I was 13 years old. It was the summer of '86. We were at the softball field, like we were every summer. My dad was playing softball. I was goofing around like most young teenagers. No longer a child, definitely not an adult, sexuality was a term I didn't understand.
Someone started teasing me. A few years older, this young adult started telling me that my middle school had a teacher that liked to touch little boys. It was funny for her. She was laughing, and oohing and ahhing. Not for me, this mysterious teacher was to be one of my teachers. I was supremely scared. Worse part was it seemed to be common knowledge that this teacher was the "touching" type. For a young boy, the boogeyman had just reemerged as the touchyman. I was stressed out. I didn't know what to expect. My parents told me to keep my guard up. Keep my guard up from what? I wanted to say, "I don't understand". I was 13, I knew everything, and even if I didn't, I shall pretend that I do.
So I started in that school. The teacher ended up being a real nice guy. He wasn't nearly as bad as everyone had painted him to be. He was quite involved in one of my passions, sports. Every year, he would hold a 2 week "Athlete of the Year" competition. It was our annual Olympics. Without a doubt, it was the best competition of sport I have ever been a part of.
During the competition, stories started emerging again. The teacher tried to touch one guy. He tried to do something else to another guy. He invited one kid in a shower. He took another boy shopping. He cut one kids hair and tried to touch his tail bone. The stories were endless. Now 14, I started learning about sex. I was confused. Was the teasing true? Was this guy a monster disguised as a nice guy? Weren't bad people supposed to be mean?
I had that teacher for 3 years. I liked him. He was smart. He treated me like an adult, when no one else would. Always having other kids with me, we would do things with the teacher. There were trips. We helped serve the seniors supper one year. There was always a Christmas celebration with his favourites. And every year, the athletic competition...
The final year he was at our school, I was in grade nine. We were the elders of the school. Basketball practice kept me at the school after hours more often than most. Some new stories started to emerge. It was clear, that I had to keep my guard up. Most of the stories could easily have been mistaken for stories by foolish young boys. So I wasn't sure what to believe. Until one evening after basketball practice. One of my teammates, who didn't fit in with the average jock. He was a classmate and I considered him a friend. He wasn't the storytelling type. After practice he told me he had no choice but to go see this teacher upstairs. He told me that he used to willingly go but now he was afraid to be left alone with him. He asked me if I would stay with him so that nothing funny would happen.
What changed? I was too scared to ask.
The stories that surround this teacher were as mysterious as the way he left. In our small town, do we have a secret? One day, the teacher was gone. Some say, he was dismissed for going too far with a boy. Some say, he just left.
Is it time that the little boys start speaking up? Or are these a bunch of stories fabricated by over-imaginative homophobic minds? Either way, 26 years have passed and I would like to know the truth. This man has either been the brunt of unjust stories or he's a monster. I hold my judgement on him.
No comments:
Post a Comment