814: Parents Are People

Chana Joffe-Walt

From WBEZ Chicago, it's This American Life. I'm Chana Joffe-Walt, sitting in for Ira Glass. I was little, maybe six or seven, bedtime. I was deploying my best delay tactics. I needed water, then a Band-Aid. I think I had a lot of other demands, too, that I don't remember.

And then, this part is vivid. I remember I asked my mom, how do you have the answers for everything. She was on her way out the door. She said, oh, I don't have the answers to everything.

I stayed up for hours. It was a deeply unsettling thought. I hadn't remembered that moment in a long time, but working on the stories in today's episode, I kept being reminded of it. All kids eventually learn that the adults in their lives don't have the answers to everything. Right? I think so. I ran this by the ones I have on hand at home.

This is Jacob. He's 12. Can you tell? He was not going to bite.

Jacob's brother is still little enough that he hasn't started trolling me yet. Micah-- he's 10. I told him about the moment I first understood my mom didn't know everything.

Chana Joffe-Walt

No hesitation there. Micah can remember when it happened-- specific moments, like this one from when he was six or seven years old.

Chana Joffe-Walt

It's not just that we might not answer if he yells, or jump up if he comes into the room. It's also, he feels like, shouldn't we already know what's going wrong while we're sleeping. That's a real question, Micah had.

That's a pretty enormous leap, right, from "my dad takes a minute to wake up" to "I'm totally alone in the universe." But I think this is what can happen when you're faced with the fallibility of adults in front of you. One tiny moment, and your mind takes you to all sorts of huge conclusions.

You enter this kind of freefall, and it doesn't just happen with parents. It doesn't just happen when you're young either. You can keep having these moments with all sorts of grown people-- adults you'd previously assumed were all-knowing, maybe omniscient, but instead are fallible, ignorant, or just tired.

Today's show-- what happens in that freefall, and what happens after. We have people who are entering the post-fallibility world. The scales are just falling from their eyes. And we see how they react, how they come out of it, and what happens next. Stay with us.

Chana Joffe-Walt

Act One, See Something, Slay Something. Our first story is about a kid who really doesn't want to question the adults in her life. She's in middle school in Texas-- great student, likes her teachers. And she wants to trust the authority of adults, wants to believe they know what's best for her, even when the most powerful people in her school begin to make that very difficult.

Talia Richman covers education for the Dallas Morning News. She tells us what happened.

Talia Richman

When the story begins, Madison was 13, starting eighth grade. And she'd finally cracked the middle school code. She had a good group of friends-- people from her cheer team and some kids in the theater program. She messaged them all the time in group chats, said they were like a lunch table she could carry around in her pocket. And she was speaking up more in class, like in math, her favorite subject.

Talia Richman

Madison hoped to get into this prestigious high school program, the same one her older brother and sister had gone to. She seemed totally on track to do that-- until this one morning, her second semester, January 26. Madison was in second-period PE, sitting in her assigned spot toward the bleachers. And she noticed the new kid in class in front of her. He was talking to another boy, and she heard the new kid say something.

Talia Richman

The bell rings. Madison leaves the gym, goes through the rest of her school day. Then, in the last class of the day, she starts thinking about what she heard-- "Don't come to school tomorrow."

Talia Richman

Madison was a toddler when Sandy Hook happened. As far back as she remembers, her schools had done lockdown drills every year. In her middle school, there are posters telling kids, "See something, say something." When school lets out, she decides to text one of her closest friends.

Talia Richman

She explains what she heard the new boy in PE say. And she texts, "I can't remember if he was smiling or not, but I don't think he was." The more Madison tells her friend, the more worried the friend gets. "WTF," she writes in all caps. "That's crazy."

Madison and her friend agree to message a handful of their best friends across two group chats, to tell them what she overheard and to warn them. Then Madison tells her friends she's going to talk with her mom.

Talia Richman

This is her mom, Lisa.

Talia Richman

Lisa regularly uses phrases like, "escalate this concern." She's an operations director, manages more than 100 employees. She's good at putting out fires. Her kids sometimes say that Mom is in her Olivia Pope mode.

Talia Richman

Ms. Sharla Samples is the assistant principal at Madison's school. She was calling because the school had actually gotten wind of the situation already, because of Madison's text to her friends. Word travels fast in a middle school.

Talia Richman

Ms. Samples wanted to know more details from Lisa and Madison. Madison cried as she told her everything over speakerphone. Ms. Samples was reassuring.

Talia Richman

Later that evening, school police went to the boy's house. They found no weapons and no intent to carry out violence of any kind. It was a false alarm. Everything was OK. Everyone was safe.

So the school shooting scare was just that-- a scare. In my experience as an education reporter, that sort of thing happens all the time. What I'd never seen is what happened to Madison the next day at school.

During first period, Madison gets called to Ms. Samples' office. That's the assistant principal who called Lisa and Madison the night before. Madison had actually never been to the principal's office before. She thinks maybe they have an update about yesterday.

Talia Richman

Ms. Samples, in her assistant-principal kind of way, asked Madison some questions about the day before, asked to see the texts Madison sent her friends. Madison shows her the texts, tries to answer all of her questions. Ms. Samples looks over everything, and then she turns to Madison.

Talia Richman

Ms. Samples had determined that, by texting her friends first before telling an adult, she had essentially spread a rumor that there'd be a school shooting. And page 11 of the student code of conduct said students cannot, quote, "make false accusations or perpetrate hoaxes regarding school safety."

Talia Richman

DAEP stands for Disciplinary Alternative Education Program. It's Texas's version of school for kids with serious discipline problems-- a place where kids get sent for fighting or selling drugs. Madison didn't know much about DAEP, except that it was a bad thing. And this wouldn't be some quick stint at DAEP. She'd be going there for the next 73 school days-- the rest of eighth grade.

Talia Richman

When Lisa got the call from Ms. Samples, the call where Lisa would learn her daughter was being sent to DAEP for the rest of eighth grade, she was at her sister's place.

Talia Richman

On the call, Lisa tries to get Ms. Samples to explain the school's reasoning. How did they consider this a false accusation?

Talia Richman

Ms. Samples said that students are supposed to immediately tell an adult or call an anonymous tipline after they hear something suspicious. Hearing her answer filled in part of the story for me. Because the school district, Lewisville ISD, never made Ms. Samples or any other administrators available for me to interview.

Talia Richman

And so for waiting all day, then texting her friends about 30 minutes before telling her mom, they were giving Madison 73 school days in DAEP-- kicking her out of her middle school.

When Lisa first told me about her daughter's punishment, I think I gasped a half-dozen times. I had never heard of anything like this. In another big Texas district, fighting another student could get you up to 45 days in DAEP on your third offense. Making a, quote, "terroristic threat" would get you 30 days.

I couldn't make sense of why Madison's middle school was throwing the book at her. It is true that schools across the US are dealing with a big increase in shooting threats. Some are hoaxes, but a hoax can still disrupt school. And threats that turn out to be fake-- those still scare kids and parents.

So maybe Madison's middle school felt like they had to take a tough stance on kids who were involved in any way in a threat that doesn't materialize. But 73 days? Lisa was also racking her brain for an explanation. And she told me, at first, she didn't let herself consider that a punishment this severe had anything to do with the fact that Madison, like her, is Black.

Talia Richman

Black students are often given a different lens when it comes to school discipline. Federal civil rights investigations have repeatedly found evidence of Black kids being punished more severely for the same things that a white kid might get away with.

In Madison's school district, only 12% of students are Black. But in the latest data, they made up 33% of all kids in DAEP. Lisa was hyperconscious of maintaining her cool during the phone call.

Talia Richman

Ms. Samples keeps trying to explain the disruption Madison caused and how she potentially tarnished the boy's reputation at school. Sure, Lisa agrees, that is bad. But--

Talia Richman

Ms. Samples listens but stays firm. She tells Lisa, there's a formal process if you want to appeal this. But she isn't going to undo or reduce the punishment or explain its severity.

Lisa does decide to appeal the school's decision. The administration gives her a hearing date, and Lisa goes into Olivia Pope mode-- spends hours each day preparing a defense of her daughter. She keeps Madison at home, out of alternative school, as they wait for the appeal hearing, which leaves Madison with a lot of time to think about the punishment and what this will mean for her future plans.

And one thought really seeds inside her. What if Ms. Samples' punishment is really bad because what I did was really bad?

Talia Richman

For a kid who's never been to the principal's office before, it's a powerful feeling, and it begins to take a toll on her. She starts eating less. Her doctor puts her on anti-anxiety medications.

The appeal takes place at the middle school 12 days after Madison got in trouble. It feels like a court date. Madison, her mom, and her grandma show up with the family's new lawyer. They sit at a table, along with Ms. Samples and the head principal, Dr. Beri Deister. Both women are white.

Talia Richman

Madison knows that the point of this appeal is to get the punishment reversed, to get her official record cleared and to get herself back into normal eighth grade. But that's not all Madison wants out of this hearing.

Talia Richman

Dr. Deister, the head principal, kicks things off. First, she asked Ms. Samples to review the school's official timeline of events. The tone is pretty damning toward Madison.

Talia Richman

This is Dr. Deister again.

Talia Richman

Lisa peppers her rebuttal with references to the Texas education statutes.

Talia Richman

And then she asked them to remember that Madison's a kid, how it's a normal thing for kids to check in with their friends for advice.

Talia Richman

Lisa concludes. Madison's grandmother speaks up for her. So does their lawyer. Then it's Madison's turn. School administrators have the right to ask Madison questions, and she's really nervous about it.

Talia Richman

It was at that moment, sitting there in her swivel chair, being interrogated by her principal, that Madison realized something.

Talia Richman

At the end of the hearing, Ms. Samples recommends that Madison's sentence be reduced, from 73 days in DAEP to 30 days. There is no explanation as to why. The principals were lowering Madison's punishment, but they weren't erasing it.

Talia Richman

Lisa watched her daughter from across the table. And she realized Madison was getting a lesson that Lisa had hoped she'd be able to put off for a while.

Talia Richman

Lisa and Madison didn't have to live with 30 days. In Madison's school district, there are three levels of appeal, and they could try it again. And this time, the judges don't work at Madison's middle school. They plead their case to a committee of three administrators from different schools in the district, not Dr. Deister. Their decision arrives by email in less than a day.

Talia Richman

When educators outside the school looked at the situation, they saw Madison the way she saw herself-- as a kid who never meant to cause a disruption, a kid who maybe just needed a refresher on how to best go about reporting suspicious activity. After about three weeks of being away, Madison was cleared to go back to school.

Shortly after I wrote about Madison's story for the Dallas Morning News, the district launched an investigation into the way she was punished. Dr. Deister went on administrative leave and eventually resigned. She didn't respond to request to be interviewed for this story. But in an email, she said her decision to leave was voluntary.

She also wrote, quote, "All I can say is that every day administrators are faced with making harder and harder decisions. And in those decision-making efforts, I have always done my best to treat others with kindness, with dignity, and to follow the district guidelines."

This whole mess didn't derail Madison the way she feared. She's in ninth grade now. She got into that special high school program.

Talia Richman

Madison says it was so much easier back when she just believed she could trust every adult. This new way of dealing with the world, where she has to figure out which adult she can trust and which ones deserve her skepticism-- it just takes a lot more brainpower.

Chana Joffe-Walt

Talia Richmond is a reporter with the Dallas Morning News. This story was produced by Chris Benderev.

Chana Joffe-Walt

In preparing today's episode, we asked a bunch of people when they had this kind of realization that adults are flawed. People talked about moments when they saw adults lie, make mistakes, be reckless, cry in front of them.

A woman who brought her friends from college back to the farm where she grew up to meet her parents and her dad started acting really distant. And she realized, oh, my god. He's intimidated. But the kind of experience we heard the most was like Madison had-- the realization that adults might not be looking out for you, might not protect you.

We heard several stories about experiencing real school shootings and lockdowns. And in those stories, what stood out to people was the way adults fumbled. A 20-year-old college student named Adele Morris told us that two weeks after a gunman shot and killed a teacher at her school, the University of North Carolina, they had another lockdown-- someone armed on campus. And Adele watched her professor, someone who probably didn't grow up having lockdown drills like she had.

Chana Joffe-Walt

Adults who fail to protect children-- there's the abstract fear that adults can't protect you, and there's watching it happen right in front of you. I've been thinking, watching the news from Gaza and Israel this week, and the week before that, and the weeks before those, about how many children are experiencing the most terrifying version of this-- the most brutal version of adults not having a handle on things.

We are all witnessing children who are directly facing the fact that the adults around them cannot protect them. Children facing that fact, not as part of a slow understanding of adult fallibility as they age and develop, but as a sudden reckoning-- a 3-and-1/2-year-old in Israel whose parents rushed her into a safe room and kept telling her to stay quiet, because Hamas was shooting right outside. Her dad told her and her sister, stay silent.

And he kept telling her that for 10 hours. He could not stop what was happening. He could just tell her to keep quiet. That's all he could do for her.

A video from Gaza shows two kids, siblings, holding hands in the street right after an Israeli airstrike. They've just come out from under the rubble, and they're covered in dust and blood. They're looking around for their mom and their brother. Around them, the street is chaotic. People are moving in every direction.

The older kid spots his brother on the other side of the street and yells, that's my brother! Here's my brother, the one in blue! That's my brother! He can't get to him. He needs the help of an adult. Please, I'm begging you, he says. That's my brother.

A few adults do help. They rush over to the brother. He's tiny, crying, with a bloody nose. Come here, they say. They guide him to his siblings, take their hands, and join them. Now, the three kids are hand in hand, looking up at the adults.

The tiny kid says, I need my mom. But nobody produces the mom. When the video ends, the adults look like they're about to continue on and rejoin the chaos around them. The three kids are left there, holding hands.

Coming up-- a man-sized first-grader. That's in a minute, when our program continues.

Chana Joffe-Walt

It's This American Life. I'm Chana Joffe-Walt, sitting in for Ira Glass. Today's show, we're talking about those experiences where you discover the grownups around you can and will fail you-- a revelation that can take a long time to sink in, as it does in our next story from comedian Gary Gulman. That's Act Two, Dad's Big Idea.

Gary Gulman tells a story on stage about something that happened when he was seven years old. He was about to go into second grade. And right before the school year started that September, his mom had some friends over one night.

Chana Joffe-Walt

Gary Gulman recorded in Florida. He's on a tour, where he's doing standup based on stories in his new book. It's a memoir of his childhood, called Misfit.

Chana Joffe-Walt

Act Three, Ride or Die. The idea that grownups don't have a handle on things-- there are kids for whom this is not a new realization-- kids who are more adult than the adults in their house. These kids look at the conditions around them and understand that they are going to need to handle things.

I keep thinking about this novel that captures the perspective of a kid like this so beautifully. The book is called Fight Night by Miriam Toews. The narrator is a nine-year-old named Swiv. Swiv lives with her mom and her grandma.

Her grandma is wild, fun, and weird. The grandma homeschools Swiv, and her lessons are things like how to dig a winter grave, and let's analyze our dreams. The grandma is also sick, so Swiv helps her bathe, keeps track of her medications for her and the tiny batteries for her hearing aids.

She also helps her grandma cut up her favorite mystery novels into smaller sections. Because the grandma likes to take thin pieces of her books with her when she goes out. Swiv's mom is a working actor, struggling to get jobs. She's pregnant and seems to be suffering a mental health crisis. As Swiv says, sometimes, quote, "Mom goes scorched-earth."

It's rare to see these particular adults through the lens of a nine-year-old. And she's such a nine-year-old. She's both naive and knowing. Swiv is constantly interpreting these two women.

She speaks the way they speak. She believes what they believe. But then, she's not sure. A lot of the book is her reacting to them, figuring out what they have under control, and what she, Swiv, will need to take care of herself, including the baby coming.

Swiv calls the baby in her mom's belly "Gord," and she's often warning Gord about these crazy adults and how she'll have to prepare him. My favorite parts of the book are when Swiv is out in the world with her grandma and her mom, and you see how much she is constantly anticipating their behavior and trying, in her very kid way, to manage them. And so here's an excerpt from Fight Night.

Reader

"Today was Thursday, and Grandma and I went to Scarborough for her body work. And I did all our laundry for the trip to Fresno and went to Shoppers for Grandma's meds. On the way to Scarborough, Mom rode on the bus with us for four blocks and got mad at three men for not letting her or Grandma sit on the bench for old and pregnant people.

I had already found another seat for Grandma, and Mom didn't really look very pregnant with her giant Inspector Gadget coat on. So how were those men supposed to know? But naturally, Mom got mad anyway and said, excuse me, but these seats aren't meant for you.

The men were all deaf, or they didn't want to answer her. And they just stared at their phones or into space. Mom said she was pregnant and her mother was elderly, so could the men give them their seats. One of the guys said congratulations but didn't move.

Then Grandma hollered at Mom from the front of the bus and said, honey, it's fine. Swiv found me a seat. Plus, Mom was getting off in five seconds at the theater. So why would she even want to sit down, and then leap up again right away?

Mom said, OK, but that's not really the point. And then, she stopped talking and stood there silently, like a normal person, which was such a relief that I almost started crying. But then, no, she couldn't bear to be normal for more than four seconds, and she said to the woman standing next to her that this kind of thing made her mental.

And I wanted to tell the woman standing next to her that every kind of thing made Mom mental, and do not respond. Grandma didn't hear anything, and just sat happily beside me reading one of her Dead Heat sections. I noticed a teenager looking at Grandma's sawed-up book. and the teenager saw me looking at her, and then looked away. My family should never be out in the world.

The woman standing next to Mom said, I know, right? I lose my shit. Mom had found a crazy friend. I looked out the window and saw the theater where Mom rehearses and turned around to look at Mom and beg her with my eyes to get off the bus now, but without saying goodbye to me and without drawing any attention whatsoever to the fact that we know each other.

Oh, said Mom, my stop. Bye, honey, she said, don't forget to cross at the lights with Grandma, which made it sound like I was a stupid little kid who didn't know how to even live, when Grandma was the one who was hellbent for leather and wanted to jaywalk, but was too slow and distracted to dodge the cars properly and would almost get killed every time.

Mom pushed herself and Gord through the people standing in the aisle, and bent down to give me and Grandma kisses, and then had to shout at the bus driver, who was closing the door. Wait, wait! This is my stop! The driver opened the door again and shook his head. And Mom said, bye, guys, bye, honey, in a loud voice, waving directly at me, and then finally got off the fucking bus.

My face hurt. I tried to drop my shoulders and read Dead Heat along with Grandma to take my mind off being the daughter of the world's most unstable person. Then the lady Mom had made friends with was suddenly standing beside me and said in an even louder voice than Mom, oh, man, your mom is awesome.

She said it so loud, that even Grandma heard her. And she said, she is indeed. She's my daughter. One of the guys who hadn't given Mom his seat heard it, too, and said Mom was a crazy bitch. Mom's new friend said, she's not a crazy bitch. You're a crazy bitch.

The other two men who wouldn't give up their seats started laughing. Then Mom's new friend said to Grandma, oh, wow, you guys are three generations, which was like an obvious thing, not an oh-wow thing. One of the guys said, suck it, bitch.

Grandma said, that we are, aren't I lucky? Mom's new friend said, fuck you, you fucking piece of shit. The bus driver looked at everyone in his rearview mirror and said they had to behave themselves or get off the bus.

The lady talked away in her loud voice about wishing she could come home with us and be in our family. I had to do something. I couldn't slice my head off by slamming the window on it, because they were sealed up to keep children safe. I stood up and said, oh, Grandma, this is our stop. Come on.

Grandma said, what, we're nowhere near Scarborough. I said, I know, but first, we had to stop at this other place called-- I quickly looked out the window-- For Your Eyes Only. Grandma looked out the window.

What do you want with a gentleman's club, Swiv, she said. She started laughing with Mom's new friend. I pulled Grandma up from her seat and stuffed her book section into my backpack. Because it's where we're going, I said. Bye, I said to the lady. I whispered it.

OK, said Grandma. She shrugged. Looks like we've got an interesting itinerary. I pulled Grandma off the bus without saying thank you to the driver. Mom can't stand it when people say thank you to the driver when they get out at their stop. But Grandma thinks it's a decent thing to do.

She told Mom that people clap and applaud when Mom does her job of acting. So why shouldn't people clap for pilots when they land the plane or say thank you, at least, to a bus driver? Mom said applause seemed sarcastic and bizarre. She hates applause, even for herself. And Grandma asked her how the audience is supposed to express their gratitude for her performance. And Mom said, just by sitting there quietly.

Grandma said thank you to the bus driver, and he nodded very slowly. My pleasure, he said, enjoy your day. Grandma wanted to say more about her day, but I pulled and pulled on her arm. And the driver shut the door, and we were finally alone on the sidewalk.

Grandma read the sign more closely. And then she stood back and looked at the giant pictures of naked women and started laughing her ass off again, because I, of all people, had wanted to get out at a strip club. She had to lean against the building, right against one of the pictures of the naked ladies, to catch her breath. I walked away down the sidewalk, so nobody would see me standing outside For Your Eyes Only, and left Grandma there struggling all by herself to live.

She finally finished getting her breath back, and I said, come on, Grandma, let's go. I mean it. And then, believe it or not, she posed on the sidewalk in the same position as the naked lady in the picture, with her knees bent a bit, and her butt poking out, and her hands on her boobs.

I looked down at the sidewalk for things to kill myself with. There was nothing but globs of spit, and cigarette butts, and a flyer about the end of the world. And then, Grandma was beside me. And she took my arm, laughing, and said, ooh, boy! Where to next?

Chana Joffe-Walt

That's from the book Fight Night by Miriam Toews. The audio you heard was excerpted from the official audiobook, which is narrated by the author and Georgia Toews and came to us, courtesy of Recorded Books.

Chana Joffe-Walk

Our program was produced today by me and edited by Emanuele Berry. The people who put together today's show include James Bennett II, Sean Cole, Michael Comite, Aviva DeKornfeld, Bethel Habte, Cassie Howley, Valerie Kipnis, Seth Lind, Miki Meek, Stowe Nelson, Katherine Rae Mondo, Nadia Reiman, Alissa Shipp, Christopher Swetala, Matt Tierney, and Diane Wu.

Our managing editor is Sarah Abdurrahman. Our senior editor is David Kestenbaum. Special thanks today to Abraham Oleksnianski, Marianne McCune, Jessica Mendoza, Brooke Yarbrough, Juan "Punchy" Gonzalez, Paige Duggins-Clay, Erin Einhorn, David Riedman, Amy Klinger, Andrew Hairston, Russell Skiba, and Alaa Mustafa. Our website-- thisamericanlife.org, where you can stream our archive of over 700 episodes for absolutely free.

This American Life is delivered to public radio stations by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange. Thanks, as always, to my boss, Ira Glass. Did you guys know that Ira's known me since I was a baby? I asked him recently if he knew way back when that one day, I would host his radio show. He said he was sure it would never happen.

Chana Joffe-Walt

Well, here I am. I'm Chana Joffe-Walt. Ira will be back next week with more stories of This American Life.