Schools have to be creative when fundraising, especially in a tough economy, so I shouldn’t have been shocked to see a trailer and two large metal ramps parked where the crossing guard usually stands in front of my son London’s elementary.
As I walked up to the student body lining the streets, I vaguely recalled London telling me that he had earned the Hulk-themed rubber duck that hung from his neck by sending postcards to his uncles, aunts and grandparents, encouraging them to renew magazine subscriptions and purchase off-brand candy online. That much information was hard enough to process, but as London had catalogued the types of ducks one could earn through brisk sales (princess, ninja, soccer star) and how many of each his classmates won (2, 6, 16), my brain had automatically gone to sleep. The end game to this kiddie capitalism was a BMX show during which, according to my budding salesman, a real bike would jump over a live teacher. Kids were already placing bets, he’d said.
Before I got close enough to see the scruffy riders straddling their gearless bikes, I heard a familiar nasal tone ramping up in volume. When I was London’s age, I would have said that the stylized voice belonged to the announcer for Raceway Park, a track near my home, which featured smash-up derbies, drag races and other fun things to which my dad would never dream of taking us.
This voice was telling the kids about a horrific accident he had “on this very ramp,” which had shattered his ankle, even though he was wearing the “very same safety equipment” he had on today. He might have said something like “be careful,” but his message was as lost on me as it was on the youngsters. If this hero on two wheels savagely hurt himself after taking all the necessary precautions, why would he continue to jump his donorcycle on portable lifts in front of kids who were still learning to spell? The voice never said, but we had front row seats to the next installment.
One of my father’s favorite expressions is “Don’t piss on me and tell me it’s raining.” If you want kids to have fun, let them have fun. If you want them to learn, let them learn. Same with raising cash. My problem with the whole fundraising deal is all the misdirection and subterfuge. The BMX show was not just a joyful spectacle of soul patches, wool caps and possible fractures. Embedded inside each tire rotation was promotion, sponsorship, inside baseball and a confusing reward.
“Here’s Toby!” the voice would roar. “He’s included in the BMX rankings elite system male category with 465 points, competing at the Red Bull Pump Riders exhibition, the Gatorade Free Flow Finals BMX Park Primer in conjunction with the Mountain Dew Dew Tour. He’s from Provo, Utah, and wants you to stay in school and thinks you did a totally awesome job raising money for your totally rad school.”
Imagine you are 7 or 8, your stomach still bubbling with chocolate milk from lunch. What the hell do you make of that sentence, especially when it’s delivered with rising volume and seems to end with the intonation usually given to a question?
Oh yes, the voice knew to ask the kids to “make some noise,” and there were the requisite tailwhips and Supermans, and even though this boneshaker circus was meant to be a reward for everyone, the kids knew by the attention they received or the ducks they collected who sold more and deserved extra praise. I left early, well before the bikes orbited the art teacher, but saw London after school. “How’d it go?” I asked him.
“OK.”
His tone reeked of disappointment. “Why just OK?”
“Leina won a signed poster.”
I imagined that she’d guessed the weight of one of the riders or had started her own paddling of canards. “What for?”
“She’s a really loud screamer.”