Carol’s Column

When parents and teachers meet — life’s always exciting

THEY came in their droves to Greenside High School for the event of the year.

Jostling in the corridors, needling in the classrooms, shoving in the media centre — they were everywhere. Parents, parents and still more parents.

The notice for this auspicious occasion arrived about a month ago informing us that we were invited to attend the school from 6pm to 9pm to discuss our offsprings’ progress and receive their reports.

I dressed carefully. One has to make a good impression on your children’s teachers.

“Ma, I don’t think a shocking-pink satin mini with black fish-net tights is quite the thing to wear to a school meeting,” remarked my oldest, unmarried son.

I could see he was apprehensive, his eyeballs kept swivelling around in opposite directions.

“Perhaps you could go for something a little more dignified, a little more laid-back.”

I sensed an undertone to the conversation.

“Barry, is something bugging you?” I asked concernedly.

“No, Ma, nothing really. It’s just the other day Mr Keyser was heard remarking: Poor Lazar, he’s the one with the wild mother.”

“So, that’s a compliment,” I retorted with asperity.

Nevertheless, I changed into something sombre and suitable. Had I known there would be such crowds, I would have worn boots and spurs.

In rooms throughout the building, teachers were besieged by parents wanting to know how their Tom, Dick, Rochelles and Hymies were doing.

There were queues 25 long of parents standing patiently to speak to the teacher concerned.

Afrikaans went fairly quickly, but at science I was nearly felled by an irate mother when I inadvertently jumped the queue.

And history took an age.

I stood for half an hour waiting to speak to the rather dishy-looking teacher only to find as I reached the head of the queue, it was the wrong man — Keyser instead of Robinson.

Mr Robinson’s queue was equally long, I could see why.

They really grow teachers well these days, I thought to myself as I looked at the long and lean Std 9 history teacher.

“Ma, for heaven’s sake, don’t talk history, talk rugby to Mr Robinson,” my son Ralph had said. “He’s a rugby fanatic! It’ll put him in a good mood.”

So what do you say to a history teacher who’s crazy about rugby: ‘Shall we scrum down today, Mr Robinson?’

Mr McMahon-Std-10-history was charming.

“Thank you so much for carting my son throughout the countryside,” I remarked to him. “Any time, Mrs Lazar, anytime.”

I resolved to take his phone number immediately.

While standing in Mrs Trinchero-Std-10-English’s queue, it was rumoured that five parents were putting on a strip show to alleviate the boredom.

I had problems finding biology.

“I think she’s in the corner next to the stationery cupboard,” said one obliging parent.

And sure enough — eyes closed, resting in a chair, I found Mrs Raath, the Std-9-and-10-biology mistress.

I sat with her for a while and listened to her gentle little snores punctuate the general babble all around.

It seemed so cruel to wake her, but time was running out.

I shook her shoulder.

“So how’s Barry and Ralph’s biology?” I asked chattily. “They’ve really worked hard at biology this last term. Why, only last night Barry was running around the garden at midnight to catch night insects for his biology project. Now, if that’s not keenness, then I don’t know what is.”

She gazed at me glassily. I could see she was impressed. “Yes, and Ralph tells me he’s going to become a marine biologist — that or a pop star — he can’t make up his mind.”

She still didn’t say a word. I was unnerved by her silence.

“Mrs Raath? You do teach my sons biology don’t you?” I asked tentatively.

At last she spoke. “Mrs Raath? Biology? I don’t teach anyone biology. And as for your sons, I’ve never heard of them and if they’re like you, I don’t want to.” She shuddered, which I thought was unkind under the circumstances.

“I’m a parent. I’ve been standing in queues for the past three hours and I thought I’d have a sleep before I attacked the principal.

“However, if you don’t go away and let me sleep I’ll attack you.”

It’s extraordinary how aggressive some people are.

When I got home, the boys were anxiously waiting.

“So what did they say? What did they say?”

“Who?”

“Our teachers!”

“Oh, well Mr McMahon said he really enjoyed the film festival. Mrs Trinchero likes quiet holidays by the sea and ...”

“Didn’t you discuss us at all?” asked Ralph.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Those poor teachers have you all day long every day of the week — I thought I’d brighten their lives and talk about something interesting.”

“He’s right,” said Barry to Ralph, “she’s wild and unruly.”

Which is not a respectful thing to say about an only mother.

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