I brought beef jerky to a yoga ashram.

Right there, under the ashram rules it states:

“…non-vegetarian foods, eggs, onions, garlic, and coffee are also

forbidden on ashram premises”

Crap.  I have canned tuna in my bag too.  

At least I left the bottle of wine at home, although with this view and a glass of burgundy, I would certainly reach nirvana.

We live in a world of zero tolerance.  A world where even here, at a yoga ashram where the guru was credited with saying, “There is something good in all seeming failures.”  Even here, at his ashram, we are handed a list of rules, we sign a multitude of consent forms and waivers, and are subject to the threat that our non-violent, personal behavior may “result in immediate expulsion from the ashram.”

The world wasn’t always this way.

When I was a kid, we made soooooo many mistakes.  We pushed the boundaries, we messed up, we got yelled at (sometimes with a belt), apologized, and learned.  But we weren’t expelled, banished, or left without another chance. 

We got caught smoking behind the grocery store one time.  I was probably 10 and I am quite certain it was my cousin Jim’s idea.   The police caught us.  Did he arrest us?  Did he write a citation?  Did he call our parents?  No, he made us get on our hands and knees and pick up every cigarette butt in that alley way, hold them all in our sweaty fists, the mixture of fear and stale, burnt tobacco seeping into our pores, nose and consciousness.  He never said a word.   When we were done (and it took quite a while), he simply held out an empty lunch bag and we reluctantly opened our hand, the evidence of crimes from countless kids spilled into that sack.  He looked us in the eyes, rolled the top of the bag closed, got in his car, and drove away.   We were petrified not knowing what would come next.  Would he tell?  Quite possibly as my mom worked for a circuit judge.  Would he tell?  Quite possibly since Jim’s dad, my uncle, owned the liquor store not a block away and the cop stopped in there after work nearly every day.  And then what?  We had no idea… so we talked, we analyzed, we beat ourselves up.  We fantasized, we frantisized, and we swore a blood oath we would NEVER smoke again.

But that’s not today. 

Today kids have to be perfect.  There is no tolerance for nearly anything.  The rules are no longer a line in the sand but instead are etched into stone tablets that describe nearly every possible offense and are annotated with an accompanying matrix of consequence.  This is good, right?  Kids don’t have to think about what might happen or even consider the chain reaction of their choices.  No, they simply can look it up, and as rational actors, weigh the pros and the cons in advance.  If only they were emotionally developed to do so. They’re not, so instead, they are corralled by their parents, helicopter moms and drill sergeant dads who spend every waking moment hovering over their children to make sure they know where the lines are and run interference should one toe come close to being out of bounds.  And moms and dads of means are able to make parent patrol a full time job.  But what about those parents who can’t?  Maybe there’s only one instead of two or maybe they they have to ride three buses to and from work morphing an 8-hour day into 12?  Or maybe they just think kids should be kids?  When those kids fuck up, and they do- after all, they’re kids - the consequences are extreme, life changing, and permanent.

That almost happened one time to Derek. 

He was in the 6^th or 7^th grade, I’m no longer sure.  But one day, at work, nearly 60 minutes away, I got the phone call. 

“Is this Derek’s mom?”

Without waiting for my complete reply, they continued:

            “First, Derek is fine.  He is not hurt…”

Then why in the heck are you calling me in the middle of my shift?

            “…however, there has been an incident.”

I am not sure if I responded, or even if I could respond since they had punched me in the gut, forcing the air out of me. 

“We will be conducting a crisis evaluation according to the code of conduct matrix found in the Student Handbook you were presented with both online and in orientation or you may friend us on Facebook for a copy.”

Seriously?  What?  I snapped to attention:

“WHOA!  You aren’t doing anything until I get there.  You are not talking to him.   You are not evaluating him.  You are not matrixing him until I get there.  Do you understand?”

            “Well, Mrs. Choate, I can assure you this is all a matter of protocol…”

            “I said, I am on my way.  Do. Not. Talk. To. Him.   Now, put him on the phone please.”

            “Derek, are you ok?”

            “I think so.”

\

            “Don’t say anything more.  To anyone, and I mean anyone.  I am on my way.”

When I got there, I found out Derek had been accused of having a potential weapon at school and there is zero tolerance for that.  Automatic suspension, expulsion, and quite possibly a scarlet letter etched into his forehead with Sharpee.  Red or black.  Your choice.

The weapon?  A hollow plastic “bullet” from his Halloween costume.

I only had one thing to say.  Zero tolerance.

Of course, once I was there, nothing happened.  The principal apologized.  I took Derek home.  And I tried to explain the crazy ass world he was living in.   The world that was so afraid of being unfair, they had to have one size fits all rules. The world that was so litigation prone that every incident came with its own cover your ass protocol.   A world that no longer operated with “it takes a village” but instead adapted “not in my school” or backyard or city or town or state or country. 

And to make it even worse, I had learned to navigate that world.  I learned to demand my rights to protect his.  I learned that as the white mom of a black boy, my built in privilege sometimes would balance the cumulative disadvantage of his race, and gender, and age. I learned that I had to defend, advocate and fight for my kids instead of working hand in hand with those in whom I entrusted his care.  I learned there were no silent cops willing to take the time to offer a life lesson.   I learned there is no longer room in our society for my kids to analyze, frantisize, and swear a blood oath to NEVER make that mistake again.

So here I sit.  My beef jerky and canned tuna disguised in plain unmarked brown wrappers.  Stashed under my yoga pants and Namaste tshirt.

I learned all right. 

But it’s not all right.