A pie for a baby
Years ago, a principal was running my school, and he was a monster.
A narcissist of the highest order.
We had no affection for each other, and we made it abundantly clear, both in action and words.
Happily, he made the mistake of asking me to lie on his behalf about a financial mishap early on in his tenure, and I refused. When he claimed that I was being insubordinate, I told him that I would be more than happy to report this conversation to his superiors and “the whole damn world” if he ever bothered me again in any way. From that point on, we operated in a state of detente.
Happily, he didn’t last long.
Near the end of his tyranny, our school’s PTO sponsored a fundraiser. Large containers were placed in the school lobby – each with a staff member’s name attached. Parents and children were asked to drop money into the jars, and the staff member with the most money in the jars at the end of the month would receive a pie in the face at our weekly assembly.
A brilliant fundraiser, I think. A fun and slightly subversive incentive. And it worked brilliantly. The PTO raised a lot of money, and one teacher in the building was the clear “winner” and would be receiving a pie in the face the following week.
He was thrilled. It was a badge of honor of sorts, and he wore it well.
My principal was not thrilled. He, too, had a jar in the lobby and didn’t come close to winning. In fact, several teachers, including me, beat him handily. But unable to shine the spotlight in any direction but his own, he informed the PTO that they would need two pies:
One is for the winning teacher and a surprise pie for the principal.
The PTO President was not a fan of the principal, but to placate his infantile needs, he grudgingly agreed to the second pie.
On the afternoon of the assembly, I was standing in the wings with the teacher, the principal, and the PTO President. I often cohost our assemblies, and since I was not receiving a pie in the face, I would be the only person on the microphone for this segment, so I was planning the details of the segment. Minutes before we emerged onto the stage, the principal turned to the PTO President and said, “I want both pies.”
“What? I asked.
“I want both pies,” he repeated. “Let’s fake everyone out. Hit me with both. It will be hilarious.”
As I formulated my response, which needed to be annoyingly polite given the presence of the PTO President, the President jumped in and said, “No. Those kids didn’t pay to see you get hit by a pie. You’re lucky we brought a second pie. We shouldn’t have even done that, but since you’re so needy, we agreed. So you’re getting one pie, or I’m walking away with both, and you can explain to 400 kids why they aren’t seeing an old-fashioned pie-in-the-face today.”
Better than I could’ve said it myself.
The principal took way too long to contemplate the situation and then, like a petulant child, agreed.
I’ll never forget it.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen an adult act so childish before in my life. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a grown-ass man look like such a brat before. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a leader shoved into a corner so effectively.
It was hilarious.
So, the teacher received a pie, and the principal received a pie. As the host, I made sure to play up the moment when the teacher received his pie and downplay the principal’s moment in his petty, fading sun.
Happily, he was gone less than two years later.
Less than a year later, he was ousted from education completely in a highly publicized, front-page investigation by the Hartford Courant into charges of sexual harassment at his new school.
None of this surprised me at all.
There are moments in life that define you as a human being, and I can’t help but think that the two-pie incident defined this man perfectly:
A petulant, childish narcissist who needed every spotlight pointed in his direction at all times and couldn’t bear the thought that someone else might receive a pie.
That is how I will always remember him.
