I Say Now, Who Do, Who Do You Think You're Foolin'?

The letter, intended to inform my friend's son that he'd not gained entrance into the National Honor Society, incredulously, was a form letter. And not even a personalized one.

Umm, hello, it's a prep school. Ignoring for a moment that it has a far finer reputation than an impersonal form letter would suggest it has, it has a very small, select student body. How many of these letters could there have been? 6? We couldn't have taken the time to address these boys by name? At least in this situation?

It also had the incorrect date. Last year.

It was also so poorly written, so insulting in its comments, so dismissive of this boy's effort and worth, that I at first thought surely it was a bogus letter written by some smart-ass fellow student who wanted to play a prank to razz the other NHS contenders.

But it wasn't.

And if it were, even a fellow student would not have made the grammatical errors this woman made in her letter. A student making a genuine effort at a prank would know to demonstrate a more impressive command of the written word than that. Because they'd want to be convincing.

Evidently, making a convincing demonstration of her competence was not on this woman's mind. Again, I am baffled at what motivates people. She could not have made even a half heartedly robust effort at turning this into a teaching moment for these boys? She cared that little?

And suddenly I am turning into a she-wolf myself. I am completely appalled that a letter like this went to any young person, let alone a young person whose parents shell out a king's ransom in tuition and other sizeable gifts every year to send their kids there. I would expect more from that school. I would expect more from a public school. I would GET more from a public school.

My first thought, however irrational, is to pick up the phone and confront this so-called teacher. Was this letter intended to have the boys considering going home and sticking their heads into their mother's ovens?

It is at this point that I stop and remind myself that I am not my mother. And I am not this boy's mother, either, hello.

Instead, I use my words. Words are in my wheelhouse, even if they aren't in Senora's. I compose a thoughtfully worded, direct email to my friend suggesting that she write a letter, and I suggest statements and ideas and "opportunities to improve" upon the way this situation had been handled for her use in the letter:

Get the date right and for God's sake proofread.
Greet the students by name.
Commend the students for completing the rigorous application process. Applaud their effort.
Provide meaningful feedback on where they could improve their chances of gaining admission the next year by cultivating this skill or that, or focusing on this core value or that leadership opportunity.
Offer to shepherd them through this year with a eye toward next year.

But the letter that had already made its way into these young mens' hands had already achieved a D.
Discouraging.
Disengaging.
Disheartening.
Devaluing.
Dismissive.
Degrading.
Disgusted.

I am completely disgusted.

I could go on. I am sure my friend did. I am not sure what Fate has in store for Senora, but it is a good bet she is not on the National Honor Society committee any more.