THE first time I went to see the graffiti my gut was already twisted up. My son’s class was small, only 34 children in the whole grade split between two classes. I knew all the girls and tried to picture who among them had the foresight and nerve to take a writing implement into the girl’s bathroom in our tiny rural elementary school  the school where I work  and declare her love for my 9-year-old son on a metal stall divider.

I entered the stall, turned and there it was, written plainly, large and clear: “I love Sarvis.” Actually, it didn’t say “love.” Instead there was a heart shape, better for the clever Graffiti Girl’s purposes, because she knew even a struggling reader could get its meaning. And the girl who wrote it didn’t use a pencil or a pen or crayon. The message was carved permanently into the blue painted metal.

As a writing teacher, I could rationalize and appreciate the girl’s efforts. Nevertheless, she had vandalized public property. So in the spirit of citizenry, I made a report to the principal.

I started by offering a disclaimer: “I need to talk not as a teacher, but as a parent.” To my credit, I resisted saying “as a mama.” The man was my boss, and I tried, at least for entree into the conversation, to appear rational. I knew that he was likely aware of the problem. “Can we talk about who loves Sarvis?” I asked.