Category: 2022

I Need a New Butt

Some stories are ridiculous.

Some people are far removed from sanity.

Some organizations function without common sense.

Welcome to a story about those people and one of those organizations.

Toby Price was an assistant principal at Gary Road Elementary School in Byram, Mississippi.

The principal of Gary Road Elementary was supposed to read to a second-grade class via Zoom. For whatever reason, the principal could not participate. Mr. Price contacted the principal via text message and was told, “well, go ahead and read.”

The assistant principal chose to read, “I Need a New Butt” by Dawn McMillan.

After the Zoom meeting, Assistant Principal Price was told to report to the Hinds County School district office and was placed on administrative leave.

Superintendent Dr. Delesicia Martin issued a letter of termination, saying the assistant principal “did not demonstrate professional standards or maintain an environment free from unnecessary embarrassment or disparagement.” According to WLBT, Dr. Martin also wrote that Price showed “a lack of professionalism and impaired judgment.”

“I Need a New Butt” is classified as a children’s book and is published by Dover Publications.

Some organizations. Some people. Some stories.

During Sophia’s kindergarten adventure, one of our favorite events was the “letter of the week.” It was pretty simple. And a LOT of fun.

The teacher would proclaim a letter for the “letter of the week” honors. Each child would bring an item to school, beginning with the assigned “letter of the week,” and share it with the class.

For example, a kindergartner could bring crayons for “C” or grapes for “G” or Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls for “L” or “D” or “S” or “C” or “R.”

You get the point.

We didn’t want Sophia’s items to be ordinary. Where is the fun in doing what everybody else is doing? Why be plain when you can be extraordinary? Dare to be different. Bold.

Robert Frost challenged us to explore the road not taken.

So be it. Right on, Mr. Frost.

The letter of the week was “W.”

Watermelon? Bottles of water? We don’t have a pet woodpecker and a class full of whistles felt like an egregiously bad idea.

Wine!

Not wine for grownups.

Kid wine. Grape juice.

We sent Sophia to school with several bottles of Welch’s Sparkling Grape Juice and plastic cups.

The teacher loved it. A few parents complained.

Fine. We won’t send anymore wine to school.

Especially not to Gary Road Elementary School in Byram, Mississippi.

For Toby Price and Delesicia Martin and parents threatened by the presence of sparkling grape juice in a kindergarten classroom…

I proudly present my performance of “I Need a New Butt.”

The Lion King

The Lion King.

Circle Of Life. Hakuna Matata. James Earl Jones. Simba. Elton John.

That’s about it. I didn’t know much else. I have not seen the animated version. The live action version of the film was ridiculously wonderful.

The national tour visited Tanger Center in Greensboro. Cool. We’ll go. We went.

I want Sophia and Miles to love musicals as much as I love musicals. I can’t force them, but I hope. We’ll see if they tap their toes or fall asleep before intermission.

I wanted it to be great. I wanted it to be spectacular. I wanted the audience to roar. I wanted the drums to pound. I wanted to be knocked out of my seat. I wanted the cast to have the performance of a lifetime. I wanted, I wanted, I wanted.

Oh, my. I needn’t worry. Everything for which I wanted, delivered. Again, again and again.

It was great. It was spectacular. The audience roared. The drums were pounding. THE LION KING was fit for royalty.

I knew the setting was the grasslands of Africa. That was not a surprise. I did not expect to encounter the depth and influence of African culture throughout the production.

It was a glorious celebration wrapped in the traditions and folktales of Africa.

The music and vocal performances were breathtaking. It was every bit as magical as I imagined it could be.

The ensemble danced from a collective soul. It was full of life, grief and love.

Technically, there were no mistakes. Every light cue, every drum beat, every thread of fabric, every stroke of makeup. Every element was exactly as it should have been. I rarely use the word, but… it was perfection.

If anything, THE LION KING brings all the elements of storytelling together in a collaboration that stands the test of time.

Spoken word. Dance. Music. Puppetry. Art. It’s all there.

It’s a landmark production. The accolades are well-deserved. The ovation wasn’t long enough.

One of the best nights I’ve spent in a theatre in a long time.

We clapped. Toes tapped. Sophia and Miles sang all the way home.

Thank you, cast and crew of THE LION KING. Thank you. Bravo.

A Million Miles

Some people are out of touch.

If they don’t know, you can’t tell ‘em.

Other people get it.

You don’t have to explain a thing and they understand exactly what is happening.

The distance between out-of-touch and in touch sits somewhere between the seat next to me and a million miles away.

The decision to end the Broadcasting Program at the Career Center was cemented in place elsewhere. The million miles away neighborhood.

Clearly, it didn’t happen in the room where the learning and teaching happened.

That sermon is best saved for another day. (It’s not really a sermon. It’s more of a comprehensive encyclopedia of how to dismantle a highly effective career-preparation training program.) But, I digress.

Those in charge made the decision to end the program with no regard for anyone or anything else. “Let’s do whatever causes the least amount of paperwork.”

The program was never about test scores. Nor software. Nor data. Nor certifications.

It was about preparing young people to take advantage of the opportunities that are inevitably available to those who make the effort.

The program was always about building better people. Opening doors. Shining lights. Scattering seeds.

Brett was, and is, one my kids. He graduated from Happy Appy. He works for Learfield. He has applied to be part of the broadcast team for the Winston-Salem Dash, the Class-A affiliate of the Chicago White Sox.

Brett texted and asked if I was willing to reach out to the Dash on his behalf and “say something nice.”

Of course. I texted a friend.

“Hey. This is Jeffrey. I’m writing to say something nice. One of my children submitted an application. Good kid. Works hard. He is looking for an opportunity. Maybe y’all can listen to his demo a second time?”

My phone buzzed. Another Brett text.

“Mr. Griffin! I just got done with my interview with the Dash. They said they are seriously considering me for the job! Thank you!!!”

“That had nothing to do with me, Brett. That was all you. You should send a thank you note for the interview. I’m proud of you. Good luck!”

My phone buzzed again. It wasn’t Brett.

It was Jacob.

Jacob graduated a few years ago. He was a pole-vaulter in high school. He arrived in my room with a subtle streak of sarcasm and wild hair, for which I frequently had a comment about his time seemingly spent in a wind tunnel.

We got along exceptionally well.

“Mr. Griffin, this is Jacob. Thought I’d share the good news. The faculty in the Communication Department at Western has selected me to be the general manager of the campus radio station for the 2022-2023 school year.”

Jacob is an undergrad at Western Carolina. I hope he’s still pole vaulting with tall hair, but I don’t know.

“Jacob! Congratulations. That’s fantastic. Well done. I’m very proud of you. Bravo.

Remember – when you lead, some people will invariably complain.

Don’t worry about them. Do the right thing.

Thank you for sharing the good news. Congratulations.”

His response emanated not from a million miles away, but rather from the seat next to me.

“Just had to make sure the one who started me on this journey knew about it.”

Jacob gets it. Brett gets it. Thank you, boys.

The others don’t know and we can’t tell ‘em.

Harper Valley PTA (Part 2 of 2)

The PTA sponsors a yearly, nation-wide arts competition. Our children entered every year. Some projects turned out better than others. Oh well.

Competition is for horses, not artists. Nonetheless, Sophia and Miles entered. Many times. Many years.

They submitted entries in the creative writing category.

They’re our children and I’m biased. Absolutely. Guilty. I am their biggest critic and their loudest cheerleader.

The writing was extraordinary. The judging didn’t matter. I knew they had already won. Different grades meant different divisions meant two awards and two winners.

I told Vikki, “They’ve won. It’s so good, I can hardly stand it. She’ll win for her grade and he’ll win for his grade. I’m quite certain they’ll both win at the state level. We might have two national champions sleeping in this house.”

Was I expecting too much? Was my anticipation overtaking my common sense? I wondered.

I left our bed in the dark of night, retrieved my favorite red pen and printed a copy of their essays. I needed to be sure. I attacked their writing like I was the editor-in-chief of the New York Times.

Nope. I was right. The writing was THAT good. Well done, children. Well, freakin’, done.

Awards were announced and presented.

I damn-near fell out of my chair. No first place. No second place. No third place. No honorable mention. Nothing.

My head was spinning. I looked at Vikki.

“Did I miss something?”

I entertain an occasional conspiracy theory out of curiosity, but it’s hardly a guiding light.

Children with obvious connections to the PTA volunteers responsible for organizing the contest and judging the entries won multiple, first-place awards. Their friends and acquaintances occupied many spots on the list of honorees.

Would people actually do that? It seemed impossible. I couldn’t bring myself to think it, much less say it out loud.

Surely not. How ridiculous. I was left to my thoughts.

A trophy and a certificate don’t mean that much.

The backseat brigade was unusually quiet on the way home.

“Y’all, your writing is fantastic. Nothing changes that. You did great work. We’re proud of you.

Oh, and you don’t have to enter again. I don’t think it’s worth it. We can find another contest. If you want to.”

We went to Dari-O for ice cream. It soothes the soul.

My mama and I went to see HARPER VALLEY PTA in the summer of ‘78.

It was a movie about a single mother who takes on the Harper Valley Junior High School PTA. The heroine is ridiculed, dismissed, harassed and threatened by the PTA leadership because of how she chooses to live her life.

Barbara Eden was the star.

The theme song, performed by Jeannie C. Riley, is spectacular. Take a listen when you can.

Barbara Eden’s character dares to ruffle the feathers of those in charge and there is hell to pay.

It’s a movie with a message, whose time has finally come.

Whether it’s declining an offer of help because all that is really wanted is a signed check and quiet in the gallery…

Or manipulating the judging of an elementary contest so the kid with the most prestigious address can hang the blue ribbon on their bedroom wall…

Or refusing to meet with a fifth-grader who is asking for support to create a new event for classmates…

What’s right, is right. What’s wrong, is wrong.

You can be a Luebchow or a Yarborough or a Woodard.

Or, you can sign the card and join the Harper Valley PTA.

Make your choice.

Harper Valley PTA (Part 1 of 2)

My mama was indifferent when it came to the PTA. That’s Parent Teacher Association, for those playing along at home.

I vaguely recall the existence of an occasional PTA meeting in elementary school, but not much else.

It was a non-entity during junior high.

Julian Gibson, the legendary principal at North Forsyth High School, disbanded the PTA long, long ago because he felt they served no meaningful purpose.

That’s not to say parents didn’t help. The early musicals at North would not have happened without the heroic efforts of the Luebchow, Yarborough and Woodard families, among many.

When Sophia entered kindergarten, Vikki and I joined the PTA. My mother and Vikki’s mother paid the membership fee and joined, too.

We were committed to doing everything we could do to help Sophia, her teachers and the school create the most spectacular environment possible.

Room parents. Special events. Fund raisers. We’ve helped where and when we can.

There is a yearly outreach to enlist volunteers and ideas to prepare for the next school year.

I replied.

“I’m willing to do this or that, either here or there, however and whenever it needs to be done. Have y’all thought about…?”

I’m seldom short of bright ideas. It comes with the territory of being Margaret’s son and growing up with Gretchen, Terry, John and Uncle Larry.

We think big.

We do things.

It’s how life goes.

My enthusiasm was tempered with a less-than-welcoming response on official PTA letterhead.

“Mr. Griffin, why don’t you leave the thinking to the ladies? We suggest you find some other fathers and do some landscaping around the school. Pick up sticks. That kind of thing. We’ll handle the rest.”

To say I was surprised would be an egregious understatement.

“Pick up sticks?”

Vikki doesn’t like it when I utter grownup words. She was not happy with my behavior that day. I had a lot to say.

Needless to say, I wasn’t done.

I wrote the principal and copied the PTA. Among other things, I asked the school administration to reach out to the PTA leadership and clarify the importance of offering fathers and grandfathers and uncles and brothers and coaches the opportunity to work and volunteer within an elementary school setting. The world needs reliable, responsible male role models.

That was a costly move.

We were effectively shunned. Friends stopped answering our phone calls. Text messages were blocked. Invitations to the pool ceased.

My wife lost a good friend. Play dates with Sophia and Miles were few and far between. Invitations to birthday parties rarely appeared in the mailbox.

I remained hard-headed and defiant. Fathers can do more than pick up sticks.

Vikki and I continued to volunteer. Not because we were welcomed and certainly not invited, but rather we believe school is a family commitment. As long as Sophia and Miles are in school, we’ll be there.

Working. Giving. Helping. Hoping. Encouraging. It’s what parents do.

It’s precisely what the Luebchow, Yarborough and Woodard families did, and it mattered.

Being in charge and doing the work do not always go hand in hand. Pick, if you can. Choose, if you must. We choose to do the work.