It's Not the Kids Who Are Childish

MusicTeacher - Early Childhood is a relatively modern invention. In former times, young children were put to good use in their tribes or on the farm. Now they’re in preschool … and so am I, their music teacher.
I’ve made the rounds teaching guitar, recorder and musical games. Children are not easy to handle, now that Early Childhood exists. But they are a picnic compared to my employers and supervisors.
In some schools I had to wear shoes with at least a strap on the heel, and could not show my knees. (Don’t think that stopped one teacher from wearing a jean skirt split up to her thigh, and a pink thong that stuck out of it.) In other schools I could not sing “Michael Row the Boat Ashore;” Saint Michael “wasn’t for them.”
But Ellen, the ‘politically correct’ teacher I assist at a nondenominational preschool in Brooklyn, is by far the toughest customer. For Ellen, gender does not exist: I am not allowed to say “Fishermen” or “Firemen” to the class. They are now Fisherpeople or Firepeople. As I type this out I see that even Word does not recognize these terms. If we sing “Where Is Thumbkin?” we must replace “How are you today, Sir?” with, “how are you today, Friend?”
It has often struck me that I’m the only female member of a bluegrass band in which I play bass. No fishermen or firemen stopped me from doing what I wanted, even though my instrument isn’t typically played by a woman.
In addition to sacrificing gender references, Ellen has also put Christmas out of business: We now celebrate “winter holidays.” Except when she leaves the room and the kids beg for their favorite Christmas songs. Or they want me to draw pictures. Ellen doesn’t allow me to draw pictures because she’s afraid that the boys and girls might feel badly about themselves since they don’t draw as well as I do. Perhaps they won’t be allowed to watch the Olympics or see a ballet. After all, the world is full of people who do things better than 4-year-olds.
I’ve been careful to not let Ellen see that I find her requests excessive. I “kill” her with kindness. I hang up her coat, I smile, I do what she says; she’s the boss.
Still, it is clear that I make her very uncomfortable. She sulks and snaps at me, shakes her head as though I am “clueless.” Her hatred of me is a bit of a mystery — especially since she “doesn’t believe in” hating anyone.
But any time I slip up and say, “Pardon me a moment, I’m going to the Ladies Room,” instead of “the Bathroom,” she shows me fangs that make Maurice Sendak’s “wild things” look tame…