Excuses 25 Cents.

Dear RallyPoint Brother's and Sisters. Since we have been talking about Forgiveness and painful subjects that arise from not understanding where folks are coming from- I thought I would post this story I wrote. I debated whether or not to put it up. And If I was wrong to do so, please tell me and I will take it right back down. I have read some of the shares that are articles from other sources...I just happen to be the Author of this one. I think it is worth sharing during this Season, and because of the Posts this week. So, here it is :

Excuses: 25 Cents.

The Principal was livid. He stormed into the Cafeteria with such venom in his every step that kids in the school younger than ten years old started to cry or cower. Kids older than that merely stared at the seething anger filled being that was stomping towards the corner of the Cafeteria. Whatever he was mad about, had made him mad, was all they thought. Teachers found other places to look, rather than make eye contact with him. But he wouldn’t have noticed them anyway, his eyes were focused by rage on just one little boy sitting in the corner.

A boy who had a small sign in front of him, in beautiful calligraphy stating:

Excuses. 25 Cents.

The entire Cafeteria came to a standstill. Even the cooks stood like silent sentinels, or children trying not to be noticed. No one moved as the Principal drew up in front of the small boy with the elegant sign:

Excuses. 25 Cents.

The small boy looked up at the towering inferno of rage masquerading as a Principal without an ounce of fear. If the Principal thought intimidation was going to work on this small boy, he needed to think again. For the small boy merely looked up - and smiled.

The Principal’s voice pealed out in sharp edged, clipped words. The kind of stone chopped syllables that are uttered by someone just on the edge of losing it. Which, of course, the Principal was. Although the words weren’t shouted, they were loud enough for all six hundred kids, assorted teachers, and even the cooks by the dishwashers to hear:

“What. Do. You. Think. You. Are. Doing?!”

The small boy took a number two pencil and tapped the elegant sign with its immaculate calligraphy…twice.

“Just what the sign says, Sir.”

The Principal was flummoxed. Not only did the small boy admit to writing excuses, and charging for them; he seemed not the least bit contrite about it either. A bit of curiosity was creeping into the hard edged tone of the Principal’s bulleted words:

“And. What. Kind. Of. Excuses. Do. You. Write. If I may ask?”

That last sentence of the Principal’s was offered without sharp edges, but the rounded shape of insincere politeness. Every Mother in the room recognized that tone, because they had used it on their own children who had crossed whatever parental line had been set.

The small boy was as nonplussed by the sarcasm, insincerity, and hint of curiosity as he was by the anger still steaming off of the Principal like ripples of heat off of asphalt... in Phoenix... in July. The small boy tapped the well written sign with the eraser on his number two pencil- twice. As if reminding the Principal that nothing could be a simpler explanation.

“I write excuses. For 25 Cents.”

“What kind of excuses?”

Anger had given way to the wall of placid confidence the small boy had circled himself with. Curiosity was now the dominant emotion, not only in the tones of the Principal’s voice- but in the whole of the Cafeteria.

“Well written ones. Honest ones. Ones that reflect what the person needs excused.”

The Principal was now completely sucked into the world of this little boy. He pulled one of the small plastic chairs out, sat down across from small boy and his sign with the finality of someone who isn’t leaving until they understand.

“Have you written any today?”

“Yes. Three.”

“Can you show me one, or tell me who you wrote it for? And why?”

“Oh, I can tell you what I wrote. But not who I wrote it for. Excuses are like secrets- meant for only one ear. I wouldn’t be in business if every Tom, Dick, and Harriet went around using the same excuses. “

The Principal couldn’t help himself. Neither could any other adult in the room. Nor could any child older than ten. They all laughed out loud. The small children just caught the contagiousness of honest laughter, and joined in without a clue.

“So tell me one.”

“Okay. A kid came up to me and asked for an excuse to give his mother as to why his grades were so low.”

The Principal nodded. Many a mother wanted to know that excuse.

“What did you write for him?”

“I wrote this (and he handed over a one page note, written in the same heartfelt calligraphy as the sign was):

The Principal grew from curious, to fascinated, to thoughtful, and ended up at marvel - as he read the words on the excuse:

“Dear Mom,

I know you are wondering why my grades are so poor. I know you think I am being bullied. I am not. I know you think my Teachers are not doing their job. They are. I know you think I might be a bit stupid, or lazy, or both. I am not.

My only excuse is this: I like music and not much else. This school doesn’t even have a band. I don’t have even a musical appreciation course to go to, to break up my day. I know you think thirteen is too young to know what you want to be, but I do know Mom. I want to be a musician. A studio musician in Los Angeles. You should hear me play my guitar Mom, instead of always telling me to: “turn that crap down.”

My friends think I play like Jeff Beck, or John Mayer, or even Jimmy Page, sometimes I even get Hendrix comparisons. Mom, I am thirteen, and those folks are legends. I just want to make music. Even just a little bit of music during my school day, and I bet I could get at least C’s in all that other stuff.

No one listens to me, not even you Mom, when I tell the teachers, or the Counselors that I am not lazy, stupid, or a bad kid. I am just a musician stripped of his music. That is my excuse. My only excuse. I love you Mom. I will make you proud someday, but it won’t be with grades, it will be with Music.”

The Principal had read it out loud. Only a few people knew who that excuse was for. But everyone knew it was a valid excuse. Some of the Teachers who were themselves Mothers or Fathers, were searching their own actions and words to see if their children would need an excuse written for them. The look on some faces showed that the small boys excuse was more common than one would think.

The Principal stood, slowly putting the chair back under the table. He folded the note the small boy had written, but he didn’t offer it back to the small boy. Instead, in a voice that had no excuses in it, but a wave of sincerity as deep as the ocean itself:

“May I keep this?”

“Yes, Sir. It is a copy. I always make one for the kid, one for me, and one “just in case.”

The Principal put the excuse in his pocket, tapped it twice with his finger, just like the small boy had tapped the sign with his pencil.

“You are charging too little. Carry on.”

With that the Principal strode out to his Office, he had two children of his own he had to offer an excuse to- and it wouldn’t be about how busy he was or the image he had to maintain. No. He would come back later in the day, pay his twenty five cents- and get his excuse.

The small boy smiled as a line formed in front of his sign. Not everyone in line was a child either. But all of them were holding a quarter.