True Story

Every word of this is true, except that I didn't actually send this letter--just wanted to.

Dear Mr. __

I am surprised to find myself writing this letter, but here we are.  We met at the school a few weeks ago.  When you caught a glimpse of my daughter fifty yards or so away, you called, "Octopus!  Octopus!" and did your octopus impression--hopping on one leg in your gym shorts, waving the other leg in the air, and jiggling your arms above your head as your whistle bounced around your neck.  I was embarrassed for you and waved quickly and attempted to hustle my daughter to the car.  But you made a point of coming over and said to me, "I always call her Octopus.  But she knows I don't mean anything by it, right?"  If I had had more time and presence of mind, I would have looked levelly at you and asked, "Then why do you keep doing it?"  But neither time nor presence of mind are mine in abundance these days, so instead I gave you a feeble smile and we parted ways.

However, the octopus thing has really gotten out of hand, Mr. ___.  As you may recall, it all began when you learned my daughter was taking swimming lessons.  You said to her, "I bet you swim like a fish--no, like an octopus!"  (I was confused when she told me this--why not rest with the standard piscine simile?  I tried to reassure her that an octopus, too, is a good swimmer.) Then you said to the children in the class, "Everyone stay away from the octopus!" and debuted the octopus impression.  She told me, "I tried to act like I was happy but I went and sat on the bench and I couldn't help some tears from coming out."  She reported that you had learned she was crying and had told her you would return to your old standby nickname for her, "Allison Wonderland."

But today she told me that she really doesn't like you anymore and she hates PE.  I asked why, since her relationships with everyone at the school thus far have been wholly positive.  Teachers, librarians, lunch ladies, and janitors have each pulled me aside to tell me that I am the mother of "the happiest kid at ___!" and that they "just love [my] daughter!"  I have also been impressed with the school's comprehensive anti-bullying program, which seems to have the kids interacting with none of the thoughtless social savagery that I remember from the playgrounds of my own youth.  So, I was surprised to hear that there was a component of her experience that she found so negative.

She explained that you have continued to call her "Octopus." I instructed her carefully that she should ask you politely to stop by saying, "Mr. __, I don't like that name.  Would you please stop?"  She burst out that she had already done that, last week, and that you had promised her that you would--but that the name-calling has continued this week, along with encouraging other children in the class to join in.

Although doing so apparently brings you irresistible pleasure, I would like to ask you to refrain from calling my daughter an octopus.

This is, in fact, the purpose of my letter. Not only to voice this request--"please stop humiliating my seven-year-old"--as she has already done so herself, in most plain and plaintive terms.  But also to emphasize that I am making this request as her parent and that as such, if necessary, I will pursue this matter until the consequences for you are unpleasant enough to outweigh whatever unfathomable pleasure this behavior brings.  Of course, it is my hope that unpleasantness is unnecessary, and in that hope I write.

Sincerely yours.
[Insert gratuitous use of title here.]