This is Tommie - Dad School.

Dad school.


Some people are private schooled, some public, and some home schooled. We were public and home schooled. If we were on section 2.1 in math class we were on section 3.2 at Dad school. We had to read the dictionary and tell our Dad what words we learned when he got home. I learned a lot about the world from the dictionary, I learned about the basic mechanics of sex from the dictionary. Heck, when I was in the 3rd grade I knew what fellatio and cunnilingus meant. I didn’t know how to do it or nor did I know the vulgar terms for them until later. It was funny I think I heard the term blow job or deep throat when I was in the 5th grade I’m listening to these kids and they were giggling at some smut book someone snuck from home. So I go over there and I ask what is a blowjob, and like all kids they were like you don’t know what a blowjob is? Well it’s when a girl goes down on a boy and kisses his pee-pee.

I looked at them and said you mean fellatio? That was a real deer in the headlights moment. Still reading about it a dictionary is WAY different than seeing. After you see it for the first time it’s a blowjob not fellatio.

Well one thing about Dad School is that my Dad rules his school with an iron fist. Literally, when Dad sat you down for class that was probably the most stressful part of your day. In my house in regular school there were three grades A, B, and F. At Dad school there was A and F that was it. If you got it wrong my Dad would slam his fist on the table like a crazed madman. I really think he needed some anger management classes but they didn’t exist then.

“What is the square root of 256 Tommie?”

“128?”

BAM!

NO, HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO GO OVER THIS TOMMIE?

“Uhh…64?”

BAM! BAM!

“TOMMIE WE HAVE BEEN WORKING ON THIS ALL NIGHT YOU ARE NOT STUPID. NOW AGAIN!”

“Uhhh…16?”

“You asking or you telling?”

“Telling?”
“Well sound like it then.”

“16.”

“See I told you, you could do it.”

Man, you used to hate it when Dad wanted to help you with your homework because it would be hours of table slamming. Or even worse, when your report card showed up and your marks weren’t up to snuff. Dad would help you with your homework every night from the day you got the Report card till the time the next report card. That could be up to 6 weeks of non-stop table slamming.

When I was a kid my Dad scared the holy hell out of me. Heck I did everything I could to stay out of Dad school. Hell, even as an adult he can still be a pretty scary guy. All my friends are like your Dad is so cool and funny and calm. My brother and I are like don’t believe the hype. The man is an insane education Nazi. He is just acting because you are here. When you are gone he is going to go crazy again and start spelling and ranting off random equations. He’s holding it in right now.

Dad school also had a manners and rules component that we had. My Dad would never just out and out spank you for no reason. He would always sit you down calmly and then we would have a discussion about what you did and if you thought it was wrong and if you didn’t think it was wrong we would go over why it was wrong. Nothing happened in my house without a reason. Well my Dad was a “craftsman” and he crafted this paddle out of a 2x4 called the “Board of Discipline” it looked one of those vanilla ice creams on a stick dipped in chocolate with holes drilled in the paddle so it would whistle when he swung it. So after this tender father/son moment where we would discuss the merits of honesty he would tell you now go get the Board of Discipline and hurry up. Man that was the real trail of tears. I know some of you may be appalled by the idea of a paddling but that was before the days when CPS got involved. If you were ballsy enough to tell your folks you would call 911 on them (hell 911 was new when I was a kid) they would dial 91 and dare you to press the 1. My Dad would say call them and when they get here I’m going to cut their butts and then yours.

When I turned 13 my Dad gave me the Board of Discipline as a present and let me cut it up with a hacksaw. My brother and I took turns cutting it up. It was the best birthday present ever.

I’ve been talking to my brother while I’ve been writing this and he said something to me that made so much sense. He said, “I guess that's why we are so good at taking shit from bosses because Dad was always in our face at any second. As a grown man my biggest relief is that I do not get a report card anymore...”

Amen to that Brother.

I mean we were terrified to get our grades to get sent home if we knew they weren’t going to cut it. Even while we were in college. Any sane person couldn’t do a whole summer with that madman. But, my brother and I were close and we developed a plan to outsmart him. At the end of the semester (or quarter) we would be calling each other to see who would get home first. It would always be like, “Hey, Man when you getting home? On the 23rd? Cool, listen my grades should be showing up on the 4th or 5th I need you to check the mail. Naw, Dad can’t see them. What to do with them? The fuck you think man? Same thing we always do send it to the shredder.”

At the end of the day I think my Dad’s plan worked. My brother and have I stayed out for the poorhouse and the jailhouse. I guess it’s true what they say most geniuses are mentally unstable.