Mr James
His wise council and kind patience bolstered my resolve
to overcome my youthful woes and nightmarish troubles solve.
His humanity may have saved my life. His memory I hold dear.
But whenever the name Mister James arose—
Other kids just called him q****—By Poet
It’s May of 1966. Mr. James gave us an assignment to write about happiness. Everyone talked about happiness, usually in terms of fame and fortune. But was that our definition of happiness? We were instructed to write an essay. I wrote that, although people saw happiness in terms of fame and fortune, for most of our time on earth, we had fame because we use to travel in small groups, and everyone knew who everyone was. We were all famous. If we lived, in say, a fishing village with a warm climate, we were all fortun-ate. Yet, even with all this fame and fortune, there’d still be happy and unhappy people. So, most of our happiness had to come from within. I was handed back my essay with a big A+ “This is insightful beyond your years. You’re a precocious young man!” This grade and comment saved me from some kind of breakdown. Maybe I was smart and good at something, even if I had to look up “precocious.”
I had entered English class with my shoulders slumped and my head down. I thought about the fable of the straw that broke the camel’s back. I don’t think that at the moment there was anyone but Mr. James I’d confide in. I didn’t know where to start. I spilled just about everything that was making me miserable and told him that I was beyond help.
Mr. James explained that junior high could really mess kids up. He admitted that he had spent three years in junior high but was spending the rest of his life dealing with it. With time and perspective, he’d developed empathy for kids going through what he’d gone through. Although he knew I’d find it hard to believe, I’d be a better person for it. He reminded me what I’d written in my essay: Happiness comes from within. He told me not to become “addicted” to negative thoughts, like people are addicted to cigarettes. As we talked, I felt a few straws lifted from my back. Before I got a chance to thank him for the talk, he asked me if my parents were coming to open house that night. He looked forward to meeting them.
My mom and dad talked about open house, describing all my teachers, what they thought about them, and what they had to say about me. My dad said that Mr. Lohr was a “red neck jerk” but Mr. Brio was the good, old-fashioned kind of gym teacher he had back when he was a kid in the Bronx. They talked about all of my teachers, except Mr. James. “Did you talk to Mr. James?” I asked, breaking the silence. I felt in my gut that something wasn’t right.
“Oh, yes. We sure did,” replied my mom with an odd half-
smile.
“Who’s Mr. James? Your make-believe friend?” asked my
sister, oozing sarcasm.
“No!” I responded angrily. “He’s my substitute teacher!”
Then my sister asked my mom with fake concern and politeness, with a phony English accent, “And how did you like Mr. James?” My mom stood up, hand on her hip, like an old-fashioned girlie pin-up. My dad shrugged his shoulders and said, “He’s a fagela”
“He’s gay?” asked my sister, giggling like it was a big joke.
“What does that mean?” asked my mom.
“You know—q****! Is he q****?”
My mom smiled derisively “Oh yeah. There’s no doubt about that!” I felt my insides go limp. It was like I was sitting with strangers. I imagined Mr. James as an eighth grader, being mocked and bullied by my mom, dad, and sister. My world, which had become so cruel, had become even crueler.
Copyright ©
Robert Gorelick
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