Cafeteria Duty

When planning my spring break, the time I was going to have without students, including my own children, my wife suggested I volunteer at the boys’ school. My first gut reaction was to say, “No”. Why in the world would I want to volunteer at the boys’ school when I am being given the ultimate gift of not being around kids for one whole week? But then the other side of me kicked in. The side that remembered how much I liked being with my boys, and the curiosity I felt in watching them at their natural habitat, the one away from home.

I’ve heard stories about the boys for months, like how good they were and how they do all their work and pay attention to the teacher. I had a hard time picturing the boys I knew, the ones who insisted on jumping each other’s heads and tackling each other; the ones who yelled “I need you” for mundane tasks like using the bathroom and getting water. These are the boys that are exemplary?

Curiosity led me to volunteer on my week off. I wanted to get a glimpse of the boys in action, and besides, it was only one hour in an otherwise relaxing week. Then the snow came. My first day of Spring Break was spent watching my sons and keeping them occupied. My second day was spent keeping them busy during their two-hour delay, then escorting them to school and showing up early for my cafeteria duty. Fortunately, my services were put to use in one of my son’s rooms and I got to see first hand how his behavior was elevated to wonder child status, and what I witnessed was remarkable.

My son did not transform in school, but he was able to focus his attention. The frantic energy he showed at home was harnessed and directed in his classroom, where he was clearly a high performer. I didn’t see a different child , just one that showed a different side of himself. I would have liked to watch more of this but before I knew it, we had to walk down to the lunch room where my real job began.

I was given an apron, and told to just respond to hand-raisers. This sounded easy enough, and the first thing I did was visit the table of my other son and see how he was doing. I was struck by his comfort in a large social situation, without my assistance. I wanted to just sit and watch him, but before I knew it the social experiment that is elementary school lunch time was under way. And the hands went up. All over the place. I jumped from one child to the other, each repeating the same phrase: “Can you open this?” “This” was sometimes a yogurt tube, a yogurt cup, an apple sauce, fruit guzzlers, thermos caps, chip bags…You name it, I opened it. The elusive caps that initially confused me became simple. I moved through the tables like a superhero with the sole mission of opening things. It was stellar.

After a while I moved from the kindergartners to the first graders. I thought the older kids would be a challenge, surely they would only ask me for the toughest of chores, but even these became simple. Kids from all over were requesting me. I even had to use my problem solving skills when on one occasion a boy was spitting food, to his friend’s dismay. The friend wanted me to prosecute the spitter but after some deliberation, we decided the boy should just get a warning rather than turning him in to the proper authorities, his teacher, where he would have faced serious consequences. All was going well.

As I was passing my son, he called me over and held out his hand with something in it. I looked down and realized he had a tooth. I didn’t even realize he had a loose tooth but there it was. I asked his friends what we should do and they all said he should go to the nurse. As I later found out, this was a common occurrence. I assigned a buddy to go with him. I wanted to bask in the moment for a bit longer, but duty called. I had raised hands all around me that needed attention.

Finally, my shift was coming to a close. By the end, we had two teeth incidents, numerous bag openings, some discipline/critical thinking tasks and several clean-ups. This was not the day I had planned for my Spring Break, but in Cool Father World, it was perfect.

All hail the ...Patriarch?

Last Easter, in front of my cousins, and my extended family, I was called on to begin the traditional prayer. This is an honor mostly reserved for an elder. In attendance were several of my cousins who are older than me, as well as my immediate family, which included my father, who has since passed.

This was an honor for me, and the symbolism did not go unnoticed. My extended family is large. My father had four siblings, all of whom had multiple children. We all get along, but like most big families, have broken into what could best be described as clans.

This may sound somewhat archaic, or outdated, but it is still the best way to describe the family unit that we have. My cousins have their immediate families, which include children, wives and grandchildren. They now all gather amongst themselves for holidays, as it had gotten too big for any one person to host everyone, because we number around one hundred, give or take.

When I was called on to initiate the prayer it was an acknowledgement from one clan to another that there was going to be a power shift. It was well known that my father was dying, and that as the oldest son, I would be the elder of my clan. There was nothing especially Shakespearian about this power shift, although I believe that I did see my sister conspiring out of the corner of my eye (even her name, Renae, is closely related to Lear’s daughter, Regan!). I still think she’s up to something, but that suspicion aside, there is not much for a patriarch to do. I probably will not be called to a war council, and since we are not inordinately wealthy, there is no real trust to manage, nor a board to sit on. So what does a patriarch in my situation do?

There is no real answer to this question because it is not really a formal title. It may be a long time before the title is widely held by the family at large, and even longer for there to be concrete assignments. My father would step in and contact one of us, his children, when he thought we needed guidance. On one occasion he made me listen to him while he told me not to buy my house. I remember the phrase he kept repeating, “Do me this one thing”, as if he were asking for a “sit-down” with a rival crime family. Needless to say, there was nothing very dramatic about our talk but he thought it was his duty to have a conversation with me before I made a big decision. And this is the heart of the matter. A patriarch is a role of duty and symbolism. It carries no weight, but like an ambassador, is a recognized role.

It is an honor. As a product of an immigrant family, the fact that we have survived and flourished is significant. It is what our ancestors fought for and it is a testament to their hard work that we are here. To recognize the patriarch is to recognize the family.

So can I put this on my resume? Of course not. Does my family treat me differently? Not on a day to day basis but there are times when the role is apparent. There have been times when my involvement in family matters have been requested, when in the past they may not have been.

Being a part of a family goes beyond my immediate family, and I want my sons to see that. I want them to know that we are the product of something bigger than us. They don’t need to carry that message every day, but there will be times when they need to realize it. They may not be the patriarch, but they will need to recognize the ones that are, whether it be their father, their cousins, their uncles, or someday, maybe even their children.

And in the meantime I’m going to keep an eye on my sister, who may or may not be conspiring at this very minute to rally her minions against me. So when I am called upon to cut the pita on New Year’s Day, one of the few acknowledged duties of the patriarch, I will be extra careful when she hands me the knife.