The Day Our Daughter Got Hit

How Did She Get Hurt?

THE DAY OUR DAUGHTER GOT HIT
By M. Welch
MAY 8, 2014
When our four-year-old was suddenly marked with mysterious bruises, my wife and I were living our worst nightmare. It only grew darker when we became the prime suspects.

WRITING TEACHERS VS. STUDENTS MEMOIR

Ilustrations by Dakota McFadzean
by M. Welch E-mail
While dressing for work, I noticed the cop out on my porch. At first I assumed she was soliciting for a police charity – until she showed me iPhone photos of my daughter with a green-black bruise across her forehead, and two heinous purple lumps perfectly level across her shins, like she'd been pushed over a curb. She'd also drawn on her arms in purple marker the day before. The policewoman worried the marks were adult fingerprints. She told me she needed to search my house.

"Of course," I said.

As the officer inspected my four-year-old's room, I silently sat and boiled, wondering how our little girl could have possibly gotten so hurt at school without anyone seeing it happen, or hearing her cry. Clearly our daughter had, at some point, been left alone for a good long time – and now we were being blamed for the results.

My daughter's charter school had a D rating, but had won a presidential improvement award, which I'd written about for a local news site. During my tour of the school for that article, the public relations fellow outlined an impressive integrated music and arts curriculum.

My wife and I had together filled out the "one-app" that pools all the public charter schools onto one enrollment form; parents pick your top eight, and from there one is assigned to you. As a longtime after-school teacher myself, I felt a foolish optimism for this music-based charter school about which I had written. Having worked in so many New Orleans schools – almost all of them outrageously horrible – this D-grade school seemed to me like an up-and-comer. So when they offered it to us, I talked my wife into ignoring its downsides.

MOST POPULAR STORIES
The Day Our Daughter Got Hit The Day Our Daughter Got HitThe Last Time New York Was Hardcore The Last Time New York Was HardcoreMy Roommate the Prostitute My Roommate the ProstituteWhy I Answered My Dad's Gay Sex Ad Why I Answered My Dad's Gay Sex AdI'm Not an Asian Stereotype, But I Play One on TV I'm Not an Asian Stereotype, But I Play One on TV
GET NARRATIVELY IN YOUR INBOX.

Our normally cheery four-year-old daughter hated waking up at 6:30 every morning. She was more excited about her new "big girl school" than we were, but still, 6:30 was too early for any of us. So, to coax her from her dreams without drama, one of us would sit on her bed each morning and smooth the blonde curls back from her pale forehead. If she'd hurt herself at home, I explained to the officer, we would have noticed the bruise then.

I'd driven her to school that day, and whereas I usually held her hand and walked her past the principal and into her classroom, on the day in question she asked, "Daddy will you carry me?" which put her face just inches from mine. While walking into the building, the school's youngish principal stopped me: "Nice Public Enemy T-shirt," he said.

"Thanks. Chuck D has been my hero since I was twelve."

"Me too," he said, then to my daughter, "Your daddy has good taste in music."

"Thanks. Have a fun school day," I told him.

"I won't be here for most of it," he smiled. "I will be at the doctor. My wife and I are having a baby."

I congratulated him. Throughout the exchange, neither of us noticed any bruises. Two hours after I kissed her goodbye in the classroom, my daughter's teachers noticed the injuries. Rather than call me, they called the police.

"You need to take your daughter to the hospital before the end of the day," the policewoman said as she finished her search of our refrigerator. I jumped into my truck, already on my phone, explaining to my boss why I needed a last-minute substitute teacher.