Mr. Armstrong
Noel Laflin
3-24-18
I studied the form with increased frustration and embarrassment, finally giving up and quietly made my way to the teacher's desk.
Lloyd Armstrong was a kind man, who served me well as my homeroom teacher in both grades five and six. I had watched him leave the classroom in tears the year before, after he'd had the misfortune of delivering the news of President Kennedy's assassination to a group of ten-year-olds.
And now it was I who was crying as I tried to hide my tears from my classmates.
"What's the matter, son?" he asked quietly.
"This question," I whispered, pointing to the line on the form that asked for my father's occupation.
"He lost his job two months ago," voice trembling. "I don't know what to write here!"
Mr. Armstrong looked at the standardized form updating student information - the paper that would just be hidden away in some forgotten old wooden file cabinet.
"What's your daddy doing today?" he asked causally, removing his glasses and cleaning them absently with his tie.
"He's painting a friend's house," I replied, knowing that my father was doing whatever he could to bring in needed cash.
"Then we have your answer to that pesky question," smiled Mr. Armstrong.
"What?" I asked a bit perplexed - "House painter?"
"No, son," he replied - "Artist."
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