The Particular Gift Of The Goofy Male Teacher

He was one of those men who wore shorts with knee socks and a whistle around his neck, even when he wasn’t teaching phys ed. I think it sort of turned into a necklace for him. He often had marker smudges on the backs of his hands, and more than once I detected glitter glue in his mustache. His desk was cluttered with cartoon character mugs and pictures from students and fun pens, plus guitar picks for the guitar that hung on his wall. I had a crush on him, all of us parents did, but not in the romantic way where we wanted to smooch him.

More in the way that we were so grateful he was there. Being an example of a silly, vulnerable, smart, thoughtful man for our kids. Maybe especially for families like mine, who didn’t see men like him in our homes.

This was something that worried me when I left my husband. I don’t know if it’s sexist or old-fashioned or wrong-footed, but I worried that my boys would never have a good example of a man to follow in their lives. My husband was not a good example, I’m sorry to say. He was so worried always about not “letting them get away with anything” — worried that these little toddlers, these fledgling humans who needed us so much, might somehow pull a fast one on him and make him give them more than he thought they deserved.

I worried that they would look at him and take on this example of what it was to be a man, to think they had to be hard and wary and fearful of being seen as vulnerable, and so I left. For this reason and about 17,000 other ones. I knew that our leaving might mean that we would never find a better role model for manhood or maleness or whatever they might call it. But I also knew I didn’t want them to think they had to whittle their souls down until they were left hard as pennies.

Then they started at their new little school. And here is where we found our home in so many ways but especially this way; we found beautiful role models for the men they were allowed to become.

The first of their teachers, he of the whistle and shorts and glitter-filled mustache, taught all four of my sons over the years. Sometimes as their PE teacher and a few times as their homeroom teacher, all around that all-important 9- and 10-year-old mark. My oldest son in particular was at a crossroads that year. Smart but maybe a bit belligerent. Sweet but worried, and always worried someone might notice. It was the year after we left and he was flailing. Until he met his teacher.

I remember the guilt I carried for not being able to show them how to be men. For not inviting any sort of positive male presence into our lives. I remember the relief in all of us when they met their teachers.

This teacher was just himself, always. Excited about silly things. Singing loud and off-key at holiday assemblies, tapping his feet in time to the music. I noticed when I volunteered in the classroom that when this man made a mistake, he apologized freely, but was unembarrassed about being wrong. He liked his students. He worried about them. He thought they were funny. He laughed at their jokes and meant it.

And this was when I saw my son stand up straighter. Proud all of the sudden of being smart. And silly. And kind. And sensitive. He had other male teachers in elementary school who all seemed to just hammer that same self-assuredness home in my sons and, I think, other people’s sons as well. Men who looked at the world with clear-eyed enthusiasm, who were excited to play three-on-three basketball while they supervised recess or owned an array of holiday-themed sweatshirts to wear for any occasion.

It was such a lucky blend of all of the best scenarios at that little school for us. The boys had wonderful women who taught them, who encouraged them to stretch and dream and believe in themselves. Just as their male teachers did every single year. They were all better examples of human beings for my sons than I could have hoped for, and they are always on my mind when back-to-school season rolls around. I remember the guilt I carried for not being able to show them how to be men. For not inviting any sort of positive male presence into our lives. I remember the relief in all of us when they met their teachers. When they were given permission to just become the men they were already meant to be: kind and funny and silly and smart.

My son wants to be a teacher now. He is going to a teachers college. He wants to teach 9- and 10-year-olds. He found his best example of a good man in his fourth grade gym teacher. And it changed everything.