Crushed: Hot for teacher
In today’s memoir piece, I remember a nursery teacher who made me feel safe, loved, and accepted. Allan had a softness in his voice that I never heard at home. He encouraged me at every step and made me feel special. I was in love.
It does not bode well for the rest of your love life when the first person you crush on is someone who could get arrested for holding your hand in public. When I call up my memory of Mr. Donald, my nursery school teacher, I can sense the pedophile vibes. I’m not sure if that’s how I remember him, or how I am processing that now as an adult. Either way, pinning your hopes on someone who is close to three decades older than you is, for lack of a better word, unfortunate.
In one of the photo albums my mother stored on the top shelf of the storage closet, I found a photo of me with Mr. Donald. I was wearing a lilac polyester jumper dress, the kind with a fake shirt collar and short sleeves. The scalloped collar was edged with mustard yellow ribbon, and had small flowers printed on it in colors matching the rest of the ensemble. The skirt stopped above mid-thigh; my socks came to just below my knees. I knew when I wore it that it was too small, but as the child of a single working mom in the 1970s, clothes were a commodity that were stretched to their last thread.
Mr. Donald was crouched down behind me. His smile was as wide as the flared bell bottoms of his corduroy pants. He wore a plain white wide-tab collar shirt and a blazer to match the pants. Quintessential leisure suit. He was a slight man, bearded as so many young men were at that time.
I examined the picture, noticing how my eyes were squeezed and my mouth was slightly open, like I was laughing. I look innocently happy in this photo. I wonder who took it, because the stairs behind us were the ones leading up to the French classes in the school building’s annex, and my mother didn’t own a camera and would not have left work in the middle of the day. Maybe this was an evening open house, or an end of school year celebration.
Mr. Donald was the first man I tried to place into a father figure role. My parents separated when I was two years old and my father had vanished from my life. My family unit consisted of my mother, my babysitter, my maternal grandparents and great-grandparents. I had great-uncles and cousins, but there was no consistent male presence in my life.
Mr. Donald always had a smile for me and he challenged me to learn everything I could. He let me choose what I wanted to investigate. He told me I did a good job, even when I struggled. When I left his class to sneak away and listen in on the French class, he spoke to me gently, saying I should just ask for permission to do that.
“My answer will always be oui,” he said.
I fell hard for Mr. Donald, so much so that I asked my mother to invite him to my 6th birthday party. At the time, I had no idea how awkward this was, but I was tenacious and pestered my mother to no end when she said “no.” I’m not sure how it happened, but Mr. Donald showed up to my party at the Ponderosa restaurant. I have the photo of him squatting behind me while I grin below a cardboard cowboy hat that was part of the birthday package.
As an adult, I find myself wondering why he said “yes” and came to the party. Did he feel sorry for me? Did my mother tell him I would be heartbroken if he did not come? I’ll never know. In the context of today’s world, there is no way Mr. Donald would be able to come to a student’s birthday party. We have become so hyper-aware of inappropriate relationships, that any teacher-student closeness is examined with scrutiny. I did the same thing myself when I came across the photo. I looked to see where Mr. Donald’s hands were resting: his right hand was on my shoulder; his left hand on his left knee, providing balance. Completely innocent.
It’s amazing to me that I can still remember this man almost 50 years later. Through the lens of a psychiatrist, the reasons for this would be clear: my father was a non-entity and my mother never allowed me the freedom to just be, so I latched on to the first person who filled my very empty cup. For a kid with no stability, no unconditional love, and no advocate, Mr. Donald was the first male to make me happy.