Dad overstepped the line when he shouted profanities and made physical threats. OTOH, I commend his admission of that and his acceptance of responsibility. I also understand his justifiable anger.
When GreenGirl was 11, she got a hand-drawn picture from a classmate of a figure (conveniently labeled as her) hanging by the neck. She was visibly upset by this and by her account, later corroberated by her teacher and the school principal, the only discipline was verbal chastizement and the paper was subsequently lost or destroyed.
Needless to say, I was incensed. But, when you’re the angriest is when you had better think hardest about what action you are going to take. Well, I went up to the school and read them the riot act. They thought I was “over-reacting”. “Let me get this straight. A graphic threat of physical violence, in the idiom of a terrorist organization with which our region has had decades of trouble and which intentionally targets Catholics, blacks and non-English speakers is made . . . against the only Creole girl in the school. You compound this by destroying the evidence of this threat and you think I’M over-reacting?”
They ended up calling the local police, whom I met out front with a smile and calm explanation of the situation, after speaking to the 911 dispatcher informing her that while I was extremely angry, I was in control and had neither verbally nor physically threatened anyone.
The officers sent out noted my agitation, but weren’t buying the school’s account of a rampage. But, at the same time, they told me that matters within the Catholic school system are difficult to get involved with, unless a grave crime has been committed.
It gets better . . . perhaps afraid I would sue (it had crossed my mind), the principal brought the perpetrator in to make an apology. He was pathetic. Obsequious little shit could barely stop sobbing long enough to speak. I felt sorry for him, but chose my words carefully.
“You gave that picture to my daughter? [described the picture]” I intentionally looked a little scruffy when I went in. Goatee, stubble on my cheeks. I shave my head regularly and was wearing jeans, work-boots and my army feild jacket. “Do you know where I got this jacket?” [he shrugs] “I got this when I was in the army. You know we have thousands of soldiers in the army and sometimes they are away from their families for years, far away fighting terrorists. Sometimes, some of us get hurt or even die fighting them and sometimes we kill them. But, we have terrorists here in our country, too. Sometimes they burn down churches. Sometimes they blow up schools. Sometimes they hate people because they don’t speak English, some of your friends’ mawmaws and pawpaws probably still speak French. Sometimes they hate people because they are Catholic or because they have brown skin. And sometimes they kill people by hanging them by their necks. The terrorists over here are just as bad as the terrorists over there. I swore to fight, die or even kill to protect our freedom against terrorists like that.”
Wait for it . . .
“You’re not a terrorist are you, son?”