Zero Tolerance

Zero Tolerance policies in our public school systems have gone completely berzerk. We take a look in to a specific classroom for the overblow satire

Ms. Fitz was on the edge of her seat. How she hated Mondays! Not that Tuesday thru Friday was any better. She poured herself another cup of coffee from her thermos into the mug, her fifth cup of the morning with hours still left until lunch. She sipped. It was as scalding, dark, and bitter as she was�"perfect. Some spilled when she placed the mug back on her desk with a jittering hand. To set her hands to vibrate hardly required coffee. They did that on their own, perpetually, especially when in the presence of the monsters.

The… little… monsters…

They turned her old before her time, the monsters. Her coarse hair piled atop her head in a hateful bun had a network of grey strands weeding throughout like patches of melancholic moss. Her face, more covered with lines than the blackboard, was weary and worn. Her eye sockets were dark pits of despair, circumscribed by raven talons and set deeply over skeletal Wight cheeks. She grimaced, gawking at the small stack of loose-leaf papers awaiting her on her desk. She picked up the top sheet and read the heading:

Why Am I Proud to Be An American?

by Desi Fowler

By simply reading that alone nearly caused a migraine to set in, and Mrs. Fitz put it away for later. Much later, she thought, or never, if she could have it her way. She took another sip of coffee and before setting the mug back down she noticed a square splotch of dried correction fluid covering an area along the smooth crockery. She clawed at it with a jagged, chewed up thumbnail, and tiny white flecks of the stuff fell away, uncovering a spot of color. The mug did not belong to her. It was from the lounge, where she had grabbed it earlier that morning, having forgotten her own. Hers was white�"coffee mugs with pictures on them are not tolerated, here, hence the cover-up. She chipped more away, revealing more of the picture…

AN AIRRAID SIREN BLARING! BOMBS BURSTING IN AIR!! THE FOUR HORSEMEN BUCKING OUT OF THE STABLES!!! APOCALYPSE NOW!!! WARNING!!! WARNING!! Warning! whirring. whirring…

Whirring was all it was�"false alarm. Ms. Fitz’s frightened heart, dead-set and ready for Armageddon, had doubled its tempo. She looked toward the noise and hatefully eyed the little pig tailed monster that was standing at the electric sharpener, honing a length of wood, likely into a shank that might very well end up lodged in Ms. Fitz’s jugular if she failed to remain vigilant. The little pig tailed student said, “Um… sowwy, Miss Fiss,”

“Indeed you are, young lady,” Ms. Fitz scolded. “Now, I demand that you find your seat and remain seated until the end of the period.” The little pigtailed monster did as she was told and sulked back to her seat. “Disruptive noises, independent acts, and walking WILL NOT be tolerated,” she lectured. “Am I understood?”

…Silence…

“Good!”

It is infuriating that those things are not banned yet, Ms. Fitz mused. Why, if fallen into the wrong hands those things can become a dangerous weapon and can be used against us.Throughout her introspection, she would mindlessly take her hand from the butt of her sidearm and sip her coffee. If only this were a more progressive state, we might actually see some changes. In California, a statewide ban on heavy textbooks was issued earlier this year, on grounds that they might be used as bludgeons… Oh, well…back to work…

She made a second attempt at starting on the papers:

Why I Am Proud to Be an American

by Desi Fowler

My most favorite thing in the whole world about being an American is I get too right all I want and not be scared of cops to lock me up in jail. Because if we wasn’t then people would be afrade to say what they want and some times people have good ideas but if their scared they wont say them and we wont hear them…

 

Ms. Fitz took another sip and again became distracted by the square splotch of correction fluid. She put the papers on the back burner, (right where this trash belongs, she thought), and started peeling. She worked carefully, chipping away at the sides and corners and moving inward toward the center…

KABOOM! (achoo) ATTACKED! (achoo) UNDER SIEGE!

A sneeze was all it was, though, and Ms. Fitz panted heavily. It was the little four-eyed gelatinous monster who had made the disruption. Cold globs of jelly leaked from the four-eyed little monster’s membranous exterior as it baked in the radioactive waves of Ms. Fitz’s deadly scrutiny. These were desperate moments�"the ones when Ms. Fitz hovered her unpredictable hand over the keypad on her desk, daring the carrying-on to carry on. The neutralizer at her fingertips, an electronic pad of buttons arranged in four columns and five rows, and if your button is pushed, then…GULP!

“I didn't mean to, Ms. Fitz,” the little four-eyed monster explained timidly. “Honest.”

Honesty? HA! She thought. Drug users have no honesty. A toot or two of booger sugar before school and SNIFFLE, SNIFFLE, SNIFFLE, all day long. Drugs will not be tolerated. I bet it’s cocaine he is on. Or is it horse? Or angle dust, maybe? Why just last week, in fact, I overheard the little four-eyed monster mention that “pollen” was the cause of his sneezing. Indeed! Clearly, “pollen” is slang for some illicit substance that I can assure will not be tolerated. She jotted herself a reminder to write a memorandum regarding the clear and present danger of the distribution and abuse of “pollen,” which if gone unchecked, will surely lead to an epidemic.

Some conspiratorial revolt was afoot, she knew. Those little monsters! Sharpening shanks! Getting goofed up on “POLLEN”! What’s next? I’ll tell you what’s next: obedience and order! I’ll see to that. Instead of tending to her memo or the papers, she only held the coffee mug as if merely the feeling of its weight in her hand amplified her vigilance and alertness. She watched. She waited. But not long after, she began to settle down, and convinced herself that even if she did divert her attention then her head probably would not be lopped off by guillotine before lunch. Okay, then, back to the task at hand. She returned to Desi  Fowler’s paper and picked up where she left off:

…And my second most favorite thing I like about being an American is we can feel safe here. Some times on TV they show how other countries can be scary places. And that is why I am proud I live in the greatest country in the whole world…

A fart wailed and instantly dispersed its foul odor everywhere. “EWW!” the little monsters chorused, pinching their noses, fanning the air about their faces, all of them giggling as little monsters are wont to do when such things occur.

“THAT DOES IT!” Ms. Fitz shouted and mashed her hand on the keypad. A single depressed button illuminated and blinked urgently. The class turned quiet again, except for the general weeping and anxious breathing. Every window of the room burst inward, sputtering shards of glass like a mist, and the door flew from its hinges, shooting splinters into the room. The black suited forms followed the flying debris inside. Half of them had swung from ropes into the windows and the other half stampeded through the doorway. “FREEZE!” One of them shouted. The thudding of combat boots thundered as they charged in and tactically maneuvered around their target. A monstrous shadow swallowed the little pig tailed girl and she shrank in her seat, the foredooming stares of their rifles sited at her head from all directions. The squad leader jabbed the stock of his gun into her little face, knocking her to the ground�"senseless-‘n’-submissive is easiest into the straitjacket. “The target is in custody. I repeat: the target is in custody. Alright, boys, let’s move out!” The assault team withdrew, the last of them in file dragging the limp little girl by her pigtails, and the blinking key went dark.

The students studied quietly at their desks a midst the wreckage, and Ms. Fitz sat lavishly behind hers. She felt herself relax for the first time that day and sat back in her chair, scratching what was left of the correction fluid from the mug. She blew the pile of white flakes off her desk, and looked at the picture, now free of hardened correction fluid: a cartoon rendering of a red apple with an anthropomorphic worm sticking out of it, pointing a ruler at a chalkboard, on which this was written:

 

2 TEACH IS

+2 TOUCH LIVES

4 EVER

 

 

“Oh, poppycock!” Ms. Fitz said, and snatched up Desi Fowlers essay and scrawled a large “F” across the page. She swallowed what coffee was left in the mug and threw it into the waste basket beneath her desk. She thought: The essay, the mug�"sentimental nonsense; expressions, all�"and things such as these will not be tolerated.