When did a “C” become OK on a report card?
The other day, I was in line behind a pair of middle school students at a local fast food establishment, and they were loudly and proudly boasting about getting C’s.
One student had four and the other five.
“Why,” I interjected into their conversation, “are you happy with C’s?” (It was my inner-teacher coming out).
They both replied almost simultaneously, “Man, we ain’t got no D’s or F’s.”
“Great, but do you know what C’s mean?” I asked.
I got blank stares from the pair while they were filling their mouths with fries.
I told them that a C means average, mediocre, so-so, kinda not all the way there, just holding on, on the edge of the table.
Who wakes up in the morning, jumps out of bed and screams, “Today, I want to be average!”
No one.
(Well, there are those Oklahoma folks who are happy to be OK, but that’s for another day.)
Imagine, I told them, if you were average height – you probably wouldn’t be able to play basketball, and, if you had average looks, the girls would be leaving you alone. That got their attention.
What if you applied for that big, big job and when that boss-to-be asked you to rate your skills, you say, “well, average,” are you going to get hired?
No.
To be average in America means you are overweight, nearly obese, spend $1,200 a year on fast food and consume 1,996 pounds of food in a year — that’s like swallowing a Volkswagen, plus an extra set of tires.
The two middle schoolers didn’t seem worried, so I took a different approach.
“A ‘C’ means you are in the middle,” I said. “Imagine if you are the middle dog on a sled team – you see nothing but butt.
“Do you want to come in the theater in the middle of a movie or the middle of a concert and there is no light at the middle of the tunnel.
“Or what if the Razorbacks finished in the middle of the conference every year; there would be a new coach every year. And what about your favorite pro team? Would you cheer for them and buy their expensive merchandise, if they always ended up in the middle — and don’t bring up the Cubbies and their fans, they are a different breed.”
As the manager was giving me the eye for making a scene. I finished my tirade by saying, “Unless you are a musical ‘C’, being in the middle is a sour note, don’t you see?”
All they saw was their box of fries was empty and off they went to into the middle of the parking lot to see some friends who were probably equally happy about C’s.
If they could only see… —Rick Kron
