My Father's Discipline

ONCE I got suspended from school in the eighth grade for fighting. Some boy messed with my fried chicken. They served fried chicken for lunch, and this boy took a piece of chicken out of my plate. They had to call my father from his job.

Now, my father worked by the hour, which meant he had to punch out to come see why his son, the preacher’s kid, had gotten kicked out of school. He went to the school and came to the principal’s office, where I sat, waiting. I’ll never forget my father’s face as he listened to the story of how I came to get in trouble. I’ll also never forget my father’s response.

He told the principal, “Sir, you will never, ever, ever have to worry about my son ever being suspended from school ever again.” As we walked out he said, “Do you know how much this visit cost me? I am going to take the payment out on you.” Even though I was disciplined, he still fed me.

Even though I was disciplined, he still clothed me. Even though I was disciplined, there was still a roof over my head. Even though I did something to irritate him, he was my daddy, and he was tenaciously committed to me.