Low Gas Level

I didn't know what to expect. Although I knew the father, I'd never had a conference with him. He'd left the education of his children up to his wife. I had no way of knowing if he considered this to be "woman's work," or if they had just decided to divide up family responsibilities this way. But, whenever the boy had problems, it was always the mother who came for the conference. She was a career woman in her own right and generally had to make special arrangements, but she always came. Now she couldn't come anymore. Cancer had taken her almost a year ago, and if anybody came now, it had to be the father.

The boy wasn't really a bad kid. He was the type I generally classified as "trifling" in that he wasn't too particular about obeying rules or of doing much academic work. This was a chronic condition with him. We'd been working hard on the behavior part and had been able to effect some improvement there, but the academic part was in a real mess. His mother had been a stabilizing force for him and even with all her efforts, she'd only been able to keep him at a borderline level academically. With her death, he'd fallen far below that line and no one could see any prospects of a reversal. Hence, the parent conference in the Principal's office with all his teachers.

As I said, I did not know what to expect. The father had not sounded too cordial over the phone when he found out he was going to have to put the conference in his schedule. But, he had done it. I wondered what his demeanor would be. I wondered if he might want to place the blame on the boy's teachers, or me, or himself for not being around much, or the unfairness of the world for taking his wife in her prime, or the boy himself. It would be interesting to see which direction our conference would take.

I had the chairs arranged in an oval. I sat at one end and placed the father in the first chair to my left, the boy in the first chair to my right. There were two or three chairs for the teachers. I explained the procedure. The father appeared to be in a pretty good mood. The boy was apprehensive, as well he should have been.

The first teacher came in, noted the low grade, and pointed out the reasons for it. She used such phrases as "fails to do homework" and "refuses to read assigned material." The father asked her a question or two as his face began to show an expression of concern.

Two others teachers entered just as the first was finishing. They said much the same things and added "refuses to complete work," "will not pay attention in class," and "often sleeps in class."
The father looked at the boy and asked, "Son, is what they're saying true?"

"Yes sir."

I noted that a vein was beginning to stand out on the father's neck and that he was clenching and unclenching his fists.

The last two teachers didn't do anything to ease the father's tension. They reiterated most of what had already been said and added "disrupts class," "totally disinterested in studying seriously," "never comes for help."

By this time the father was about to explode. Veins were standing out all over his neck and head. He was a weightlifter and bodybuilder and had massive arms and shoulders. I could see the definition of his arm muscles as they swelled and strained against his shirt. The buttons on the front were having a hard time restraining his chest. I was beginning to have some concern about what he might do.

The boy showed the same concern, but to a much greater degree. His father's clenched teeth and glare made him wish to be most anyplace else. He was sitting up straight in his chair with his back pressed hard against the chair back and his feet flat on the floor. Every movement by his father caused him to press harder against the back of the chair as he tried to increase the distance between them. He couldn't, but he kept trying. His eyes were wide and staring straight ahead, seeing everything and nothing at the same time.

The father was getting so worked up that I was fearful of what he might do to the boy. And if he did decide to do something violent, I couldn't figure out how I was going to stop him.

When the door closed behind the last departing teacher, the father moved suddenly and closed the gap between himself and the boy. He didn't stand up. He didn't move the chair. He just came straight across and ended up in a half squat with his hands on his thighs just above his knees and his face so close to the boy's that their noses were almost in contact. I'm sure I jumped, but he wasn't paying any attention to me.

"Son, you know what's wrong with you?!" His words were not spoken, but were spat out through clenched teeth.
"N-n-no sir."

"Your give-a-shit level is low!!"
The father's succinct and accurate assessment of the problem broke the tension. I had a hard time keeping from laughing out loud.
"Y-y-yes sir."

This done, the father backed himself into his chair without removing his withering stare from his son. The boy was still pressing so hard on the chair back that you could almost see the outline of it coming through on his chest. I made a summation and ended the conference as gracefully as I could.

I wish I would report that the conference was the turning point in this young man's life. But it wasn't. He ended up flunking out of school and having to get a GED diploma. He tried college and flunked out as well. But, then, something must have awakened him because he went to another college and not only stayed in, but also did rather well. The last time I heard about him he was in medical school. Quite a distance from that day in my office.

But, still, the most memorable thing about that boy was the acronym coined by his father. From that day forward, when we encountered a student with a similar approach to his studies, we would say, "He's having a problem with a low gas level."

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