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My Son Josh

 We have a particularly strong teachers' union, so there are four consecutive half-days this week. A half-day counts as a full day for workers--according to a published rule book--so there is no rule violation with the parade of useless faux-instructional mini-days.


Recently, a beleaguered parent asked me, "Why? Why is it like this?"

And I had to bite my tongue. There is an answer: it's the teachers' union. But the parent was not looking for an answer. Her question was more like an existential statement, a lament.

On these days, I take my kids to the zoo. The announcement is annoying to my son, who launches a protest: "No! I don't want that! I will poop in myself!" (The choice of preposition is intriguing to me.) I'm pleased to realize that--if there's one place on Earth you might want to shit your pants--it's just fine to have an accident at the zoo. People will simply imagine that they are smelling a penguin.

The temperature is high, and the sense of ambient irritation is almost palpable. One dad makes a fuss at the "sting ray touch tank." He says loudly, to his son, "Oliver, we need to leave. The touch tank is closed--just like everything else at this zoo."

Near the black-bear display, a different man seems to lobby for a discount. "Three ice creams, please--for two weary grandparents and a small child."

My favorite adult trudges up a hill toward the Reptile House; she is pushing a stroller. "You better open that door for me!" she calls out to the older one of her two children. "Open that goddamn door!"

I hear America singing--the varied carols I hear! Each one singing his as it should be--blithe and strong....

And the day comes to an end.
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