President Me

by Adam Carolla

  I would love to see my kids’ calendar of events for one month and compare it to the entire calendar of my childhood. There wasn’t one event that caused my father to cross the threshold of North Hollywood High. Once a year there was an open house, but my parents had a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. They didn’t want the dirty looks from the teacher. They also didn’t want to leave the house. That was a lose, lose, lose. So they just skipped it. They had the same approach to parenting as passing a motorcycle accident. They didn’t get out of the car and kick the guy, but they didn’t perform CPR either, they just turned up the stereo and kept driving.

  Here are a couple examples of important events I had to attend and how horribly awry they went for me.

  Natalia had a singing recital. So I hustled down to the school in between meetings and podcasts and other shit that pays for that school. I pulled up and could only find a spot in twenty-minute parking. I thought I’d dash in, make an appearance, slide out as soon as she saw me, and be back in the car before the twenty was expired.

  I rushed to Natalia’s class but there was no one there. Confused, I found someone who said the recital was in 3B. So I hustled over there. I had my hand on the doorknob when Sonny’s teacher turned the corner, saw me, and said, “Are you looking for Natalia? She’s in 3F.” So I headed toward my third attempt at seeing my daughter. Knowing I was late, I flung open the door to 3F. Ten teachers who were eating lunch whipped their heads around to awkwardly stare at me. If there had been a record playing it would have scratched. I apologized and slunk back into the hallway. I thought, “Fuck it, I’m in twenty-minute parking, I’ve spent the last eight trying to find this fucking room, I’m going to outtie to my Audi. I later found out Natalia was in 3B, the room I was attempting to enter when I was headed off at the pass by Sonny’s teacher.

  When I got home later I was greeted with a hearty stink eye from Lynette. She told me that Natalia was disappointed I didn’t show up. I explained what happened and Lynette did something that drives me crazy. She did a second lap of “Well, Natalia is disappointed.” What should I have done different? When Sonny’s teacher, someone who spends the majority of her time in that building, someone we know and trust, said that the event was in 3F, should I have said, “Fuck you, you lying cunt,” and then snapped her neck and kicked down the door?

  This mandatory parent-attended event shit really goes into overdrive around Christmas (or whatever we’re calling it now because we’re too PC). I feel like I lived at that school starting a week before Halloween until Valentine’s Day.

  When Natalia had her Thanksgiving party I got stuck parking in the same twenty-minute-only spot. And since parking tickets are the only thing L.A. does well, I ran in, supported her for nineteen and a half minutes, and then beat it like I robbed a bank and had a wheelman waiting for me.

  Then there was the first-grade Christmas pageant. I hung out for over an hour on that one because Natalia’s class went last. I showed up at eight A.M. and waited for an hour outside the auditorium in the cold. When her class finally got up there, they performed “The Dreidel Song.” It’s fucking Christmas. I want a song about chestnuts and figgy pudding, not Jew dice. (Another time I did the same mad dash to the school for a different Natalia talent show. It was supposed to start at 8:15. I walked in at 8:17 to find that Natalia’s class went first and I had missed it.) When I thought they were done I turned to walk out and Lynette stopped me. I was informed that we had to go to Natalia’s class and watch the kids eat muffins, otherwise I was a bad parent.

  I hate the part where it’s required. It’s like going to the funeral of a coworker you didn’t like. You have to show up so the other people don’t think you’re an asshole. I don’t want Lynette pissed off and I don’t want the teachers blaming every time the kids do something wrong on me, the absentee dad who didn’t show up for their Arbor Day tree-planting pageant.

  Plus every second of these events is being documented anyway. Everyone has the cell-phone camera out. So why do I have to be there? I’ll catch it on YouTube.

  Then there was the walkathon to promote physical fitness. This one took place at nine thirty A.M. on a Friday and consisted of watching six-year-olds just walking on grass in a big circle. It was a fund-raiser because at a certain point I asked Lynette, “What’s the end game here?” She said, “They’re trying to raise a hundred dollars for each kid.” I said, “Why can’t we give them a hundred dollars and just get out of here?”

  This event was not only a waste of my time but a waste of my kids’ time too. At least the pageants and plays are fun for them. In the middle of this field where the kids were walking in a circle was a coach shouting, “No running. Safety first.” These aren’t morbidly obese women in their seventies who just had a hip replacement. To a six-year-old, being told not to run is a punishment. It peaked when the guy shouted, “Thirty seconds left!” followed immediately by another blast of “No running.” You can’t tell a first grader they have thirty seconds left in a contest to see who can cover the most ground and expect them to not start running

  I was also annoyed that there were plenty of parents holding up signs encouraging their kids. This was a fund-raiser and they were actively telling them to slow down. Why the encouraging signs? I’m surprised one of the other parents didn’t file a bullying complaint.

  The worst school event was the time I went to Sonny’s second-grade play about the Constitution. The whole thing happened in that monotone kids do when they’re reciting things they don’t give a shit about but have been forced to memorize. It’s an awesome way to learn, holding something in your brain just long enough to regurgitate it in front of your parents and then never recall it again. I actually gave him a quiz on the way home and he didn’t remember shit. All the parents were there and were forced to sit on those minichairs where your knees are so high you can practically blow yourself. As if that didn’t suck enough, the teacher then called on us and said, “Okay, parents. Now it’s your turn. We need to see what you know about the Constitution.” I was thinking, “I came here to see my kid make an ass of himself, not to do so myself.” I turned to Lynette because between the two of us we have half a GED. We were both wearing a fearful “oh shit” look because Sonny was onstage with a hopeful “don’t embarrass me” look. There should be something in the Constitution about pop quizzes on the Constitution.

  So the parent quiz began and hands were flying up left and right while Lynette and I sat there like stooges. Finally my opportunity came. I don’t know anything about the Constitution, but I do know math. The teacher asked, “There were twelve states but they only needed two-thirds to ratify. How many states did they need?” My hand flew up and I said a confident “Eight.” The teacher replied in a snippy tone, “Nope, It’s nine.” My son snapped a pencil and his eyes welled up while my wife was looking at me like, “What have you done?!” Meanwhile I was thrust through a humiliation vortex back to Colfax Elementary. A shame-filled eight-year-old Adam Carolla sitting in a miniature chair not learning to read. Back in 2013, a parent in front of me who—despite having a shitload of tattoos—was getting every question right, had my back, jumped in, and said, “No, it is eight.” The teacher laughed it off and said, “Moving on.” I was so confused at that point she could have told me my name was Alan and I would have bought it. So I did what I never do: decided not to be a dick. She had worked on this play, and was trying to teach my kid. I let it go. But then as we were leaving she said to me, “You, young man, need to work on your fractions.” I was about to grab a miniature chair and use it to divide her skull into two halves. Then she got singsongy, “Three plus three, plus . . . ​oh, you were right.”

  Was there a lesson learned? Yes, and it wasn’t about the Founding Fathers, or fractions, it was about functions and to never attend another one at that school again.

  An infuriating epilogue to this tale: I told this story on the Kevin and Bean morning show as part of my recurring “This Week in Rage” segment. Well, a concern
ed parent—and by that I mean miserable cunt—decided that Sonny’s teacher needed to hear the segment. She actually downloaded it and gave it to the teacher. By the way, I just assume this is a she, but far too many dudes are now getting into this “I just thought you should know” schadenfreude shit. What’s your motivation? Are you really concerned about the teacher’s well-being or the sensitivities of the second graders who weren’t listening to the show? No, you just needed to cause trouble. Sonny’s teacher would have been fine not hearing that segment. It was a fucking bit on a fucking morning radio show. It’s not like I wrote a manifesto in blood threatening her life and nailed it to the schoolhouse door. I also complained about frozen yogurt that morning, are you going to head to Pinkberry headquarters and warn the CEO of the ranting madman who’s out to get him? When did everyone become a humorless twat?

  Well, congratulations, bitch, trouble you did indeed cause. Mission accomplished. A few days after the segment I received a handwritten note from Sonny’s teacher. I could practically see the tearstains on the stationery. She said she prided herself on being an educator, and while she could never forget my hurtful words, she would not let it affect the way she taught my children, who, despite our conflict, were still the priority.

  Of course Lynette ate this up with a fork and spoon and then wanted to stab me with that fork. She took me to task for ruining my kids’ education because I can’t keep my mouth shut. A halfhearted e-mail later, this all went away and we moved on with our lives, which only goes to prove that this was a molehill of nothing turned into a mountain of shit.

  That being said, if anybody reading this book knows the miserable cunt who dropped a dime on me, please present her this page and say, “I just thought you should know.”

  As a side note, I have to say that I hate when the Wyclef Jeans and Rob Reiners of the world talk about the arts and music education as if it’s a cure-all. They always preach about how kids who play instruments and engage in the arts have higher test scores and are more likely to go on to college. Of course, but it’s not like playing the flute makes you smarter. It’s the parents who bought the damn flute. If you have the time to make your kid practice the bassoon, and can afford a bassoon, that’s the reason your kid is going to be fine. You’re a parent who has time, money, and cares.

  And while I’m talking about arts education, enough with the idea that this turns on kids’ imaginations. All you have at age seven is imagination. We don’t need them to have any more. When a kid is going to be creative they’re going to be creative. Musicians cannot be stopped. There isn’t one famous drummer whose parents wouldn’t say they started banging on pots and pans when they were toddlers. It’s in there or it’s not. You can’t just give a kid an easel and think it’s going to turn on the artistic part of his brain. So let’s remove the focus on creating more oboe players and turn our attention to creating some more builders. This is all part of my campaign “Fuck the Music, Save Shop Class.” What does America need more of—guys who can build houses or chicks who can design dresses?

  THE TEACHERS OF TODAY

  I also had a run-in with Natalia’s teacher at one of my mandatory/completely unnecessary parent-teacher conferences. This one was particularly infuriating.

  First, I walked into my daughter’s classroom and was wandering around looking at her shitty finger painting when some little boy poked me on the hip with his index finger and said, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Can you imagine doing that in first grade? This is a more-than-six-foot, over-forty male in your classroom, and you’re attempting to settle his hash? You should be respecting him, not playing bouncer. I’m ordering my Education Department to commission a study on these types of kids, because I’m sure there are at least three in every class. I want to tag and track them through their life and find out if they’re truly douchebags in the making. I have a suspicion all the adult assholes we deal with every day were this kid at one point.

  But back to Natalia’s teacher. I noticed several things about her that day. First and foremost was her attire. She had a nose stud and go-go boots. I’m not trying to sound like Grandpa Carolla and this is no comment on her as a teacher but she just didn’t feel like a teacher. When I was growing up I had Mrs. Parker, who looked like someone from a Marx Brothers movie. She dressed like the dowager who would see some of Groucho’s shenanigans and say, “Well, I never.” I know it’s the culture now and there are probably very few teachers without some odd piercing or tattoo. But where do you draw the line? At some point the nose ring is going to give way to the guy who has the ball bearings put under his forehead to look like a Klingon and he’s going to sue when the school board asks him to remove them.

  The other thing I noticed was that on her desk she had a huge Starbucks Frappuccino with the whipped-cream dome. Again, this seemed unprofessional. If I were six and forced to stare at a pile of whipped cream, there’s no way I could focus on my ABCs and 123s. Then I noticed her first name written on the cup. I subtly rotated the cup away from the kids because if they found out her name is Stephanie, it would be all over. She’d lose their respect. They wouldn’t fear her anymore. For me, it was Mr. Spathe or Mr. Gregory. Not Nick or Ed. I didn’t know any first names because they were supposed to be authority figures.

  This position of authority has gone away because every teacher wants to be the cool teacher, not the hard-ass who actually forces kids to learn. That’s how it was when I was a kid. Plus, my nondisciplinarian “cool” teachers were into the Doobie Brothers, not Katy Perry.

  That’s something you don’t really realize until you’re an adult. Looking back at the people I feared or looked up to when I was a kid, it occurs to me that they were all idiots. No one ever tells you that. When you are an adult dealing with other adults, you see just how stupid they can be. But when you’re a kid you think your teacher is a good teacher just because they’re taller than you.

  To me, teachers are like cops, some are good and went into that profession for noble reasons, but most went into it because they didn’t know what else to do with their life. Some were teenage girls who enjoyed being babysitters and thought they’d make a living out of it. It’s always a little bit of a roll of the dice, just like anything. There are good lawyers and shitty ones, good dentists and shitty ones, good authors and shitty ones.

  One day Lynette wanted to have a talk about Natalia with her teacher at the time (a.k.a. Miss Nose Stud). The teacher said that Natalia was “just not responding to her.” I wasn’t even sure what that meant. And Natalia was in first grade. I only remember my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Doris, because we ran into her once at a grocery store and she took my mother aside to tell her I was behind in my reading. I have no idea if I “responded” to her. I said this to Lynette and asked, “And what’s the option? Can you get a new teacher? If not, then what are we talking about? Natalia has a tutor and a mother who gives a shit and reads with her every night. She’s going to be fine. Sure, her teacher is not Jaime Escalante, but I know the kid is sharp and intuitive and she’ll be fine. She’s way ahead of the game. What are we doing here other than wringing our hands about it? In fact she should have a couple shitty teachers to give her experience for all the shitty bosses she’ll have.” Lynette felt about this the same way she did when she wanted to get Sonny a tutor because he was behind in his reading. I said, “He’s in first grade, how can he be behind? Is he reading at zygote level?” Apparently the class average on a reading test was eighty-six, but even though Sonny got an eighty-eight it wasn’t high enough above average. I thought the boy was beating the curve and that was a good thing. Lynette thought I was an asshole.

  The point is, whether you have a good teacher that you respond to or a bad teacher, it just doesn’t matter. The parents are what matter. If you’ve got parents like Dr. Drew and his wife, you’re going to be fine. There was no chance his kids weren’t going to college. If you’ve got parents like some of the people Drew treats in rehab, then start getting ready for a career in th
e fast-food industry.

  I like good teachers, but I don’t think there are enough of them. Let’s face facts. It’s a low-paying gig, so you’re not always getting the cream of the crop.

  More importantly, the teacher is chasing the problem. We have to get in front of it. First thing you do is focus on the problem of broken families, then everything else falls into place. The other problems are satellites orbiting planet Broken Family—the school lunches, bullying, even obesity are all moons around planet Broken Family. I’m happy there are good coaches and teachers who take kids under their wing, but they are temporarily filling a void created by broken families. It’s like trying to fill a bucket with a hole in it.

  So what should we do with all the bad teachers? Shit-can their asses. I’m tired of the teachers’ union protecting them and constantly fighting progress. When Michelle Rhee tried to crack the whip in D.C., what was the first thing she did? She started closing schools and firing shitty teachers. And what happened? They ran her out of town on a rail. Their attitude was “How dare you come into our system and try to correct it? Hit the bricks, bitch. We had a good thing going. No one expected anything out of these kids, so we didn’t have to work. We had pensions and vacations, now you want us to perform? Fuck that.” The teachers’ union represents the exact opposite of what teachers are supposed to be trying to instill. School is supposed to be a meritocracy where hard work, intelligence, and effort are rewarded. But good teachers and bad teachers get paid the same wage and benefits whereas good students and bad students don’t get the same grades. The teachers’ union is the height of hypocrisy; it is like a fat, chain-smoking aerobics instructor.

  That’s why I’m totally for charter schools. Every time you see one of these open up, you’ve got parents throwing their kids over the fence to get them in there. I love the idea of creating some competition. Get someone in there to run that school like a business. Look at some data and fire some asses.