Shattered

Today I got to do one of those "fun" Classmother things: a field trip. We went to some smelly, muddy pumpkin and livestock farm, and I was having a wonderful time with my daughter and her first-grade class.

And then we got to the goat pen. "Miss Debbie," our intrepid tour guide, began to explain that - despite the fact that these were female goats, many of them were sporting what looked like little goat whiskers on their chins. The word she used was "beards."

A second later, my daughter's teacher pointed to the goat and chimed in helpfully: "Oh, she's Italian."

And, as God is my witness, every last illusion I had about the sanctity of the teaching profession was shattered in that instant. I was stunned, but I felt the need to respond, and to at least let her know that I'd heard her, and that I didn't agree. So I said: "Well, I'm Italian ... but I have no beard."

Once again, I'm amazed at how comfortable people are in expressing their bigotry in polite company. Never you mind that, here on Long Island, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting an Italian-American. And forget for a second that if I don't look Italian, with my short stature, dark curly hair and dark eyes, then nobody does.

I don't know what to do. I don't know if I can ever look that Pennsylvania farm girl in the face again. If she was dumb enough and insensitive enough to make a crack like that in my presence, what the hell is going on in that classroom when I'm not around?