In 1986, I got a gig teaching summer school at Mission High in San Francisco. I was not a tenure-track teacher yet and six weeks of solid work with no 5 a.m. phone call from the substitute office was heaven. I got to sleep until 6:30, which is approximately my bedtime nowadays. I loved the summer school format and thought it should be used year around. You had two classes for two hours each. Sounds grueling but it was in fact a wonderful canvas to work on.
I was a pretty good director of English classes. My classes were lively and disciplined. Lessons happened in 20 minute segments, which is about as long as a teenager can do one thing. One 20 minute segment a day was spent quietly reading a book of their choice for credit. That encouraged reading and gave me a break. Mostly, the kids wrote and talked. They talked about their topics with other kids. They passed their work around for comments. I taught editing skills so they could mark up each other’s work. They had to spend some time on grammar drills. I had to read their shit, after all.
We read Shakespeare. I had ninth graders, which meant Romeo and Juliet. We read Edith Hamilton’s transcription of the Pyramis and Thisbe myth on which R&J is based and watched several movie treatments of the myth and the play: the hilarious Pyramis and Thisbe play-within-a-play from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Franco Zeffirelli’s Romeo and Juliet, with the then-edgy nudity, and West Side Story. The kids wrote papers about love and gangs.
But this was to come. In the summer of 1986, I was about to begin my first formal teaching gig. I received a thrilling letter in the mail from the school district telling me to report to Mission High School on June 18, 1986, at 8:00 a.m. On the day, I followed the signs and joined the convocation of summer school teachers in the school cafeteria.
The principle, an urbane Latino with bags under his eyes, explained that our first job was to enroll students in our classes. We were to spread out around the cafeteria, find the table with the sign for our class taped to it, and sit there with an enrollment form to write down the names of students who wished to take our class. We found our places, each at his or her own table. I was stationed at English I. The other teachers and I sat at the head of our tables and looked around expectantly for students, pen ready.
There were no students. We began to droop. The principal looked at his watch several times. That did not make the students come. After a half an hour, he left to investigate. We sat, each at the head of a table like a rower in a canoe, waiting.
Imagine my misery. I was in a school cafeteria. I had no work to do. I had no book, because I had expected to be busy. I had nothing to look at unless you count the empty counters, the metal and plastic cafeteria tables and a sad collection of teachers who had lived in poverty too long, by the look of their clothes, and were professionally defeated and resigned. Every one of us stayed at our table. We did not congregate, curse the district, or do anything reasonable, downtrodden working people normally do. Hardly anyone had anything to read, yet we did not mingle. What was wrong with us?
I made up my mind to leave my post, as did not it seem that the enemy was attacking that morning. I would go up to someone and start a conversation. Revolution! But who to talk to?
I have met and worked with many teachers since that day and I can say with assurance that the bunch in the cafeteria that day was culled largely from the walking wounded, the burnouts who I would feel sorry for and rail against during my short career as a teacher. As bored as I was, I did not have the stamina to befriend any of these unhappy people. Then I saw this young guy.
He was about my age and good-looking, with striking black hair. While the rest of us stared dully into space, this guy read the New York Times, drank a latte, and munched on a croissant he took from a bakery bag, appearing not to notice his surroundings or give much of a damn whether or not any kids came to sign up for his class. I was fascinated.
Partly out of attraction, partly out of boredom and partly out of a desire to avoid becoming someone who sits miserably in an absurd situation, I got up and walked over to the young man. I gave a Lauren Bacall-style upward nod at his croissant and asked in the husky voice I keep for special occasions, “Got one of those for me?” The boy considered the request, considered me, then took his last croissant from the bag, broke it in half and gave a piece to me. He invited me to sit.
We talked for the 45 minutes until the principal came in, shrugged and told us come back on the first day of class. (We later learned that the district told the kids to come the next day. The principal and his secretary had to enroll all of them alone. You gotta love the San Francisco School District.)
The young man and I left together. We went to Dolores Park across the street. We sat on the grass and talked. He was a performance artist. I was a fitness instructor. Fascinating. We got hungry and went to Hot ‘n’ Hunky, the burger place in the Castro. We went back to the park. We hung out for hours. It was our first day. June 18, 1986. Except for a brief period in 1987, we’ve been together ever since. In 1991, we registered as domestic partners. In 2003, we got married. But we celebrate Croissant Day.
Happy anniversary, Mark. I love you.
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Comments
Your Lauren Bacall number was good, but I particularly loved it when you said: "partly out of a desire to avoid becoming someone who sits miserably in an absurd situation". I love a woman who objects to wasting time.
I ought to make a post listing all the different places we've worked together.
Sandra, you remember Hot 'n' Hunky! Yes, I do hate wasting time. I'm bad at waiting.
Did anyone ever tell you that teachers in love act just like puppies? (Former Student)
Rated (Can't help myself)
Happy anniversary to you both!
Nope, I didn't see that ending coming, but very glad it did!
Mary, thanks!
Harp, I hope you find what you're looking for. It's usually better when you hook up when you're older anyway, more sure of what you need and can't stand ;-)
Michael, ya gotta love the school district. One reason I fell in love with Mark is he did my attendance reports. There were 3, in different formats, for each class, and I'm form-phobic. He rode in and whipped out my attendance forms and I melted.
Thank you, Mr. M. Always a pleasure to see you.
I could feel so much reading that paragraph.
Kathy, thanks so much.
Trey, it's better in CA now, but still not good. Someone was telling me that teacher salaries in NY are really high. It *does* help to throw money at a problem.
We're off to dinner to celebrate.
Funny, the way you described the set up in the cafeteria reminded me of Romeo & Juliet: lines drawn no one wants to enter anyone else's fifedown. But you crossed the line and made a kingdom.
Happy anniversary.
Yes, Marcela, it was a burger place. It catered to a gay male clientele.
Trudge, my friend, you have the art of the metaphor. Who needs freehand drawing?
Absolutely yes, I find it very sexy in fact.
Probably because I'm not.
Zuma, Mark served me a croissant and a chocolate bar for breakfast yesterday, and I made a chocolate sandwich. Try it!
Life, some people are born this way, it's an acquired skill for those of us with a tendency to be self-conscious. It takes years to stop caring what other people think of you, and you never completely do.
Stella, it doesn't bear thinking of. ;-)
Happy anniversary to you both