An entirely hypothetical account of something that absolutely never happened. Probably.
There are certain things in education that simply cannot be explained. Why students insist on running when repeatedly instructed to walk. Why a perfectly functional trash can becomes invisible the moment a student finishes a bag of chips. Why a child who cannot remember to bring a pencil to class can recall, with remarkable precision, something another child said about his cousin’s girlfriend’s brother three weeks ago.
And, perhaps most mysteriously, why some parents believe schools manufacture children.
Allow me to explain.
Imagine, hypothetically, an administrator returning to school after attending a three-day educational conference. Three glorious days of professional development, strategic planning, collaborative discussions, and listening to highly compensated individuals explain how schools might improve if everyone simply worked together, communicated effectively, and believed in the transformative power of colorful charts.
Naturally, upon returning, the administrator discovers that the children have continued being children in his absence.
The audacity.
Apparently, despite the administrator’s temporary departure, students continued talking when they shouldn’t, going places they weren’t supposed to, arguing over matters of absolutely no consequence, and making decisions that would cause a reasonably intelligent houseplant to question their judgment.
One might almost conclude that adolescent misbehavior does not require administrative supervision.
Then the phone rings. A concerned parent, understandably distressed by the apparent collapse of Western civilization, demands to know what kind of school is being operated.
Why, she asks, are students allowed to misbehave?
Allowed.
An interesting word. As though the school maintains a formal misbehavior authorization process.
“Good morning, students. Today’s approved misconduct includes excessive talking, inappropriate language, mild insubordination, and one completely unnecessary argument near the cafeteria. Physical altercations require prior administrative approval. Please submit your requests in triplicate.”
Perhaps there’s a sign posted somewhere.
MISBEHAVIOR PERMITTED BETWEEN 8:00 A.M. AND 3:00 P.M.
Excluding holidays. Restrictions may apply.
Now, any reasonably experienced educator understands that children arrive at school with certain things already installed. Personalities. Habits. Attitudes. Opinions. Occasionally, an impressive disregard for consequences.
We don’t install these features.
There is no assembly line in the faculty lounge where educators attach disrespectful attitudes, program selective hearing, and install the latest version of I Didn’t Do Anything 4.0.
We don’t have a warehouse full of poorly behaved children awaiting distribution to unsuspecting families.
We don’t make them here. They arrive that way.
Some arrive wonderfully prepared, respectful, curious, and eager to learn. Others arrive prepared to negotiate every conceivable rule, challenge the authority of gravity, and explain why throwing a sandwich across the cafeteria was technically not throwing because it was more of a toss.
We accept them all. It’s part of the business.
And contrary to what some might believe, schools actually address misconduct. We investigate. We interview. We document. We counsel. We assign consequences. We call home. We schedule meetings. We develop interventions. We follow up.
Then, in a shocking development that has apparently escaped the attention of educational policymakers for decades, some students misbehave again.
I know.
Unthinkable.
One would assume that after a stern conversation, a phone call home, and a carefully worded behavioral intervention, a thirteen-year-old would immediately abandon every questionable impulse and begin conducting himself like a retired Supreme Court justice.
Yet somehow, it doesn’t always work that way.
Which brings us back to our entirely hypothetical telephone conversation.
The administrator, exercising a degree of professional restraint that should qualify for some sort of federal recognition, agrees with the parent.
Yes, there are students with behavioral challenges. Yes, those challenges are addressed. Yes, the school takes these matters seriously.
And then, rather than attempting to solve the behavioral difficulties of several hundred children over the telephone, the administrator offers a practical suggestion.
Perhaps we could begin by discussing your own child.
An intriguing concept.
Because, in this completely fictional scenario, the concerned parent’s child happens to be a frequent participant in the school’s ongoing behavioral festivities.
Not merely an occasional guest. Something of a season-ticket holder.
Attendance, ironically, is another matter entirely. Academically, there is also room for improvement. Considerable room. The sort of room one might comfortably furnish with a sectional sofa, a dining table, and perhaps a modest home theater. But none of that is mentioned as an accusation.
The administrator simply schedules a conference.
A meeting.
An opportunity for two adults to sit down and discuss one actual child, rather than the collective moral deterioration of the entire student population.
Revolutionary stuff.
And therein lies the rather inconvenient truth.
Schools cannot fix everything. Neither can parents. Neither can counselors, administrators, teachers, motivational speakers, educational consultants, or the gentleman at the conference who spent forty-five minutes explaining the importance of building relationships through a PowerPoint presentation featuring seventeen photographs of smiling children.
What we can do is address the things within our influence. We can establish expectations. We can provide guidance. We can enforce consequences. We can support children who struggle. We can communicate with families. We can insist on accountability, even when accountability is about as welcome as a surprise dental appointment.
And parents can do much the same.
Imagine that.
Two institutions, home and school, working toward a common objective rather than standing on opposite sides of an imaginary battlefield, accusing one another of failing to produce a flawless human being.
Because that’s what we’re dealing with here.
Human beings.
Young, unfinished, occasionally ridiculous human beings.
Some will make poor decisions before breakfast. Others will wait until lunch. A select few will demonstrate such extraordinary creativity in the field of bad judgment that one cannot help but wonder whether their talents might eventually be redirected toward something useful, like engineering or international diplomacy.
Our job is not to pretend these behaviors don’t exist. Nor is it to accept them as inevitable and do nothing. Our job is to respond, redirect, educate, and try again. Sometimes repeatedly.
Sometimes so repeatedly that one begins to suspect the entire educational system is being held together by coffee, patience, and the increasingly fragile hope that somebody, somewhere, has read the student handbook.
So, to the entirely hypothetical parent in this entirely hypothetical encounter, I offer the following reassurance.
Yes, we have children who misbehave. Yes, we address their behavior.
No, we do not encourage it. No, we do not distribute it. And no, we cannot guarantee that your child, or anyone else’s, will make consistently brilliant decisions between the hours of eight and three.
What we can guarantee is that when problems arise, we will do our part. We simply ask that you join us in doing yours. After all, education is a partnership. Not a warranty.
And should you remain dissatisfied with the product, please understand that we cannot accept returns.
We don’t make them here.
We just spend a considerable portion of our lives trying to help them become better versions of themselves.
Any resemblance to actual parents, students, administrators, telephone conversations, or educational institutions is entirely coincidental. Except, of course, for the parts that aren’t.
There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com.
Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing—one post at a time.
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© 2026 Mariano Velez ~ InkBlotz Press
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