Sometimes life demands a new word. Such as “Shameboni.” It’s shorthand for a technique I’m developing to deal with uncomfortable feelings. Embarrassment. Mortification. Shame. Instead of worrying what others think, the idea is to play it cool. Smooth things over. Make a fresh start.
Have you ever watched a Zamboni driver resurface an ice rink? To the soundtrack of “Livin’ on a Prayer,” he spins the wheel with one hand, and pumps the water lever with the other. Often gum and winks are involved. We spectators ooh from behind the plexiglass as he caresses the perimeter wall with his giant water-dumpster. We ahhh as he precisely erases the last skate scars from the middle of the rink. It’s hard to resist applauding as the driver glides off the rink into the parking bay, leaving behind a perfect plane of possibility.
That smooth, translucent surface, that even tranquility, is what I envisioned yesterday as I snuck a greasy bag of Kentucky Fried Chicken into my daughter’s school. She asked me to join her for lunch before winter break. I stepped into the cafeteria, on axis with the brand new, parent-funded salad bar. If that assembly of plastic and glass could only see past my fast-food and into my kitchen, it would know that there were carrot peels and miso smears on the counter from packing my kids’ healthy lunches that morning. There was no time time to make my own meal, so en route to my daughter’s school from work, I did what I had to do. When the only establishments between your meeting and your child’s cafeteria are Best Buy and KFC, the choice is the one with the drive-thru.
The Colonel fit nicely under my coat as I opened the school door. In the cafeteria, I waited for my daughter to arrive with her classmates. “What is that?” they said, swinging their legs over the bench where I’d stashed my lardy lunch. “My food…hey anybody want to hear a story?” The old bait and switch. “Yes!!” they bellowed, which earned us the stink-eye from the lunchroom proctor. Weren’t we all hungry? Me for acceptance, them for attention, the proctor for order, all of us for calories. Quietly, I spun a yarn about a haunted hotel with 100 rocking chairs. Every time the children interrupted me to contribute a plot twist, I pulled more chicken from the bag at my feet.
By the end of lunch, the story had eight co-authors, and my box of food was on the table, in plain sight. The proctor called on us to dump our trash. When I stood up, I checked to make sure nothing had been left behind. The table was as smooth and pristine as ice. Shameboni.
The lst rule of thumb for the adult (teacher, leader, parent, etc.) when surrounded by “minors” to whom we THOUGHT we needed to set an example is: “Do what I SAY, NOT what I DO !” (this is one of the fringe benefits of being the adult teacher, leader, parent, etc., doncha know ?) You waited years and years in the trenches – being barked at by “adults” – you earned your “adult” status – it’s YOUR turn – go for it.