The walls of the school enclose a large, overgrown courtyard choked with ivies and brambles. A glossy emerald carpet of pachysandra washes over the stone tiles on one end, like a receding tide, and a few students are pulling at it with rakes and sheers.
“We’re not supposed to go past this,” says one student to me as I walk over to supervise the community service. ‘Supervise’ is my assignment, but really I am just curious, and I’d sooner like to find myself sitting in the sun with my book open in my lap. The student goes on, “Because there’s poison ivy.”
“I’m immune to poison ivy,” I tell them.
“So am I! I don’t know why though.”
“Well,” I begin. “It might be a dampened immune response, or a genetic predisposition…”
I’ve used a word with too many syllables, and it’s knocked my student from the conversation. I can tell because they turn away from me dismissively. They also say, “Whatever, man, I don’t fucking care.”
I shrug. It’s not derision, or insolence, or anything so proactive. They simply do not care. I understand not caring, and in a small way I respect them for being transparent with their apathy. Transparency is one thing that my students have in abundance.
A short while later I am sitting on a small stone pedestal while the students scrape moss from between the cracked tiles. The student that is immune to poison ivy (and does not care to learn why) is making a case for why he is an asshole. ‘Asshole’ is his word. He wears it proudly, like a badge, and polishes it with constant self-referential reiteration. Not a day goes by that he does not remind me, joyfully, that he likes to fight, and cuss, and annoy. He is performing one such reminder now.
“Who’s going to marry you?” I wonder out loud. The students are fairly used to my teasing, and he takes it in stride. “My girlfriend,” he says. “I got lots of bitches want to marry me. Probably more than you.”
I pretend to contemplate this, then say, “No. Many men would love to marry me. I have tons of suitors. Thousands.”
There is a small, stunned moment in which the three students are each reeling. Then a triplet of furtive glances are exchanged and the community service continues. This, as far as they know, is the very first time I have dragged into light the previously-unmentioned fact of my homosexuality.
I’d been warned to avoid this subject, because these kids are often merciless in their personal attacks against tutors, but my unabashed statement seems to disarm them. In the gasp of silence I am left thinking about the particular potency that sexual identity holds in the minds of high school and middle school kids. Part of me had forgotten what it was like to silence a room with a casual declaration of that sort. Part of me misses that power. A larger part of me is mildly disappointed that the kids won’t ask me about it, but they’ll whisper to the other teachers in persistent questioning.
And then, magically, the conversation turns starkly onto the subject of homophobia.
“I like gay people,” says one student, defensively. “I’m cool with gays. At least mostly. I’m cool with you, Mr. La Sala.” I smile, knowing what’s next. “I like you ‘cuz you’re a guy. A man. But if you came here wearing a dress? Then I’d be like, “Nah, man.”All that girly shit? I don’t like that.”
The Pardon. I receive it from straight men all the time. I suppose they think it’s endearing to inform me that, in general, they disdain my kind, but that for whatever reason I have managed to gain their favor.
“So you like gay people,” I say slowly, “So long as they are not noticeably gay. You like gay people, so long as they are gay by your terms. That’s not acceptance. That’s not even tolerance.”
The student sputters a hasty retort, and the other students begin to shout him down, but I quiet them. I want to hear the rest of this explanation.
Fumbling, the student pieces together a defense of masculine behavior and gender roles. He cites his traditional upbringing when talking about the way men should act, and women should act, and his comments inspire the other students to share their views. One student, a girl, grills him on the sexism embedded in his beliefs: “A girl punch you, and you don’t hit her back? No. If a girl hits you, you can hit her. If anyone hits you, you can fight them back. Girls always be making a case against guys, but they can provoke fights too. They depend on being excused, but it’s just because girls are seen as weaker.”
“Benevolent sexism!” I chime in. The students patiently listen as I explain to them the prejudices that are embedded in old school chivalry, and when I’m done the female student is all smiles. She looks armed and dangerous with words, and I love her for it. Then I make sure to reiterate that, as a general rule, it’s not okay to hit anyone. This, among all the other points, is singularly inconceivable and the students brush it aside.
The conversation returns to attitudes towards gay people, and gender-defiant behavior, and eventually I am explaining the differences between drag queens, transvestites, and transexual. The students do not laugh or jeer. They soak in this information, nodding and chewing it over, and when I’m done the girl goes: “That boy who wore a dress to prom? I like him. I’m friends with him. He’s got bigger balls than anyone.”
A laugh in spite of the crude statement, but it aptly captures what I’ve been needling at for the past fifteen minutes. Our outside time is ending in a few minutes and, quietly, I note to myself how aptly named chunk of time is. Community Service. I found the students preening the landscape of poisons and weeds, and I ended up helping.
The first student–the one who insists that he is an asshole–pretends to be unchanged by the conversation, but I can tell he’s unwittingly absorbed at least some understanding of Sex vs. Gender, Feminism, and Identity Politics. “I don’t think you’re that bad,” I say to him as we walk inside. “I think you’re probably a sweetheart.”
He smiles, and it’s a mix of smug assuredness and uncultivated sheepishness. Then he says, “That’s true, too.”