Young Henry was seated at the kitchen table in the Johnsons’ comfortable house, his brows wrinkled in thought. He resorted to mumbling to himself as he went through the difficulties because completing his maths homework was proving to be fairly difficult.
He murmured, “2+5, the son of a b**ch is 7,” beneath his breath.
He said, “3+6 is 9; the son of a b**ch.”
His mother, who had been occupied in the kitchen, overheard her son’s rather peculiar approach to maths. She put her spatula down puzzled and walked over to Henry. “Henry,” she questioned, “what is this nonsense you are doing?”
Henry responded, “Oh, Mom, don’t disturb,” without looking up from his homework. I’m working on my math assignment.
His mother asked further questions out of concern. Is this how you were taught by your teacher?
Henry gave a confident nod. “Yes, mother,”
Now, completely terrified, Henry’s mother made the decision to intervene on her own. He teacher’s number was entered on her cell phone as she reached for it. She questioned, “Are you teaching maths to children by saying… 2+2, the son of a b**ch is 4?” with a mix of annoyance and wonder.
On the opposite end of the queue, there was a brief period of silence before the teacher started laughing, much to her surprise.