Like most other parents, my mom and dad agonized over my schooling options during the recent pandemic. After all, their choices were so limited. Short of sending me to the job site with my dad, they were reduced to two choices: break down and buy me a laptop or home school me. They chose the latter.
“We were concerned,” said my mom. “We wanted him to experience all of the benefits of homeschooling during the pandemic without sacrificing any of the important social aspects of attending a large public school.” So, they came up with a unique approach to making my experiences at home mirror those I would have at a disease-free public institution. If there is such a thing.
Like other kids my age, my school day began at 3:45 A.M. with mandatory Covid testing before a full-body antiseptic scrub. After donning my school uniform — a blue blazer over Orkin Termite Control overalls, enclosed with a medical-grade hazmat suit — I trundled downstairs for a hearty feast of waffles, chicken livers, and grits. “After breakfast, I pack a bag full of his favorite treats, a dozen N95 face masks and brush him out the door,” said my mom. “We make him walk a mile-and-a-half down County Road 109 in the rain and wait for the bus driven by his father.”
Once I arrived on “campus”, I had just enough time to sprint to the locker my dad built for me behind the garage. “You’re late!” barked my first-period history teacher, (who also happened to be my dad). “I suppose you’re going to use that excuse about missing the bus again.”
After first period ended, my dad made me jog in place outside behind the dumpster for ten minutes to simulate walking to my next class. “We think it’s important that he has the same social interactions that public school students have,” said his mother. “So, we have him go outside and talk with Lyman Finwall, our eighty-nine-year-old neighbor. He can’t hear and has Alzheimer’s, so it’s a lot like talking to a guidance counselor.”
During second period, my homeroom teacher (my dad) asked “the class” to turn in our report cards that he sent home the day before. “Say, this signature looks like it’s been forged,” said my teacher. “Oh, no sir. That’s my father’s signature alright. You can tell by the dippy way that he crosses his T’s.” I went around and around with him until he finally gave me two hours of detention for arguing with his teacher.
Third period is P.E., and because it was still raining, I trudged off to the garage that my dad converted into a gymnasium, complete with the smell of old, sweaty socks, Ben Gay, and decaying jockstraps. “OK,” he shouted. “You’ve got five minutes to get into your gym clothes. Today is calisthenics day!” My dad put me through my paces with a barrage of push-ups, sit-ups, five-yard wind sprints, and four-count burpees. Because the calisthenics ran overtime, I had less than five minutes to shower and change before having to run into the kitchen for lunch.
Being Friday, the menu consisted of fish sticks, macaroni and cheese, and warm, orange Kool-aid. “Originally, I thought about serving him wholesome, healthy lunches. Like the food I serve for dinner,” said my mom. “But, then I figured that would be setting him up for failure later in life, so we decided to feed him the same garbage they serve at Belle Gunness High School. His dad even installed a vending machine outside in the hall that ate all of your change and was filled with sugary soft drinks, candy, Twinkies, Cheetos, and all of the other rubbish they’ve banned from private schools.”
Before lunch period ends, I surreptitiously slipped across the street with my next-door neighbor Bobbie Kurban to engage in an age-old high school tradition: smoking cigarettes on the street corner while ogling girls. “Oh, sure. We know what he’s up to,” said my dad. “In fact, we encourage it. But just to make the experience as realistic as possible, I try to catch him in the act a couple of times a week to make him feel like he’s doing something he’s not supposed to. Once a month, I even take away his cigarettes and send him to the principal’s office.”
Later on that afternoon, I decided to ditch fifth period and go out to cover the side of our neighbor’s house with graffiti. “We knew that eventually, he’d get around to defacing public property,” said my dad. “So, instead of making him walk all the way down to the Franklin Bridge underpass, we let him disfigure the neighbors’ walls. They don’t seem to mind. After all, it’s a normal thing to do for any full-blooded teenager, isn’t it?”
During sixth period, I was given permission to leave class to try out for the Chess Club, the Debating Society, and the Lacrosse team. Because I was the only student trying out, I handily won spots on all of the teams except for the Girls’ Glee Club.
At 3:30, I gathered up all of my books and headed out to catch the bus for home. On the way, I was cornered by a group of tough-looking thugs bent on stealing my money and giving me a wedgy. “Just because he’s schooled at home, we didn’t want him to miss out on some of the authentic aspects of becoming a young man,” said my dad. “So, three times a month, I hired his cousins to rough him up a bit, toss his homework into the gutter and give him a Dutch rub. It’s good for him.”
When I got home, my mom cornered me in the kitchen. “I have some wonderful news for you,” she said. “Your Aunt Candalaria has agreed to be your date for the Senior Prom.” I could barely contain my excitement thinking about spending an entire evening with a 59-year-old, unemployed auto parts cashier. But, she did string me along for over three weeks, so at least, it was comforting to know that I’d be going to my Prom.
“We’re all for homeschooling during this international health crisis,” said my mom. “But we’re also glad that he’s learning the important lessons a young man his age needs. After he graduates, we’ve decided to continue his college education at home even if everything returns to normal. In fact, he’s already started researching how to rush a fraternity and survive hazing.”
