A conference reminiscence

Poor Elijah was browsing through his school’s nonfiction shelves when a fourth grader asked for help finding books about World War III. Poor Elijah politely informed him we hadn’t fought Number Three yet.

“So how come it’s already got a number?”

Poor Elijah explained how numbering wars was a tricky business, and how France and England didn’t know they were fighting the Hundred Years’ War until it was over and they had time to count, and how World War I didn’t get its number until World War II was under way. This naturally led to a symposium on the armistice, solemnized in the eleventh month on the eleventh day at the eleventh hour. It also led the hapless nine-year-old to wander off with a slightly dazed look on his face.

Actually, if you’re a teacher, Armistice Day means more than the end of worldwide carnage. It also signals the end of the first marking period and, speaking of carnage, parent conferences.

Don’t misunderstand. Most parent conferences are pleasant, congenial affairs. That’s because most parents are concerned responsible people who care about their children.

Still, conferences can be tense situations. Blackboards and chalk are enough to intimidate otherwise well-adjusted adults who recall their own school years with less than unqualified self-confidence. Add to that the state of shock report cards can induce. “Congratulations. Your previously brilliant twelveyear-old has recently become hormonally uneducable.”

Incidentally, despite what you read at the supermarket checkout, or in your school’s newsletter, parent conferences aren’t existential events that determine your child’s educational destiny. There is no list of “Two Hundred Crucial Questions You Need to Ask the Teacher.”

Owing to the pandemic, some schools are holding virtual, online conferences this year. For those of you who will miss the real thing,

Poor Elijah volunteered to share a few lighthearted conference reminiscences. In his school parents meet with all their child’s teachers as a team.

7:30 a.m. Kickoff. Reading teacher spends half the first conference explaining how she grades student reading journals. This leaves one minute apiece for everybody else to cover what the student’s been doing for the past nine weeks. Team agrees by majority vote to limit subsequent discussion of reading journals.

7:45 a.m. Parents open conference by complaining about reading journal. Doesn’t allow enough creativity. Science teacher deflects criticism by praising student’s artistic talent, alluding to his illicit tabletop engraving of mating crayfish.

8 a.m. Parents open conference by complaining about reading journal. Demands too much creativity. Reading teacher concludes conference with two Gelusils.

Interlude. Nine conferences. Highlights include social studies teacher’s attempt to explain how cooperative learning group members who copy each other’s work aren’t really copying each other’s work.

11:15 a.m. Student isn’t making any effort. Parents want child retained if he doesn’t pass. Guidance counselor replies that retention isn’t possible because student is tall.

Dad: What’s that got to do with it?

Counselor: It might hurt his self-esteem.

Dad: You’re saying his height should count more than his F’s?

Counselor: We deal with the whole child.

Dad: Listen. I’m no teacher, but why don’t you guys save yourselves trouble and grade them on their height and weight in the first place?

11:30 a.m. Team tactfully attempts to inform parents their child is disciplinary menace. Science teacher dissents, choosing to ignore occasional fires student sets in back of room. Earlier in career was also overheard reassuring Charles Manson’s mother, “Chuck doesn’t give me any trouble.”

Interlude. Four consecutive rational conferences.

Lunch. Grinders and Gelusils.

1:00 p.m. Parents present psychologist’s letter diagnosing their son’s lack of homework as a “motivational disability.” Parents tape record conference for their upcoming debut album, Meet the Plaintiffs.

1:15 p.m. Tearful mother declares she’s being crushed by daughter’s homework load – “You’re killing me” – and couldn’t there please be more study halls.

1:30 p.m. Sophisticated couple wearing matching Columbia windbreakers requests fewer study halls and Pachelbel’s Canon in the cafeteria.

Interlude. Includes two parents who offer unsolicited praise of reading journal. Reading teacher experiences tachycardia.

3:45 p.m. Parents shocked when informed their son failed English. Blame teacher for not detecting that son had forged parental signature on report card.

Interlude. Two hours of nonstop conference sanity. Also supper – soggy grinders and more Gelusil.

6:15 p.m. English teacher praises hard-working student for earning B. Annoyed Mom feels student isn’t achieving to full potential. Unclear whose potential she’s referring to, student’s or her own.

6:30 p.m. English teacher explains that bright student is coasting and could have earned an A with more effort. Annoyed Mom asks, “Why? What’s wrong with a B?”

Interlude. Six good ones in a row.

8 p.m. Social studies teacher becomes disoriented. Begins explaining how reading journal is graded.

8:15 p.m. Reading teacher details Jennifer’s progress. Parents politely inform her Jennifer isn’t their child.

8:30 p.m. Concerned father questions son’s spelling program.

Special Ed: He has a spelling disability.

Dad: You mean he can’t spell.

Special Ed: Not exactly. He’s just experiencing difficulty writing the words correctly.

Dad: You mean he can’t spell.

Special Ed: Let’s just say it’s not his strength.

Dad: Let’s just say he can’t spell.

Final whistle. Math teacher stares at clock and asks what time it is. Reading teacher devours box of Milk Duds and last three Gelusils. Science teacher gathers up lab reports to be graded.

Poor Elijah turns out the light.

Nine o’clock, and all’s well.