I heard the prompt, “Thanking Our Dead Teachers”, and turned it over in my mind. It could refer to people whose stories I had heard of people who lived long ago, or people of long ago whose books I had read. It could also refer to influential people in my life who were dead - my maternal grandmother in particular came to mind. Yet another possibility was that it described people who have moved out of my life, who might not literally be dead but with whom I have lost touch.
I found my mind carried back repeatedly though to people who had been formally designated my teachers, at school, and who were literally dead. In particular, to a time when I was training to be a nursing assistant, working under supervision at a nursing home. Sent to spend several days in the “locked wing”, where residents suffering from dementia lived, seeing the doors marked with printed signs identifying the residents. Here was JOSEPH BLOEW, his name surrounded with waves and anchors and an American flag, evidently a Naval veteran. Here was JANE REAU, her name surrounded with barns and horses and fence rails. Then I came to a name I recognized, embedded among apples and slates and wooden chairs. With some trepidation, I looked into the room, and found it vacant, its plastic-covered mattress stripped. Evidently, I had “just missed” my First Grade teacher, whose kindness and patience I still remembered.
As fondly as I remembered her, I thought it was just as well not to have had a “reunion” with her, especially not at the very beginning of what turned out to be many years of serving men and women who had spent long lives of self-reliance and had come to such a vulnerable state.
After the writing period of my group ended, and the host read the text which had contained the phrase “thanking our dead teachers”, I was amused to find that it primarily concerned a literal dead teacher, who had intrigued the author by the ritual of licking her coffee cup while sitting in class, making eye contact, an action which caused him to wonder if she were flirting with him. I was immediately reminded of my own years teaching massage, to groups which usually were mostly women, in which I had to take great care to avoid saying or doing anything which might appear flirtatious, which would have impaired my ability to teach.
From there, my mind turned to the fact that I am evidently the only man in this writing group, and my occasional thought that my presence might put a damper on it. Did the women restrain themselves to avoid giving the impression of flirting with me, or of “putting themselves out there” to invite my attentions? Did they presume they would need to defer to me in order not to irritate me? Or feel a desire to freeze me out and encourage me to leave? I did think these things occasionally, even though I’d received only welcome and encouragement.
I remembered a woman saying that a man who finds himself alone in a group of only women was delighted, a woman alone in a group of men was terrified. While sympathizing with anyone who finds herself the “only woman”, I thought to myself that in fact, any man who is even slightly aware of women as people will be at least somewhat concerned about imposing, at least until he is affirmatively made welcome. From there, my thoughts turned to the women, living and dead, who had helped me to understand how to be comfortable in the company of women, and how to make women comfortable in my company, and offered them my thanks.
https://arts.cgu.edu/tufts-poetry-awards/graduation-2020-what-a-year/
The Magic Eight-Ball says: "It is a blessing to be a teacher, or a student."
