Chapter Two: Meeting the Students

Sally McGuire seemed to tower over me as I entered Room 323 where I was to replace her in teaching freshman and sophomore English classes; I was also to take over her extra duties as assistant coach for the school’s forensics team. Not only was she a tall blond woman, but she was also a woman with a large, husky frame. There was no doubt she was pregnant, but she was also a woman on whom it appeared to make even more attractive. I later learned she was expecting her third child and she had the easy-going appearance of one that nothing would seem to bother.

“Welcome Mr. Pearson,” she said jovially as I walked, instantly recognizing me as her substitute.

I took her hand as she offered it, feeling quite inadequate since my hand seemed tiny in her firm grasp.

“I hope I have another week before I go into labor,” she offered. “If I do, I think I can help you get adjusted in that time. Mrs. Hammond says you come highly recommended, even though this is your first teaching assignment.”

“Yes, Mrs. McGuire, it is my first,” I said. I feared my voice came out as a squeak.

“Call me Sally, and I guess you're Jason, right?”

“Yes.”

Students began filing in and taking their seats for the freshman class; some were talking and pushing each other around, while others moved in sleepily and slumped in their seats. It was the first class of the day, and I knew there might be a few sleepyheads in the classroom. The school buzzer rang and there was a last-minute rush of students into the room. I stood erect at the side of the room, as Mrs. McGuire opened the class for the day, quieting down the bunch with a booming, commanding voice in which she yelled an inelegant “Shut up.”

The teens laughed, but quickly obeyed.

“When you going to pop, Mrs. McGuire?” a curly-hair boy in the front yelled.

“Wouldn't we all like to know, Elliott?” she smiled.

“Yeah, since I got Thursday and ten o'clock in the morning in our pool,” he laughed.

“I picked today at noon,” a dread-locked girl in the back said. “You better hurry up, Mrs. McGuire.”

“Now that's enough kids,” she said. “You know you shouldn't be gambling. The baby will come when it comes.”

I stood in the front of the room, taking all of this in and admiring how gently and skillfully Mrs. McGuire handled the students playing with them while keeping them in line. I realized that it would take years of experience before I could master such a talent. Then, too, I think the teacher's commanding physical presence may have helped; it was something I certainly lacked.

“I want to introduce Mr. Pearson who you see standing over near the window,” Mrs. McGuire said. “Beginning next week he will be handling this class, unless something happens sooner. Meanwhile, he'll be here with us this week, getting to know all of you and occasionally taking over the class. I'm sure you'll find him to be a good teacher and I hope you give him the same effort that you all have given to me this year.”

I gave a tentative wave to the students and several shouted out, “Welcome Mr. Pearson.”

“Did you wish to say anything to the students, Mr. Pearson?” Sally Pearson asked.

She caught me off guard and for a moment I stood tongue-tied, uncertain what to say. Finally, I began in a tentative, almost squeaky voice that I was afraid showed off my nervousness.

“Ah, thank you, Mrs. McGuire. I look forward to teaching this class and I know I'll have to work hard with you all to win the strong support that I can see you've given Mrs. McGuire.”

“We will, Mr. Pearson,” said the girl with the dread-locks, a strikingly thin girl with an unfortunate overbite.

“But he better learn to speak louder,” quipped a boy in the back row. He had a mischievous smile on his face and I could see immediately that he might be tough to handle.

“That's enough, Thomas,” Mrs. McGuire spoke up. She turned to me and told me to take a seat in the back of the room and observe the class. As luck would have it, the only vacant seat was next to Thomas, the boy who had criticized me.

“Now, kids, we'll begin the fun part of this class,” she said to the class. “Let's talk about adverbs and adjectives.”

Groans went up from the class and Mrs. McGuire laughed: “See Mr. Pearson, adverbs and adjectives are fun, aren't they? These kids don't know how much fun they can be.”

“Yes, they can just be a barrel of laughs,” I said in a joking tone from the back.

Most of the class giggled at that, looking at me with some appreciation that I might be a fun teacher for them.

Mrs. McGuire challenged me then, saying, “And how is that, Mr. Pearson?”

I knew I had to think fast in order to keep the respect of the students. I knew Mrs. McGuire was playing with me, hoping that I could show off some talent that might raise me – such a wimpy person – in the eyes of these students. She was taking a gamble, and I knew I had to rise to the occasion.

“May I come up to the board, Mrs. McGuire?”

She nodded and I walked to the front, the whole class in anticipation, and I grabbed a red marker to use on the whiteboard, quickly drawing a girly happy face and commenting: “This is a student at Farragut High as she is studying adverbs and adjectives.” Then I used the balloonish graffiti-like words that said: “Happy Student.”

The class laughed. I always had drawing skills and loved to draw cartoon-type figures and had mastered the graffiti style, not that I had ever used it on a billboard or building.

“May I continue, Mrs. McGuire?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” she said, smiling and taking a seat at her desk, watching intently.

I quickly drew a picture of the girl running and then turned to the class and asked what verb described her action.

“Run,” they yelled out in unison. I wrote “run” in my balloon lettering.

Then I drew a road under the girl's feet and as the class what noun that would be. “Road,” they shouted. I wrote “road.”

From there I proceeded to get the class to engage in selecting adverbs for “run” and adjectives for “road,” always using a drawing and my balloon lettering to make the point. I could tell I had gained the attention of the class, and they might even have found some reason to respect me.

“Now wasn't that fun, class?” asked Mrs. McGuire.

They yelled out “yes” and began to clap. I returned to me seat and Thomas leaned over to me: “Did you draw like that on boxcars and garage doors?”

“No and I wouldn't do that, Thomas, and don't you ever do it either,” I whispered back at him. I could tell he was disappointed, but nonetheless I think I may have dampened his eagerness to taunt me in class. At least I hoped I did.

The class let out and in the five minutes between classes and I asked Mrs. McGuire if it was wrong for me to do my little artwork form of teaching.

“Not at all. I know you're young and need something to impress the kids, and it seemed to work. Do you mind if we do the same routine in the rest of the classes?”

We did that in the four remaining classes; two of her classes were for sophomores and they were studying 20th Century American literature, and were reading “The Great Gatsby” at the moment. I was able to draw Gatsby and his 1920s cars on the board in discussing the book to the great delight of the sophomores.

I took the train back to the city that afternoon feeling pleased with myself. Maybe I could really pull off becoming a teacher after all and in spite of my wimpy appearance. Still I wished I could have been in front of the classroom in a dress and as a woman.

*****
Perhaps it was my drawing skills, especially the graffiti-like words that enthralled the students enough so that they forgave my puny appearance and somewhat effeminate mannerisms.

“You're a hoot, Mr. Pearson,” a sophomore girl named Barbara said to me on the Friday as I completed my first week on the job.

She was a short girl who fashioned her straight neck-length dark hair in bangs. She had a tiny turned up nose and sparkling green eyes with a few freckles that seemed to add a bit of charm to her face.

“Thank you, Barbara, but I hope you're learning something,” I said, smiling at her.

“Oh yes, sir, I am. I finally seem to understand Gatsby.”

“Well that's good, because the principal wants a teacher in the classroom not a comic.”

“You're both, Mr. Pearson,” she said, tossing her head in a flirtatious manner.

Sensing the girl was making tentative advances, I was momentarily excited at the prospect; yet I knew that was something I had to resist as a teacher. I took on a stern demeanor, “You’d better run on to your next class Barbara or you'll be late.”

“OK, Mr. Pearson,” the girl said and reluctantly, it seemed to me, turned her back and moved out of the room.

I had been pleased with how I had progressed in the first week of teaching; since Friday was Mrs. McGuire's last day before her maternity leave she had let me handle virtually all of the classes. I was totally alone for the two sophomore classes in literature, and they went relatively smoothly.

“You've got a knack for teaching, I believe,” Mrs. McGuire told me on Thursday. “Frankly, you surprised me; I didn't think you had it in you. You seemed so … oh how should I say it … shy and retiring.”

“I surprised myself, since I was scared stiff the kids would take advantage of me,” I said.

“So far, you've seemed to win them over, but be warned, this could just be a honeymoon period for you. You’ve got four months of teaching coming.”

It wasn't an entirely easy week, however. I had overhead a couple of my students who speculated as they left class one day whether I was gay. “He prances about like a fag sometimes,” one of them said as they moved out of earshot; it appeared the other girl nodded in approval.

I knew there must be rumors that I was gay, even though I doubted that I was. Even with my lingering infatuation with Randy I didn't feel it was a male-to-male attraction, but rather it was my female persona responding to a handsome young boy. After all, when I met Randy, I felt I was a young woman, not a man in any sense.

Then there was Mr. Edwards, a chemistry teacher. He approached me in the teachers’ lounge early one morning before classes opened. I was alone in the room getting coffee as he entered the room and approached, placing a hand gently on my upper arm. “Welcome to our den of peace, away from the madding crowd,” he said, his voice soft and syrupy.

I smiled at him and began to move away, but his hand tightened on my arm; it was still a gentle hold but it discouraged me from moving away from him.

“I'm Jason Pearson, subbing for Sally McGuire now,” I said.

“I've seen you here before and wanted to meet you. I'm Jon Edwards, chemistry and science club,” he said, giggling as he introduced himself.

He removed his hand from my arm and offered me his hand. We shook and I felt his smooth hand in mine. Jon Edwards was several inches taller than me and, in contrast to most of the other teachers, was impeccably dressed. He wore light brown, neatly pressed slacks, a light blue shirt and a dark brown blazer. What really stood out, however, was the dark red bow tie he wore, which I had heard was sort of a personal trademark. His nails were manicured and his full head of brown hair was neatly combed and trimmed. In older literature he'd have been described as a dandy.

“Nice meeting you,” I said, openly pleased to have such a warm welcome from another faculty member. I had few friends and it would be nice, I thought, to have a colleague I could talk to.

“Maybe you'd like to join me for a drink some day after school,” he offered.

“Well usually I take the train back to the city right after school, but I suppose I could wait and go later,” I agreed.

I sat down on the lone sofa in the lounge and was surprised when Jon sat down right next to me, rather than one of the easy chairs adjacent to the sofa. His thigh touched mine.

“Well, good. How about tonight?”

His invitation threw a chill into me; he was getting awfully chummy, I thought.

“Oh no, I can't,” I stammered in a hurried reply. “I forgot I have an appointment with the cable man at home.”

It was a lie, since I don't subscribe to cable, but it was all I could think of. Edwards' forward behavior bothered me.

Just then, the door opened and I could see out of the corner of my eye that Mr. Duke, the physical education teacher, was entering. He was a big, bald man who looked like he belonged in a professional wrestling ring.

I felt Jon Edwards move away from me and get up. “Well, maybe some other time,” he said, moving to the door. I wondered whether he felt rejected after I failed to take up his invitation.

Mr. Duke went to the refrigerator and pulled a health drink out, looking at me, a degree of disgust on his face. “I see you found a soulmate, Pearson,” he said.

“Soulmate? What do you mean?” I asked, genuinely perplexed. “I hardly know him.”

The husky teacher merely shook his head in apparent disgust and turned his back to me. He sat down at the round table in the center of the room and began to read the sports section of the morning newspaper.

Suddenly I was horrified; I finally understood the “soulmate” remark. I had remembered an earlier discussion in the teachers’ lounge when Mr. Duke expressed strong dislike for the growing trend toward acceptance of same-sex marriages during a spirited argument with Miss Aquino, a math teacher, who favored them. I remembered, too, the remark he made at one point in which he said, “Well, maybe that's the only way we're ever get Mr. Edwards married off.”

It was clear that Mr. Duke considered Mr. Edwards to be gay, and now I suspected that was probably an accurate assessment; since I knew my own mannerisms to be somewhat girlish I realized the P.E. teacher thought I was as well.

“Mr. Duke, you hardly know me, so don't jump to conclusions,” I said, causing him to look up from his newspaper. “Besides, whether we are who you seem to think we are, it's none of your business. But don't judge me.”

I surprised myself with my firm response. It totally silenced the monster of a man, something I'm sure he's not used to getting when he assumes his bullying role. Finally, he turned to me: “Just forget I said anything, Jason. I was out of line.”

His tone was conciliatory, and I suspected that the reason he backed down so easily was because I knew the school district had recently approved a strict non-discrimination policy, particularly aimed at sexual orientation issues. The union, too, had echoed the support of the policy, indicating that Mr. Duke put his own job in jeopardy.

“All right, Hank,” I said using his first name. “I'll forget it this time, but only this time.”

“I really am sorry, Jason,” he said. The man seemed truly contrite and I suspected he might even become a friendly colleague in the school. I surprised him by asking his opinion as to the decline of the New York Mets baseball team during the season, and he responded by blaming their dysfunction on the Mets front office. I had always followed the Mets, perhaps because I identified more with losers. I argued back that there were a lot of rookies on this year’s team, which bode well for future years. We found ourselves in a full-fledged discussion. I could tell he was making a real effort to befriend me; maybe it was in the hope that I wouldn't lodge a complaint against him, but I sensed a certain sincerity in the man.

The incident indicated to me something I should have realized before: the other faculty members likely thought I was gay. My mannerisms might indicate that, if you believed in the stereotypes about gay men. I didn't think I was gay, since I had no desire to kiss or cuddle with Mr. Edwards or any other man. Yet, I did dream of being a lovely young lady named Julie locked in an embrace with Randy. What did it all mean?

*****
Once during the first week of school I thought I got a glimpse of Carmen, who was the girlfriend of Ryan, Randy's friend. I was in the hallway outside of the classroom between classes, watching the students hustle and jostle each other as they moved to their next class when I thought I saw her cute, round face coming toward me down the hall. I ducked quickly into the classroom, my heart pounding.

I had hoped all three would be in the district's other high school, but perhaps that was not the case.

I spent the weekend as usual dressed like Julie, but my time was spent preparing myself for the first full week of teaching. I pored over Mrs. McGuire's materials, adapting some of it to my own style, hoping to continue to interest the kids in the class and avoid some of their pranks. For the most part I dressed in sweats, tying my hair up into a bun and wearing my pink tennis shoes. If anyone looked into my home they'd see a young lady studying. For relaxation, I built myself a warm bubble bath each night before donning my nightie and climbing into my bed. My thoughts drifted to Randy. Try as I might to forget him, he was always on my mind. Yet, I knew I must never see him again. It was enough to make a girl cry.

*****
Monday came and I found myself to be in a strangely upbeat mood as I awoke, eager to return to the classroom and my students. I would be on my own, but for some reason I was confident I could handle whatever came up without totally unraveling. I was concerned that I was well-enough prepared to teach the curriculum ahead of me, but I felt I was going to handle the issue that scared me the most: my ability to relate to the students and to show authority. I had begun the teaching stint frightened that my slender, weak body frame would cause the students to assault me both verbally and physically. In the first week I had seen that if I had something to offer them that they might listen and even respect me.

The only sad note was that I would have to put aside my panties, bra, skirts and dresses – not to mention earrings, bracelets and necklaces – in favor of my male outfits.

On Tuesday morning, as I headed along the hallway about 15 minutes before classes began toward my room I noticed Carmen walking toward me. She was the only person in the otherwise empty corridor, and it was impossible to avoid her. Naturally our eyes met and I stifled an urge to greet her with “Hi, Carmen,” and was only able to utter a hurried “good morning” after the girl had said “good morning Mr. Pearson.” As we passed, I felt the girl gave me an extra close look.

Had she seen something familiar in me, I wondered? And, how did she know my name? She wasn't in any of my classes. I even wondered if she sensed my charade as Julie and our meetings at Point Pleasant.

That afternoon, after classes ended, and the students had left, I spent time filling out a special report required of all new teachers by the state's Education Department. As I labored over it, I heard someone enter the room, and I looked up to see it was Carmen.

I was so startled when I looked up that I must have looked as if I had seen a ghost. The girl must have sensed that.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Pearson. I didn't mean to bother you.”

Quickly, I gathered my composure, trying to keep my voice even to disguise my nervousness, I said, “No problem, I guess you startled me, but what can I do for you?”

“Sir, I'm Carmen Mendoza, and I just had to ask you something,” she began.

“Yes?”

“Well, you look just like a lady my friends and I met recently,” she said tentatively. “Oh, I didn't mean you looked like a lady, but that you had kind of the same face and all. Her name was Julie. Do you have a cousin or sister or some other relative by that name, I wondered?”

“No, I don't think so?” I lied, quickly looking down to the papers in front of me.

“You look so much like her, but I'm sorry to have bothered you,” Carmen said, turning on her heel to leave the room.

“Wait,” I yelled after her.

She stopped and turned to look at me.

“How did you know my name? I mean when we met in the hall this morning?”

She smiled: “Well I saw you several times last week and saw such a resemblance to Julie, and I followed you to your room and asked one of students what your name was.”

“Why do you have such an interest in this Julie woman?” I asked, beckoning her to stay.

“I don't have that much interest but my boyfriend's best friend liked her so much when they met that he can't forget her,” Carmen said.

“Oh?”

“It's like he's obsessed with her, and they parted and she wouldn't tell him her full name or anything.”

I smiled. It was so flattering to be so adored by someone, even a sixteen-year-old boy.

“She must be really something special”,” I said.

“Oh she was so very pretty, and so nice, too,” Carmen said.

“Sorry I couldn't help you, Carmen,” I said, turning back to the papers on my desk.

“That's OK, Mr. Pearson. Thank you for your time.”

I was shaken by the visit and had trouble concentrating on the paperwork, and finally decided to leave it for the next day. I had dodged being recognized by Carmen, but something told me this was not to be the end of it.