So here's a fun little story: I spent the morning in my mom's fourth-grade classroom, this being a perfect confluence of Teacher Appreciation Week and Mother's Day. The plan: to discuss writing. Outside of that, I don't have much in common with 10-year-olds, so I was nervous.
I get there and the kids are PSYCHED. Here's a new adult!, someone who wants to talk to them!, someone who knows their teacher too! So we go over to the group corner, and the 20 of them sit cross-legged in a semi-circle looking at me in the chair.
I have each kid go one-by-one and tell me their name and one thing I should know about them. It was adorable. A couple of kids LOVE dinosaurs, some LOVE wrestling, surfing, skateboard tricks, cool stuff. Fun so far. We're feelin good. But then they start peppering questions at me
• Who was more annoying, you or your brother?
• Did you get in trouble a lot?
• Do you use figurative language in your writing?
• What's the happiest moment of your life?
• What's the most tragic moment? (!!!!)
• Do you like to write more dialogue or internal thinking?
• Did you get in trouble a lot?
• Do you use figurative language in your writing?
• What's the happiest moment of your life?
• What's the most tragic moment? (!!!!)
• Do you like to write more dialogue or internal thinking?
I am, like, jaw agape. These are nine- and 10-year-olds. Their writing questions were sharp. Their AMA questions were deep! But, then, here's where it gets really interesting ...
"Who cares about money more, you or your brother?"
My brother, I say, because he has a wife and two kids.
"Do you have a wife or kids?"
I don't, I say.
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
I don't I say.
"Do you live in an apartment?"
I do, I say.
"Who do you live with?"
My brother, I say, because he has a wife and two kids.
"Do you have a wife or kids?"
I don't, I say.
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
I don't I say.
"Do you live in an apartment?"
I do, I say.
"Who do you live with?"
And now I'm like ... am I ... do I ... what do I ... am I about to come out of the closet to these kids? At this point I looked to my mother, who kind of nodded and mouthed something like "go ahead." So I said, "I live with my boyfriend."
"Like a friend?," one asked. "No, not like that," I said, ready to move on as my face reddened and the air flew out of the room for a split second. The kids seemed to recognize what was what, some light giggling, some oooos, but none of these precocious fuckers, like, gave a shit
I steered the conversation back to writing, and despite one swerve back to "why are your shoes pink?," the rest of my day with them was full of hope and warmth and magic. They read me their own short stories, and good lord, a few of these kids could WRITE. I was beaming!
I ate it up! I hung on every word! I tried to give them encouragement, some notes, some tips, some light wisdom from someone who was the same age or older than their parents! It was the best morning I've had in a while.
There's no lesson here, but here's a thing: You really never "come out of the closet." In this dumb heteronormative world, you're constantly defining who you are and letting people in. Even some nosy fourth graders and their amazing teacher who lured you in to talk about writing!
