Excuse me, can you direct me from Venus to Mars?

I've gotta be honest. When I finally got the official notice about my spring internship placement last October, I was a little freaked out. Not about the location - I had known for a long time that I would be at LHS because of my ESL practicum. No, it was a different proper noun that initially set off alarms in my head:

"William"

Wait... my new cooperating teacher is a guy?!? I looked at Katie (my first cooperating teacher) with an expression of mild panic. She and I had gotten along so *fabulously* well, and it was because we had so much in common! Working together was a breeze because we liked the same music, squee'd about Glee while we planned lessons, and talked about all sorts of girly things whenever we wanted. For two months, we were BFF, and life was great. While I hadn't imagined that the spring could ever be exactly the same, I hadn't really considered the possibility of working with someone so fundamentally different from myself.

As I tend to do, I worried. For 3 months. I worried when emails went unanswered ("Oh no, he's an old guy who's computer illiterate!"). I worried when I did get an email and it didn't answer all of my neurotic questions ("Oh no, he's a disorganized slob!"). I worried about having things to talk about. I worried about how to work femininity into a man's environment. I worried about differences in classroom management and interacting with staff. I worried about having to put on my shiksa feminista pants and hold my own in some sort of Good Old Boys' club.

I worry a lot.

And as is usually the case, I didn't need to. From the very first time my high heels crossed the threshold, I have felt nothing but comfortable in room 231 and with all those who inhabit/frequently visit that space. As it turns out, William isn't old, computer illiterate, or a complete disorganized slob. Bill's just a busy guy who is a lot more laid-back than I am. (Therefore, he knows when to ignore my neuroses, which has actually been a blessing.) He's the polar opposite of Katie, yet we somehow still have just as much in common. I've been reminded of my loves for indie/folk music, reading great literature/poetry, and most importantly, writing.

Sure, there were awkward moments and issues with students who couldn't appropriately navigate the differences between a male and female teacher, and not every day was perfect, but I've loved the whole thing, and it's going to be difficult for me to not be a girly mess on Friday. And as for the Good Old Boys... there have been plenty of occasions on which I have been the only one present without a y-chromosome to my name, but those fears were unfounded as well. At a time in my life when I needed good male role models more than I even realized, the men of the LHS English department swooped to my rescue, made me feel welcome, and reminded me what it's all about.

So, as a somewhat cheesy but entirely heartfelt token of my appreciation, here is my parting gift:

(Blogger doesn't allow me to channel my inner e.e. cummings, so wherever you see a list, imagine it tabbed out and looking like stairs.)


Real Men
(for Bill, Jeff, Jon, and Mike)

It’s easy for a girl to lose sight of what a real man is;
images of Disney princes with kingdoms by the sea
and boyishly handsome TV stars with lovesick eyes
are incongruent with the
cold,
self-absorbed, and
immature game players she’s exposed to daily,

and they all seem artificial.

But Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.

Real Men talk about books.
Not just because they have to for their jobs,
or because they want to impress other guys
or themselves
or women.
No, Real Men talk about books because they need to…

because Real Men are poets.
Their insight and clever word play
makes you feel smarter (never dumber) for listening and reading.
No poetry is excluded from their anthologies:
music, film, and television are cherished friends.
Keeping company with the likes of Berryman, Whitman, Zimmerman, and Hoffman,
Real Men are brilliant.

Chivalry is not dead!
Real Men hold doors open
and practice “ladies first.”
But unlike those fake tools, their simple kindnesses
make you feel valued,
not weak or inferior or insulted.
No, Real Men are graceful and genuine with their manners.

Real Men boast of vanquishing an entire fleet
of cholesterol-laden sandwiches,
but they aren’t ashamed to admit
the inherent humor and stupidity of such a quest,
and their assertive posturing is confined to lunchtime conversation.
Real Men have no use or abuse for foolish pride.

Real Men can be “squishy.”
Whether it’s the sexy lead singer, the mysterious poetess,
or the patient wives in their own homes,
Real Men aren’t afraid to be rendered vulnerable
by a strong woman from time to time.

Real Men do not wear masks of hard indifference.
They are passionate about
their work,
their art,
and justice therein.
Societal standards of detached “manliness” don’t restrain them:
confident in their own skins, they care for their
friends,
wives,
children,
students,

and even student teachers.


Real Men inspire hope –
hope for the Real Girl looking for her Real Boy.
She can keep searching now,
knowing her quest is not in vain, because
Real Men do exist.
I’ve seen them.


April 22, 2010