Legitimate After All
We had a middle school student who was proving to be a handful. He was in foster care and was carrying a lot of baggage. Unfortunately, he didn’t last long in the foster home and was in our school for a relatively short time.
On this particular day he wasn’t very happy with me. I recall the issue but won’t go into any detail. The bottom-line is that he ended up calling me a bastard; in fact, he included the usual adjective to help accentuate the point he was trying to make.
That night I called my mother. After we exchanged our pleasantries I asked her the following:
“Mom, were you and dad married?”
“Why, of course we were. Why would you ask such a question?”
“Well, there was a student today who seemed quite certain that I was born out of wedlock.”
“Ah, I see. Well you can assure him that your parents were married. I have the paperwork to prove it.”
“Thanks mom. I’ll let him know.”
Those scratchy marks there on the wall,
They show how short I used to be.
They rise until they get this tall,
And Mama keeps reminding me
The way my dad would take his pen
And as I stood there, stiff and straight,
He’d put a ruler on my head
And mark the spot and write the date.
She says that it’s my history,
But I don’t understand it at all
Just why she cries each time she sees
Those scratchy marks there on the wall.
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