Sexism & Misogyny at the Place

I know I haven’t posted here in a while. But the recent furor over Donald Trump’s hot-mic reminded me of a story that is not particularly flattering but maybe needs to see the light of day.

It was my first or second year and there was definitely a locker-room culture thriving at the Place. Certain male staff members would ask generously endowed female students to deliver a note to another member of the club. The least offensive one that I can remember went something like, “Check out the knockers on this one.” In the incident I observed (I was in another teacher’s classroom), the receiving party smirked, wrote something to add on, and sent the girl on to another staff member.

I did observe the players huddling together on occasion, guffawing and chortling like schoolboys, if schoolboys guffawed and chortled, There were certain favorite messengers but several students apparently qualified. I was quietly, but obviously, appalled and evidently was denied membership in a group I would never have joined, even if asked.

Disgusting, you say? Absolutely. But if you think it’s only because these were young women who were also students, you’re missing the point and bigger picture. Sexism and misogyny were perhaps more prevalent then (we hadn’t even started debating the Equal Rights Amendment yet) than today, but, obviously those attitudes are not just lurking in the darker corners, but occasionally come strutting into the open.

I guess my question is, how would you feel if it were your daughter or sister who was the object (the absolutely correct word) of those kinds of words and actions? I know my answer.

Reality and Humor – A Learning Curve

It started early, my tendency to get myself in trouble by trying to be funny (even before I started teaching). Sometimes what passes for my sense of humor collides head on with reality, occasionally embarrassingly so. Culture shock came into play a lot early, and it took me a while to become culturally sensitive enough to avoid faux pas (already plural, for those of who were wondering; I looked it up).

I am a tease; it’s a way I try to make connections. Unless you were the target of a mean-spirited jibe (and I admit to being capable of those {but usually aimed at administrators and politicians, not students}, although I grew more circumspect as I aged and became less certain of being right), I only teased if I liked you well enough to bother. Or it was random, as described below...

A student asked me for a “pin.” At least that’s what I heard. I kind of rooted around in my desk, but, not finding one, finally said, “Why do you need a pin?” “To write with [dummy]” was the [implied] response. It doesn’t take much to inspire a riff from me, so I launched into an explanation, something like, “Oh, you mean a pen,” I said exaggeratedly. “A pin is something you stick into an object, a fastener. But a pen is the writing utensil, or a pig pen, like where (random student selection, yes, I remember, no, I’m not going to tell you) lives.” Ha, Ha.

Not so much. Apparently the randomly selected student was kind of embarrassed about his abode’s condition. I was called into Rich Eichhorst’s office the next day. I was horrified and, of course, apologized profusely to the student, telling him it was nothing personal because I had no clue where he lived. It was just that I couldn’t  imagine being embarrassed about your house. It was not a mistake I repeated (besides, there were so many new ones just waiting to be made), in part because I quickly came to understand that he wasn’t alone in his feelings. 

Back in the day, it was perfectly okay to give students rides home after a rehearsal or activity. Today it would not only be a policy violation, but, well, dumb. Sad but true. (Even then it probably wasn’t particularly bright of me to loan my car out for a fast-food run when we were working late on the yearbook, but I was driving a Pinto – they couldn’t hurt that rust bucket.) In any case, more than a couple students had me drop them off at a corner because they didn’t want me to see their actual houses.

    Seeing their houses wouldn’t have mattered to me, of course, because these were kids I had come to know and respect, with whom I was working on a play or something. But that respect had to include respecting their feelings and sensitivity to their circumstances, so I never pushed it. What you learn as a first-year teacher is much more (and much more important) than the material you teach.