up along with them, but they were already at the door. She turned to me, glancing back for just a moment. The door slammed behind them with more force than was necessary.
I had to listen to him, acknowledge his com- I closed my eyes, returning to my desk. It was ments, take them to heart. to be expected, a parent who refused to acknowledge the behavior of their child in class, Or so they often told me. no matter what age was being considered. “How dare you?” he spat. “How dare you say There seemed to be too many of them this such things about my son?” year. XXVII | 9
