Sheriff Roy Templeton was in fourth grade. Again. The irony was not lost on Mud Lick’s top cop, who spent many a day dealing with adults who behaved like fourth graders.

Today was different. The Sheriff had been summoned to Bear Bryant Elementary School at the request of Ms. Furstenburger, Roy Junior’s fourth grade teacher. Apparently the boy’d been up to some mischief and the Sheriff had been summoned to deal with his son’s behavior.

If only Arlene wasn’t at her bridge club, the Sheriff thought. I’ve got that new revised treatise from Jordan Peterson on “Atlas Shrugged” waiting on me back at the station.

“Sheriff?”

A feminine voice broke Sheriff Roy’s train of thought. Karen Furstenburger was in her mid-thirties, petite but with a look of iron will penetrating through her librarian-style glasses. Her hair was a deep shade of blue, with one side of her head shaved, and she wore a red plaid skirt and a “Black Lives Matter” sweater.

Oh no, Sheriff Roy thought. My boy’s dealing with one of THEM. Still, the Sheriff rose, shook his son’s teacher’s hand, and sat when bade to do so with a polite, “Ma’am.”

“I take it Junior’s been up to no good, with the way your class note read on the app thing you use.”

“RoboClass? Yes, we find that app most useful for communicating with parents.”

“Used to be teachers wrote out notes and sent them home if something needed parental attention,” the Sheriff mused.

“Well, you know, with the whole pandemic thing the taking of in-person paper notes is strongly discouraged.”

Sheriff Roy sniffed at the air.

“So what did the boy do that was so egregious I had to come off my shift to speak to you?” the Sheriff asked.

“Well, it’s not one specific incident,” Ms. Furstenburger began, rifling through a stack of papers and folders. “For one thing, Roy Junior refuses to participate in the land acknowledgment ceremony after the Pledge of Allegiance in homeroom.”

Sheriff Roy shot Ms. Furstenburger a look. “What’s a ‘land acknowledgement?’”

Ms. Furstenburger got a look on her face that seemed to suggest she was about to enter a “teachable moment.” “Well, Sheriff, all of us have to recognize we aren’t living on land that’s our own. It was stolen from indigenous people. So every morning, we begin after the pledge with an acknowledgement we’re studying on stolen land and a promise to honor those tribes whose land on which we sit.”

“Izzatafactnow.”

“Yes, and Roy Junior doesn’t seem to be too happy to participate in them. He told me on one occasion that he’s an American by birth and he’s not stolen anything from anyone.”

“He is and he hasn’t. That means as far as I’m concerned your little ‘land acknowledgment’ isn’t worth his participation. What else has the boy done in your eyes worth correction?”

“Well,” Ms. Furstenburger continues, “He’s not willing to acknowledge his privilege in our civics lessons.”

Privilege,” scoffed Sheriff Roy. “You know what it’s like to wake up one morning and have to tell Junior his Daddy didn’t afford to pay for college by stopping some rich boy in an out-of-town car worth supposed ‘billions’ in drug money? Or waking up to no Reddit posts about how someone in your department didn’t mistake donut glaze for meth? If that’s ‘privilege,’ I can’t afford to give Junior much.”

“You’re not familiar with Kimberle Crenshaw’s seminal text on…”

“We don’t read much of that seminal stuff when we’re saving kids from flaming car crashes,” the Sheriff continued. “I think we’re about done here.”

“But Sheriff Roy,” stammered Ms. Furstenburger, “Don’t you want your child to grow up in a healthy, well-educated environment where he understands his role in society?”

“Lady, here’s what I expect from Junior’s education. I want Reading, I want writing, I want math, and I want a basic understanding of civics and a citizen’s role in our democracy. All your critical race theory bullshit, the privilege, the land acknowledgments—that stuff is activism in educational clothing and you know it.”

“That’s not…we don’t even teach critical race…don’t you want your son to know what history was really like for your people?”

“What the fuck do you mean ‘my people’?” Sheriff Roy asked.

The two were uncomfortably silent for a few minutes.

“I’m sorry,” began Ms. Furstenburger, “I forgot to acknowledge the lived experience of your bla…”

“Lady, I’m cutting you off right there. You don’t know the half of what privilege or prejudice is. You’ve not had a white man cut off your department’s funding because “Defund Police” was the big hashtag of the moment. You’ve not put up with hearing “N-Bombs” dropped on you every time you arrest someone because of the color of your skin.

“Do I have issues as a black Sheriff in a predominately white town? You bet your ass I do. Have I ever complained about them to Junior or called them ‘prejudices’ or ‘privileges’? Hell no. The moment I start acting oppressed, the moment the perps on the street lose respect for the badge, and people start getting killed.”

The teacher was silent. Sheriff Roy took out his notepad and scrawled a note on it, then tossed the piece of paper to the teacher’s desk.

“Here’s how we’re settling this. You’re getting this citation for being a dumbass. In return, Junior and I are going fishing for three days. That should get this social justice bullshit out of your hide. In return, I best not hear anything from your or any other educators about this crap you’ve foisted on Junior again, less I come back and bring Deputy Tyrone with me for a safety demonstration. Sound good?”

Ms. Furstenburger nodded, sweating heavily.

“Good. Glad to hear it. And maybe next time you’ll wait for an important matter to bother me over your stupid app?”

“Yes Sheriff.”

“Good.” With that, the Sheriff never heard a word of critical race theory or privilege from his son’s fourth grade teachers again.

Which staved the craziness off for another year.