Counterfeit Humans

One must be prepared when facing massive idiocy to find a means of maintaining a sense of unbending tranquillity within oneself. Brush aside any urge to commit a hostile act. Subtle hostility may be allowed. For instance, carving the word “dunce” on the side of the person’s desk when they look away.  Or slingshotting a large pebble through an open window while hidden behind a nearby bush and hitting your target squarely on the side of  the neck. 

As you may recall, my son attends a private school without an athletic program. Hence, I researched and discovered that, with a bit of fancy paperwork, he could play golf for the local public high school. I was to meet with the Stuperintendent  (short for an unbearably stupid superintendent of a school district) even though I already knew his answer.

I’m not clairvoyant, but like private eyes, I have my reliable informants. No, not mobsters, ex-cons or assorted degenerates. My spies consist of the head librarian, a retired engineer and a local multi-millionaire. The latter, X,  had past dealings with the Stuperintendent. X, a sixty-year-old, retired university professor/entrepreneur, founded a digital microscope company which he later sold for nine figures. X generously offered to teach physics at the high school. Stuperintendent turned X away. Undoubtedly, all those initials (Ph.D. from MIT) confounded the Stuper.

All three of my sources informed me that there would be no high school golf team for my son. Yet, the Stuperintendent agreed to see me. Could my informants be mistaken?

I was granted an audience at eight am during the climax of chaos. Students dashed to and fro like ants whose single file line had been tampered with.  Overhead speakers mounted throughout the campus – in the offices, classrooms, bathrooms – blasted the local radio station at decibels so loud, the receptionist and I had to engage in a shouting match in order for me to explain who I was.

The receptionist whisked me away, down dimly lit corridors to the exalted office, while a voice on the speaker announced,
“No student parking at the YMCA lot across the street.  All inmates must remain on school grounds at all times.”

“Did I hear correctly?” I asked my guide.

“Well, we lock all gates and entry ways during school hours. But some students do try to escape by jumping our high wire fences, and then by taking off in cars parked across the street.”

Keep in mind, this campus is not in the Bronx or East Los Angeles; it’s in a quiet town in the countryside.

How should a Superintendent dress? My high school principal always wore a snappy suit, kept his hair perfectly combed and maintained a slight tan, indicating a healthy love of the outdoors. Picture Cary Grant in his sixties.

How does a Stuperintendent dress? Jeans and the school jacket clumsily draped over a tee-shirt indicating he’d just rolled out of bed. Picture Drew Carey (no disrespect to Mr. Carey), but not as attractive.

We met in his office and I stated my purpose. I explained the means to allow my son to play golf. Stuperintendent wanted to know why my son wasn’t enrolled in his school. My sources had told me that enrollment had been steadily dwindling. They’d 1400 students a short time ago; 1100 currently. I’d heard numerous complaints about the caliber of curriculum. Plus, my son was happy where he was.

I do not hit people beneath the belt. I find that unbecoming. Besides, in this case, I was certain there was nothing there to hit. So I asked the Stuper to stick to the issue at hand. Suddenly, he froze. He stared at me, unblinking, then blurted,

“Is this about golf?”

When I answered affirmatively, he proceeded to give me a stack of enrollment papers, one inch thick; then he boasted about how challenging the high school courses were.

“Our students are accepted at the University of Spain,”  he told me.

Immediately, I turned my attention elsewhere to maintain my sense of well being. I did not attempt to hide my disinterest; I just stared at the wall behind him where several framed accolades hung. But this is what caught my eye:

Nothing that is absurd seems impossible. The name beneath this quote was his own.

Can someone kindly explain this quote to me? I almost fell backward in my chair and hit the floor trying to make sense of that one. Maybe I was just too intent on maintaining tranquillity. I think it’s a twisted version of Cervantes’ In order to attain the impossible, one must attempt the absurd.  Appropriate in my case, don’t you think?

I interrupted his endless ravings and asked, “Do you think me absurd for attempting what you deem impossible?”

“Of course not.”

“Why can’t my son play on the team?”

“I only serve students fully enrolled here.”

“So you have the capability of allowing students who aren’t enrolled to participate, but yet you choose not to?”

“Right.”

Then he proceeded to tell me how he regularly, for the past twelve years, turned down kids from all over, including lesser neighborhoods; he ignored pleas from parents who lived fifteen minutes away, albeit in a different district, who begged him to enroll their children. He had a half-crazed expression in his shifty eyes while he spoke. But he still didn’t explain why.

“It’s about the $, isn’t it? You get no stipend without full-time enrollment within your district.”

“That’s not it.”

As he bragged again about his program, I stood up. He thrust the stack of registration papers in my hands, insisting I take them, in case I came to my senses. He followed me out saying,

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you have the last word.”

Since I don’t smoke, I bummed a cigarette lighter off a random student. The Stuperintendent didn’t notice as he busily rambled on. I gingerly lit the papers he’d given me, then dropped them in a nearby metal trash can. I didn’t look back as I walked to my car, but I knew he’d stopped trailing me.

What’s the best way to dissolve such sheer stupidity? Share your tale with some one that you love.  My son and I enjoyed much laughter at the Stuperintendent’s expense. 

Keep thinking!

Keli
Keli@Counterfeithumans.com

P.S. Every bit of information here is verbatim and factual save one: the cigarette lighter scene is my fabrication. Do not think for a moment that I contribute to the delinquency of young people. Delinquent stupers are my specialty. I set the papers on fire at home. 

I’m off for the next few days meeting stupidity head-on in the guise of the much maligned, often misunderstood local superintendent of education. He has decreed it impermissible for my son to play on the public high school golf team. My son attends a private school that lacks a team. Hence, I must investigate to determine if Mr. Superintendent has a valid reason or if he’s indeed a stuper (you must know by now, this is short for an unforgettably stupid person). Ah, the things I do for my children and my research (both of which I adore equally).

Meanwhile, I leave you here today with a tale from my formative years. Even as a youth, I believe I displayed the makings of a stupidity expert. Hopefully, you’ll agree.

At age nine, I was an ambitious scholar. Unfortunately, I was also a victim of professional stupidity committed by Mr. Sussman, my fourth grade teacher.

At the very start of the school year, the Suss carefully assessed the abilities of his twenty-nine students in a unique way. Not by using a battery of tests. Review of past work was irrelevant. No questions were asked; no students were interviewed. Mr. S believed the best method for evaluating student competency was a simple one: judge by appearances.

The Suss classified students in this manner:

• Those that hailed from Japanese descent were obviously bright. They would be placed in the “A” group;
• Those exhibiting Caucasian features and who appeared “normal” would also be classified in the sought after “A” group. To fall into the “normal” category, children could not be overweight, had to sport combed hair,  be capable of sitting still for a minimum of six seconds, and they could not be the product of a father named Bubba or Bobby Ray.
• Everyone else fell into category “D” with nothing in between.

This classification system resembled that of third world countries. There was no middle class; just a small, but powerful and solid elite, epitomizing the leaders. Everyone else landed with a heavy thud at the bottom.

I am a brunette with a light olive complexion. I am not Japanese and, in Suss’ razor sharp assessment, there was a chance I wasn’t Caucasian. In all fairness to the Suss, this took place in the seventies when many Southern California schools had their share of children of Latin descent who had trouble learning the language and consequently, a challenging start in learning. Suss figured I had emerged from south of the border, though this was not the case. I was a prime candidate for category “D” which was where he placed me.

I may have only been nine, but I was outraged as my Japanese friends initially looked on in disbelief at my displacement, then snickered and pointed. I could have squeezed all the juice out of a lemon in my bare hand that day.

I considered explaining to Suss that I was smarter than I looked. I needed to kick him on the shin to get his full attention. But alas, I wore soft tennis shoes on that day. Instead, I patiently waited my turn to prove myself.

The day after his arbitrary, capricious and inane classification, we were divided into reading groups. The crème de la crème read Treasure Island aloud for the Suss while we, in the dubious and intellectually impoverished group, read something like See Spot Run. I waited my turn practically gagging myself to keep from shouting out.

I must mention why this was so maddening. At home I read Black Beauty and The Secret Garden. To be reduced to stories I’d conquered ages ago was terribly frustrating to my nine-year-old mind.

When my turn came, I was gratified to read the entire book in five seconds flat. Needless to say, Suss suggested I join the other group. I shot him looks that could have burned holes through his spectacles had I tried a wee bit harder.

As I passed by him, I noticed his baffled expression. Probably trying to figure out how he possibly could have made that tiny error. (Insert glass-shattering shreik here, but don’t forget to plug your ears first, dear readers).

Every profession has its share of mistakes. People who somehow attain a position despite lack of skill, proper knowledge or training. Perhaps another stuper opened the way. This is likely, as you know, since the stuper population is at an all time high.

I heard Mr. S is no longer teaching; he’s now a school superintendent.

Think for yourself.

Keli

Keli@Counterfeithumans.com