Am I the asshole for standing up at my son’s school fundraiser and saying exactly what I said?
I (33F) have been raising Derek (9M) alone since his dad left when Derek was two. I work two jobs, I make it work, and I show up for every single school thing – every bake sale, every field trip form, every fundraiser. We don’t have a lot, but I have never missed one.
The fundraiser last Thursday was the big one – the spring gala they do every year at the school gym, where parents bid on stuff and the PTA basically runs the whole show. I’ve been on the volunteer list for three months. I helped make the centerpieces. I donated a gift basket I could barely afford.
Trish (45F, PTA president, never lets you forget it) has had it out for me since last fall when I said something at a meeting about the fundraiser fees being too high for working parents. Nothing mean, just honest. She smiled and said she’d “note my concerns.”
She’s been icing me out ever since.
But I thought, okay, tonight is about the kids. I put on my one nice dress, I brought Derek, and I showed up ready to just have a nice night.
I was standing at the silent auction table when Trish walked over with two other PTA moms – Deborah and Kris – and Trish said, loudly, “Oh, I didn’t realize we were letting ANYONE in this year.”
I thought I misheard her.
Then Deborah laughed, and Trish said, “I just mean – this event is really for families who are invested in the school community. Not everyone has the same level of commitment.”
I looked at Derek. He was standing right there. He heard every word.
My face went hot. I started to say something and Trish put her hand up – she actually PUT HER HAND UP like I was a child – and said, “We’re in the middle of something, hon.”
Derek’s eyes went to the floor.
I stood there for about ten seconds. Then I picked up the microphone from the auction table – the one they use to announce the bids – and I tapped it twice.
The whole room went quiet.
I looked right at Trish. And I said –
What I Actually Said
“Hi. My name is Carrie Doyle. My son Derek is in third grade, Mrs. Paulson’s class. I’ve been volunteering for this school for three years. I made six of the centerpieces on these tables. I donated basket number fourteen, the spa one, the one with the good candles. I work two jobs and I still showed up at seven a.m. for the setup this morning.”
I paused there. The room was very still.
“I’m standing here because someone just told me, in front of my son, that I don’t belong here. That I’m not committed enough. And I want everyone in this room to know that happened, because I think you should know what kind of event you’re running.”
That was it. That was the whole thing. I put the mic back down on the table. My hands were shaking.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t call Trish anything. I didn’t cry, which honestly surprised me because I was about thirty seconds from it.
The room stayed quiet for another few seconds. Then somebody started clapping. Not a lot of people. Maybe eight or ten. But they clapped.
Trish’s face was a color I don’t have a word for.
The Part That Happened After
She came over to me. Not right away, maybe five minutes later, after she’d done a lap around the room with that smile she keeps on like a piece of equipment.
She said, “That was completely unnecessary, and you made a scene in front of the children.”
I said, “You made a scene in front of my child. I just made sure people saw it.”
Deborah was standing behind her and Deborah looked at the floor, which I noticed.
Trish said she was going to “have to bring this to the board” and that my “behavior” was going to be “on record.” I told her to go ahead. She left.
Derek was next to me the whole time. He’d watched the whole microphone thing with his mouth open a little. After Trish walked away he looked up at me and said, “Mom. You just did that.”
I said, “Yeah, buddy. I did.”
He thought about it for a second. “Was that good or bad?”
I said I wasn’t totally sure yet.
Why I’m Even Asking
Because here’s the thing. I’ve been going back and forth on it since Thursday night.
Part of me knows exactly what I did and doesn’t regret a single word. That part is pretty loud.
But there’s another part, the part that’s been a single parent for seven years and has learned to keep her head down and not make enemies and not give anyone a reason to make things harder, and that part is scared.
Derek goes to that school for three more years. I still need to deal with the PTA for three more years. Trish is the kind of woman who has a long memory and a wide network and a lot of free time, and I have neither of the last two things.
I’ve gotten three texts since Thursday. One from a woman named Pam whose kid is in Derek’s class, saying she’d seen what happened and thought I was right to say something. One from a woman I don’t know very well, Gina, who said she’d been on the receiving end of Trish before and she was glad someone finally said it out loud.
And one from Deborah.
Deborah’s text said: I’m sorry I laughed. I don’t know why I did that. It wasn’t funny.
I read that one three times.
I haven’t texted any of them back yet. I’m not sure what to say to Deborah. I’m not sure if I’m grateful or if I’m still too angry to figure out the difference.
What Derek Said at Bedtime
I’m including this part because it’s the part I keep thinking about.
We got home around nine. He brushed his teeth, I tucked him in, regular routine. He was quiet in the car, which for Derek means he’s chewing on something.
In bed he said, “Mom, why did that lady say we’re not invested?”
I told him the truth. That some people decide they’re more important than other people, and when you don’t agree with them they try to make you feel small.
He said, “Are we poor?”
I said we were careful with money. That we worked hard and we were fine.
He said, “Okay.” And then: “The candles in the basket were really nice. I helped you pick them.”
He did. We stood in TJ Maxx for twenty minutes in November and he smelled every single one and gave me his serious opinion on each of them and we picked the lavender one together because he said it smelled like “something a person would want.”
I held it together until he was asleep.
The Part I Haven’t Told Anyone Yet
There’s a thing I didn’t say into the microphone. I thought about it. I had the words right there.
Trish’s husband is on the school board. She’s been PTA president for four years. The fundraiser has grown every year she’s been in charge, and she talks about that constantly, the numbers, the growth, how much they raised, like she personally invented generosity.
What I know, because I was on the setup crew at seven a.m. and people talk, is that two of the auction items this year were donated by businesses that Trish’s husband’s firm does work with. That the “independent” auction appraiser who sets the minimum bids is a guy named Roger who goes to their church.
I don’t have proof of anything. I have a feeling and a few overheard conversations. So I didn’t say it.
But I thought about it. I stood there with the mic in my hand and I thought about it, and I chose not to, and I’m still not sure if that was wisdom or fear.
Maybe both.
So. Am I?
I’ve read enough of these posts to know how it goes. Half the comments will say I’m a hero and half will say I escalated and should have walked away and protected my kid from drama.
The walk-away people aren’t wrong, exactly. I know that. There’s a version of Thursday night where I take Derek’s hand and I leave quietly and I hold my head up and I don’t give Trish the satisfaction of a reaction. That version exists. I thought about it for about six of those ten seconds.
But Derek was standing there.
Derek, who helps pick candles and takes it seriously. Derek, who asks if we’re poor in a voice that’s trying really hard to sound like he doesn’t care about the answer. Derek, who watched that woman put her hand up at his mother like she was a parking attendant.
I’ve taught him to be kind. I’ve taught him to work hard. I’ve taught him that we show up.
I haven’t always been sure what to teach him about what you do when someone tries to make showing up feel like not enough.
Thursday I think I figured out one answer to that. Whether it was the right one, I genuinely don’t know.
But I picked up the mic. I said what I said. I put it back down.
And Derek looked at me on the way to the car and said, “Mom, your hands were shaking.”
I said I knew.
He said, “Mine too.”
He slipped his hand into mine. We walked to the car. He talked about the cookies on the dessert table the whole drive home, the ones with the sprinkles, how there were so many sprinkles, an irresponsible number of sprinkles, and I drove and I listened and I didn’t say another word about Trish for the rest of the night.
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If this one stayed with you, pass it on. Someone else out there needed to read it.
For more stories about standing up for yourself, check out My Stepson Said His Teacher Was “Nice When Mom Comes In.” I Found Out Why. and She Told Me My Culture Was Too Unfamiliar for the Kids. I Had It on Recording., or read about a mom who finally snapped in My Daughter Asked Why I Always Let Them Be Mean to Her. I Didn’t Have an Answer..
