What I Learned at the Museum

I haven't chaperoned an elementary school field trip in years, mostly because I am not one of those go-getter parents who gets their "I WANT TO BE A CHAPERONE ON EVERY SINGLE TRIP OR I WILL DIE" forms turned in the minute there is a the mere hint of a field trip in the air. See, most of my kids' teachers take chaperones on a "first come first serve" basis, and there are literal death-matches to determine who goes. As a lowly barista, I am not able to ascertain my schedule for the day of the field trip for at least an entire 24 hours after the field trip forms have been distributed. It's not that I'm not brave enough to participate in a tooth-and-nail fight to the death for a spot on a smelly school bus, it's that I'm not priveleged enough to be able to participate in such a glorious battle. As such, I've grown isolated from my fellow fourth-grade families. I had assumed they were mostly like my family.

On the bus with the
(apparently naive) Dictator.

But as it turns out, I had no idea what those people have been up to.

However today, having won the school chaperone lottery, I was allowed to accompany the Dictator and all of her friends on one of these highly coveted trips. It was quite the experience.

I learned a lot at the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History today, most of which has woefully little to do with African American history, and a lot more to do with the very fascinating lives of fourth graders.

• Most of my daughter's classmates are well-versed in horror movies. I'm not talking an accidental peek here or there of a monster movie, or even sneaking in a scary movie when the babysitter is over. These kids are full-blown horror movie aficionados. Our lunch conversation consisted of in-depth discussions of the plots of Paranormal Activity and Annabelle, with every sweet-looking little girl chiming in...every sweet little girl except the Dictator. Because she's nine. And ohmyword. And I value my sleep, which is hard to get with terrified little girls clinging to your face because they now associate dolls with demons. And because she's nine. 
• Most of my daughter's classmates have also seen Bambi, and do not understand why she has never seen it. "It's tragic!!" is my impassioned response. "So?" they say, "It's not like it's going to hurt her." Maybe not, but it will for absolutely certain hurt me. You're talking to the lady that fled the theater as a young child when stupid Feivel the mouse was separated from his stupid tragic mouse family on his way to the New World. Because no one should have to sit through sad animals. No one.
• All of the kids know all of the explicit lyrics to all of the songs ever. All of the kids. Even my Dictator. I'm sure of it, though I've never heard her utter them in front of me. And she won't belt them at the top of her lungs on the bus during a school trip, either. But her classmates will. Loudly. So loudly. 
• Inappropriate songs are still vastly preferable to hearing Let it Go even one more time, ever. They tried singing that one, too. I wanted the inappropriate ones back immediately.
• All of the kids are apparently lushes. There was a mock-up of a bar at the museum. The kids flooded in and sat down at the counter. They then commenced ordering their drinks "straight up" and "on the rocks." They called for "another round" and marveled how much cheaper scotch was back then. For real. These little people were more comfortable ordering in a bar than I am. Yikes.
• Most children are really, really well-versed in geography. They knew about Kilimanjaro, that the Nile was the longest river in Africa, the location of Timbuktu, and all that brainy nonsense, answering the tour guide's geography-related questions like they read atlases for fun or something. The Dictator is an absolute expert in the geography of her words in Minecraft, but in real life, not so much. I think that she knows that she lives in a state that is shaped like a mitten and is called Michigan, but I could be wrong. 
• Speaking of Minecraft, while most of the children really seem to love that game, the Dictator is widely recognized as the class Minecraft expert. Friends turn to her for advice, instructions, and overall nuggets of Minecraft-related wisdom. She has started to sit cross-legged in a cave at the top of a mountain like some sort of sage wiseperson or something. When I asked her the meaning of Minecraft, she hit me on the head with a pixellated staff and muttered a koan. We really need to cut back on her screen time.
• Except that, "every other kid in the whole school gets to play video games on weekdays!" This was confirmed by every other kid at our whole table, which I admit is a decent sample of the whole school community. The Dictator's parents are such jerks. Such awful, awful jerks.
• Speaking of jerks, even though terrifying horror movie discussions and explicit song lyrics are totally okay, it is still not acceptable for the children to say "jerk" at school. Seems inconsistent.
• Chivalry is still a thing. Both the tour guide and the Dictator's teacher insisted that the boys allow the girls to enter rooms first and whatnot. I was absolutely dumbfounded. Why? What did the boys do wrong that they had to slink to the back of the group just because? Are they there to guard all of those weak little girls against sneaky attack-ninjas? Are they aware that most of those girls are twice the size of most of the boys? Do they think this is somehow a corrective for years and years of not getting to vote? "Sorry you don't get paid what you are worth, and that society is pretty much structured to your detriment, and that you are constantly being objectified, but here, we'll let you go into this room first. Hope there aren't any demon-possessed dolls or tragic mice inside! Good luck!" Yeah. Not a fan of chivalry. But then, I'm a total jerk.
• In spite of being a video-game-restricting, chivalry-shunning jerk, I am considered "one of the nice parents" for no apparent reasons. All of the parents seemed nice. All of the parents were about equally permissive. None of the parents beat, insulted, or otherwise tormented the students. Maybe the kids just liked my super-flashy smile.
• The kids are really good people. And they are super-funny. And even if they sing too loudly, and are allowed to watch horrific movies, and know unnatural amounts about geography,and open the doors for girls, I think that this next generation is going to be all right.