Last Wednesday, my school had an assembly introducing this year’s fundraiser. Thus far, the assemblies at my school have been extraordinarily unimpressive. I sit there with a smile pasted to my face as Ronald McDonald teaches us a rap about avoiding bullies. Afterwards, I try to sell my kids the idea that the 6’3” middle aged man dressed as a clown that just sang to us was, in fact, really cool and that they are the ones with a problem. Not an easy sell, my friends. Not an easy sell. Recently the District Attorney’s office was kind enough to send a balding college graduate and a DVD to teach us all about internet safety. We then watched as our representative from the DA’s office, Mark, interacted with poorly designed CGI characters. With 45 second delays. It went something like this:
Mark: “Webby, what do you think of the group of kids? Don’t they look smart?!”
*Awkwardly long pause while “Webby” stands there.*
Mark: “C’mon Webby, don’t be shy.”
*Webby continues to stand and blink.*
Mark: “Sorry kids, Webby’s kinda shy someti-”
*Webby comes to life, just in time to interrupt Mark’s apology for her anti-social behavior.*
Webby: “OH HEEEY KIDS! You all look so smart!”
A similar pattern continued for 30 minutes. And of course, as the unwritten assembly rule requires, we learned a rap at the end. This one taught to us by Clicky, the robot.
As we walked into the gym I tried not to cringe as I saw today’s host, a 50something year-old in a red polo boasting his company’s name. My stomach sank as I realized that for the next half hour, I would have to sit and listen to this man telling us that we needed sell particularly overpriced gift-wrap. My kids, on the other hand, were experiencing an entirely different range of emotions. Their eyes lit up as they noticed the prize table glowering in the front of the gym. As Dan, the fundraiser rep, stepped up to the microphone, a hush fell over the crowd. It became quite obvious that the vast majority of these kids had been waiting for this assembly all year long. Much like most normal people wait for Christmas.
Dan told them that if they listened during the rules, he would show them what prizes they could win. Actually it went more like this:
Dan: “Who wants to see this year’s prizes?!”
Students in crazed reply: “WEEEEEE DOOOOOO!!!!”
Dans: “Okay first I have to tell you some rules. You have to listen to them if you want to see the prizes.”
He then proceeded with the rules: don’t sell door to door, don’t sell to strangers, etc. My kids looked like squirrels that had just downed 5 cappuccinos. Their eyes bulged. They rocked back and forth in their seats. Their feet twisted convulsively. They did not, however, open their mouths. Those they kept pursed in a tight pucker. They knew that if they wanted to see all the marvelous goodies that awaited them, they would have to hold up their end of the bargain.
When that blessed time came, Dan showed him the first incentive. Something you would receive if you could sell at least one item. One item! Anyone could sell one item and receive this certain something. The something was a smencil. This piece of joy is a pencil made entirely out of recycled paper that is scented. ‘Oh kids, they have all sorts of delicious fragrances: coconut, chocolate, cotton candy…’ He quickly added that they were in no way encouraged to eat these smencils. After sufficiently whetting their appetites for rubbish, he continued to explain the other prizes: expensive chocolate bars, backpacks, a calculator that smells like chocolate *also not for eating, kids*, and the grand prize- a blow up chair equipped with speakers. The students eyes glazed over, and for a minute each of them shared the exact same vision: themselves sitting in a cheap black chair listening to garbled punk music, doing their homework with their smencil and choculator. School would never be the same again.
Grateful, I realized there would be no need to sell them the, ‘What you just saw was super kewl. Clicky’s right- chat rooms are nizzzasty’ speech. Dan had already done just that. He had woven these kids a daydream made of recycled paper and imitation coco beans. It was then that I understood my little sister’s fundraising infatuation she had suffered from years ago.
Molly had come home one day from first grade, bursting with the news that the yearly fundraiser had begun. The winner of each grade would receive a Build-a-Bear. She wanted to go out selling now. Right now. She was 6. My mom convinced her to wait until my father got home from work. She spent the waiting time calling distant relatives and tempting them with smoked cheese spread and angel ornaments. Within seconds of my dad’s arrival, she had convinced him to go selling with her. Within minutes, the two of them had hit the streets. This pattern continued each night.
One night, my friend Caitlan was over studying with me. As Molly approached awkwardly, I asked what she wanted. She directed her innocent gaze at Caitlan and began rocking back and forth on her feet, “For school, I’m selling gift wrap and chocolates. Would you like to buy some?” She handed Caitlan the catalog. Caitlan looked at me, “How can anyone say no to that?” I shrugged.
Several weeks later, Molly came home with the stuffed rabbit she had made and dressed like a princess. Apparently, nobody was able to say no. Triscuit still stands proudly on Molly’s dresser.
I used to feel morally opposed to fundraisers. But who can argue with child labor when they get to design their own stuffed friends as a prize? Or lounge luxuriously, sniffing pencils all day? I for one, cannot. Instead, I can only hope the schools continue raising fun.
