Riding Lessons

I’ve been a teacher in numerous different capacities for the last 6 years. My molding of young minds began immediately after graduating from college. I taught seventh grade at a small, private catholic school in north-east Harlem. For a wet-behind-the-ears 21 year-old who was, for all intents and purposes, born with a silver spoon lodged up my ass, the experience was eye-opening to say the least. I was the ‘cracker teacher.’ I got through the first year relatively unscathed and decided that a change of scenery was necessary so as to avoid balding prematurely and developing a full-fledged substance abuse problem. So I did the logical thing and bought a ticket for Sevilla, Spain, where I spent two years teaching English as a second language to spoiled suburbanite children. I was paid well and lived like the king of all bums until the old Irish guilt caught up to me. I came home with every intention of joining the Peace Corps, but instead started waiting tables. Eventually i was able to land a job at a private Catholic high school in Queens.

I’m a good teacher. I know that. I’m one of those stubborn idealists who dares to enjoy his job because he thinks he’s making a difference. I’m also that young teacher who all the students like because every now and again I’ll slip and curse in class. I’ll make jokes at their, and my own, expense and I refuse to lie to or baby the children. As a result, the guys respect me and the girls have crushes on me. Now, I know I’m not exceptionally handsome, but I’m by no means ugly. After a while, I was able to adapt and accommodate my teaching style to get the most out of my classes in the most efficient manner. So when the girls complement me on my tie even though I’ve worn it four days in a row, or tell me they like my new haircut while explicitly sucking on their pen, I ignore it and move on. The fact is, these school-girl crushes allow me to get through the day with minimal confrontation. Turns out, inner-city school girls are bitches when they wanna be. So if some overt flirting is going to keep them from irrational outbursts, then so be it.

Last year, I was given two sections of senior English class: World Literature.  As the year progressed, the female students in one of the two sections became more and more brazen.  After some very skillful eavesdropping in the cafeteria, I found out that the girls in that section had a bit of a contest going on. Much like the pranks we used to pull in high school, it was a classic case of one-up-manship. However, where we dared each other to see who could fart the loudest or take their pants off in class, they were challenging each other to hit on me.

Now, before you start in on the pedophile comments, I’m not that track coach who privately “coaches” girls after hours. As far as I’m concerned, just because I scout young talent, it doesn’t mean that I’m about to draft a future first-round draft pick before they’re ready to go pro. Plus, nothing that I’ve said or am going to say is any worse than Nabokov. And Heffner uses 18 year olds all the friggin time. I could also cite the Beatles and the Police if necessary… So if you feel the need to judge, blow it out your ass.

That said, there was one comment that I couldn’t ignore. One line that needed to be addressed.  I was teaching The Tempest. Going on about Bill Shakespeare, I forget what the hell I was blathering on about, and it really doesn’t matter. I sat two of the girls next to one another in a corner of the room that restricted my view of them. These two had taken to hiking up their skirts, wearing their hair in pig tails and inquiring about whether of not I would “be interested in having an 18-year-old girlfriend.” I was mid-sentence when one of these two little sirens piped up and dropped a bomb.

“Mr. 2E,” she said in a Caribbean-American-New York accent.

I paused.

“Yes, Johanna.”

“You make me wanna go horseback riding.”

I stopped dead in my tracks and felt as my face turn red as a tomato. It was such a concise line delivered in a very matter-of-fact manner that I was at a loss. The class got silent, waiting for a reaction. It took all I had not to laugh, because, let’s face it, that’s a funny thing to say.  And if I did laugh, it would have opened up the flood gates. So I took a page from that memorable 90’s public service announcement.

After composing myself, I turned and as calmly as possible said, “Johanna, that’s sexual harassment, and I don’t have to take it.”

And went right back into my lecture.

It was never mentioned again in class.  Although, I’ve since been asked if I give riding lessons.