Matthew Keenan

Every high school parent should commit themselves to do three things during their kid’s school years.

1. Proctor a field trip, preferably to the zoo during monkey mating season. 2. Volunteer to work a concession stand during a football game, ideally when it’s cold and you run out of coffee and hot chocolate. 3. Chaperone a high school dance. Each one is a parental gold mine for social intelligence that blows past your kid’s pesky Facebook passwords.

There are other benefits, like giving your kid a chance to deny your existence three times:

• Isn’t that your mom?
• Your dad is waving at you. Where are you going?
• What’s up with the sunglasses? It’s 10 p.m.

But the chaperone gig stands alone. A couple years ago, Lori and I volunteered for this at the Rockhurst Blue & White mixer. This event is not as anecdote rich as a Homecoming Dance; still, it was the first social event of the school year. It has a large turnout, where kids try to test their new ideas for skirting the rules. That night it had an informal feel where girls traveled in packs and boys stood around and checked their phones trying to look busy while carrying on intelligent conversation like this:

“Dude. What’s up?” (Two-minute delay.) “Nothing.” (Crickets chirping.) “What’s up with you?” “Nothing.”

Meanwhile girls are hugging, talking, and updating their Facebook status.

In advance of our assignments, however, we had to review and sign an information disclosure. It contained one very important directive. “One individual should always remain at the position assigned.” This form was a sensible way to eliminate any confusion about the parent’s role: bust the boozers and those boys hoping to get tutored in the female anatomy.

Back door to the gym. This was our assignment — akin to the instructional league in baseball. “PLEASE stand by the doors, keeping people from the outside out and keeping people in the inside in.” This assignment was a total dud, save for the bird’s-eye view of the dance floor. Not dancing — identifying the ones about to find a corner and start barfing. Which did happen. Twice. Freshman girls.

This set into motion the Rockhurst SWAT team — mop patrol, 911 dialer and the person assigned to try to call her parents. Invariably, the parents are out of town. Typically, at the lake but sometimes on a getaway weekend while re-enacting Fifty Shades.

Front entrance. AA Ball. This spot includes a teacher, like a dean, who brought an official feel to the opening. This was the first roadblock to preventing Eddie Haskell with a handle of vodka from entering the premises. The form said to “Stand behind ticket takers and greet and be aware for smells or actions that might suggest alcohol and drug usage. Engage students in brief conversation.”

The newbie parents: “Good evening! How are you doing tonight?”

The Dean: “Good evening. Before you enter, I have some questions — please recite the alphabet backwards. While standing on one leg. With an arm behind your back.”

Other strategies — riddles: “The man who invented it doesn’t want it. The man who bought it doesn’t need it. The man who needs it doesn’t know it. What is it?” Three seconds later some kid wearing a polo and top siders is making other plans for the evening.

Bathrooms. AAA. This is where trouble typically begins. Girls change into skimpy outfits and put new meaning in the word ‘mixer.’ The trash can looks like Sullivan’s on a Saturday night. And so do the girls. Not your daughter, of course. She left the house in a blouse and baggy jeans. Carrying a backpack of clothes for ‘later.’

Parking lot. Major Leagues. This is reserved for the real pros. Like the principal or possibly the football coach. It’s a reconnaissance mission worthy of Black Ops. Groups of boys and girls quickly scatter as the adult approaches.

High school, teenage boys and dances. Very little nostalgic about it.