Don't Mess With Mama (Bear)

I like to think that I'm something of a quiet, gentle, people-pleasing sort of person. The kind of person who has more patience than most. One who counts carefully the cost of making trouble before making it. I try very hard not to use the "L" word (lawyer) flippantly. Honest!

I will put up with a great deal of abuse at the hands of the uncouth. But my friends, don't even think about messing with my kids. I will know. Some cosmic force in this otherwise unyielding universe has allowed mothers of all makes to have superhuman-I'm-going-to-permanently-maim-you-if-you-touch-my-kid focus and drive that overcomes me, like all healthy mothers. It's like the peripheral vision is lessened and destruction of the offensive object becomes the soul desire. I often yield.

I called the principal of the school last Friday and made my complaint known. My daughter, new to this grand country of ours is not given equal opportunity to learn in a system that is paid for in part by my (husband's) hard earned dollar! I would like (1) a student handbook in her language, (2) a translator for perhaps a week, to help her understand the culture and rules of the classroom and (3) a little more understanding of her situation by her teachers!

I checked school policy. The school district is obligated to provide a translator to parents to help them understand school policy, grades, and conferences. They are provided with a school handbook in their language to assist them in helping their child adjust. (I was given a handbook two weeks after my daughter began attending classes.)

The principal patiently heard my complaint. I thought I was exceedingly controlled under the circumstances. She promised she would call the district and see what could be done.

I received a call yesterday. She told me she voiced my complaint to the district, she was sorry they could not grant my request.
As my hero Bugs Bunny would say, "You know, this means war."
I asked for a name. She gave me one.
After the steam subsided from my ears and my face returned to its original God-created color, I called "Jorge." Once again, I forced myself to unheard of highs in personal control. My voice steady, I told him my problem and hopes to help my daughter who was being treated unkindly by a school district that I knew, had better standards.
He told me the principal of Ann's school had said I wanted a private tutor for her.
What?!
I said nothing of the sort. You can go back and read it for yourself. Its right up there in the second paragraph.

Now that odd remark implies a great deal. It could mean that the principal misunderstood me. That would be obvious. It could mean she was ashamed of her school and was trying to cover. Or it could mean she just wanted to blow me off. Or Jorge misunderstood her.
At any rate, Jorge was a dear. He was quiet and thoughtful for a time. Then he said, perhaps the school district could purchase a translator gadget (does anyone know of a good inexpensive one?), provide the handbook in her language and hire a translator (in person) for maybe part of a day.
"Lets keep in touch," he said. ""Are your other daughters doing well?"
"Yes, thank you."
The razor sharp claws involuntarily retracted.

Humph, we will see.