Brazilians are notoriously passive aggressive. I’m sorry Brazilian friends, family and readers… you are. You may not recognize it because you all are – it’s like sea urchins not noticing how they are all underwater. But throw a submarine into the mix, and things start to surface.
I haven’t been that happy with my daughter’s school. I missed the beginning-of-the-year meeting (for a couple good reasons). But I still wanted to meet my daughter’s new teacher. However, the school director’s view was that it was absolutely impossible for me to meet the teacher during their two-week “adaptation” period. Mind you, all the kids have been there for at least nine months already, most of the entire six kids have been there since they were one-year-old. So I do believe that they were f-ing with me for not going to the meeting. And for being an aggressive American in general.
Now, I’m not a passive aggressive person. I’m quite the opposite (which would be aggressive). I can bring someone to their knees with words. I’m not proud of it, but at the height of my raging pregnancy hormones, I’ve made grown men cry in business situations. If I’m motivated to do so, I will take you down with conversation. In English, that is. In Portuguese, I need a new strategy.
As of this morning, I had yet to hear back from the school director about when we could meet the teacher. Four whole days of some unknown being responsible for 3 to 4 hours of my daughter’s fragile life went by. Nor had he emailed me all the information received at the meeting that he promised he would.
So in order to be more Brazilian today, I thought I’d fight fire with fire. Remembering that the school had sent an email to parents imploring us to dress our kids in the school uniform, my daughter wore her own clothes to school today. What were they going to do? Refuse her entrance?
When I picked her up she had a big blue spot of paint on her shirt. Despite never having seen a paint spot as big or as blue on her uniform as the one on her own shirt, and having carefully packing a painting smock in her bag, there it was. Hmmm. Am I being paranoid?
Perhaps. But I demanded to speak to the teacher in my “I’m not going anywhere” way and got an instant meeting. So, aside from the blue spot, I walked away satisfied.
Maybe my daughter will wear her uniform tomorrow… maybe she won’t. I’ve got plenty of product to get blue paint spots out of cotton. Perhaps I’ll try my hand at passive aggression for one more day.