The Bison and the Hick on the Plains of Ohio

Published in The Fauquier Times-Democrat, Weekend Edition on Fri. April 27, 2012

Before we know it, SOL testing, like any other spring-time allergen, will be upon us and our children.  I remember the year we had moved to Ohio in 2001.  I was still a die-hard homeschooling mom then, so I only sent my children into school at the end of the year to take the proficiency tests alongside their public-schooled counterparts.

 My fourth-grader came home that day looking a little ruffled.  And it wasn’t the test that had ruffled her.  It was something else.  As mother, inspector, corrector, and protector, I needed to investigate.

Being an Indian mother, my greatest fear for my children, after academic failure, is the possibility that one might grow faint from hunger.  Correction: that a child of mine might even experience it.  Perhaps she was just hungry.  People who are hungry, sleepy, tired, stressed, or in pain can be a little crabby.  I think that sums up about 90% of the human condition for 90% of the population.  (Self included.)

Immediately following the debriefing on the difficulty level of the test and how well she felt she had fared, I honed in on the next burning question.  Had they been served any snacks?  “Not really,” she said.  “They just gave us some kind of a hick drink.” 

A hick drink?  What was a hick drink?  Sweetened ice tea?  An “Arnold Palmer” with its interesting blend of lemonade and sweet tea?  Besides, wherever had this child learned such language?  Surely, I had never referred to Ohio as such.  Granted, we had left gorgeous, hilly, water-clad Northern California for Central Ohio.  Central Ohio was flat.  There was a simulated beach within driving distance.  At the edge of a dam, a “beach” had been created by volumes of finely ground gravel dumped onto the shore.  The wake of the motorboats created a sort of wave action for those of us soaking in the pebbles and the sun.  Note I did not say “the sand and the sun.”

 Ohio was family-friendly, of course.  It was family- friendly in the same way that a stray mutt has to be.  It’s a matter of survival.  Ohio could never rival California in natural splendor, resources, attractions, or weather.  It was like comparing the voluptuous Marilyn Monroe to the charming Shirley Temple.  You can’t.  People always rushed to conferences in California, but no one bothered to convene in Columbus.  Still, Ohio was our new home, and I had never called it a “hick” place.

I stalled for time and probed further, “What do you mean, exactly, when you say it was ‘some kind of a hick drink’?”  Somewhat exasperated, she said it was a fruit punch of some sort.  Then it dawned on me.  She had been served a box of “Hi-C.”  I knew that it was pronounced “High C” as in, allegedly high in Vitamin C.  Among my many nutritional transgressions, which I have been guilty of, and can currently be accused of, serving boxed Hi-C drinks was not one of them. 

I remembered the TV jingle from my childhood, “They’ve got Hi – C!  They’ve got Hi – C!...”  My children were not avid or addicted watchers of children’s TV shows, so there was no exposure to the modern commercials either.  Hence, she thought “Hi-C” was pronounced as “hick.”

But that wasn’t what had miffed her.  Before the round of tests, while my daughter familiarized herself with the desk-and-attached chair, a student informed her that the teacher’s name was Mrs. Bison.  Need I mention that the teacher was unusually heavy-set? 

My daughter practiced her best manners by addressing the teacher properly and formally.   “Um, Mrs. Bison, I was wondering if I could sharpen my pencil,” she began as she presumptuously started toward the pencil sharpener.

The teacher’s sunny disposition took a mercurial U-turn.  The happy, hefty, woman suddenly bellowed, “Young lady, sit down in your chair!”

Having been homeschooled, my children were not used to being yelled at…by others, that is.  I did engage in plenty of yelling, but that was as natural in our home as running water.  It didn’t really count; it was just my natural dialect and a means of efficient communication.  Being yelled at by an outsider, though - that was something different, entirely.

Of course, you guessed it.  The woman’s last name was not Bison at all.  It was something confusing and hyphenated, like Neiler-Byce or vice versa.  (And not Versa-Vyce.)  The other student must have gotten a good laugh later, I suspect.  I am assuming a child who was naughty enough to have set my daughter up would also have been clever enough to suppress his laughter.  Like a little criminal, you know?  He probably laughed and bragged later how he had gotten the visiting student to call the teacher a Buffalo kinswoman.

I wonder if that kid is still laughing.