This Could be for You

5. To My Off-Beaten Student,

You were a quirky kid who arrived every day, early to Zoom. You were one of the only few to leave your camera on, so one of the only few faces I knew. You sat in a gamer's throne and wore large headphones; it looked as if you manned seven different screens.

I remember the look on your face when I announced my leave of absence. It still haunts me. You waited until the end of class, mouth stretched wide, "Are you really going?" I explained it was only temporary. You shuffled locks, looked away, "But...I like how you use the earth to tell stories...I don't know..." pulled your lips into a grin again, "I'm glad you'll be back in January."

Then you showed me the sketch of a tattoo you drew. An image of a roped, weathered tree. The rough grooves in the drawing, when viewed in full, read the date 4/23. You pointed, "That's my birthday," and added, "I just read The Things They Carried . It inspired me. I asked my English teacher if I could draw a tattoo instead of write the essay."

"Do you like your English teacher?" I asked.

"Yes, a great deal." I thought of the new English teacher's smile, those wide-set eyes; felt my cheeks heat, almost gushed, I wish your English teacher had a crush on me! (I didn't). Instead, I invited you to tell about the drawing of the tree. But this part you might not know; I already knew your story. I had your older sibling in class several years ago. She told me. It's not a happy one.

You're the only student I personally met in the fall of 2020. We literally touched. It wasn't supposed to happen since school had yet to return to in-person and I was on a leave of absence. I entered the building to pack up and turn in my keys. I only knew you through a screen--crowned in headphones and gamer's throne. I didn't recognize you when we collided. 

"Woah, you're like me!" It was the voice I knew.

We stood back to back in the hallway, measured our stature against each other. I asked how you liked my substitute teacher. You winked, "Counting the days for your return." I nodded, didn't reply, grinned.

I have a feeling we have a lot in common. Maybe you share the same experience, but people treat me like a fraud when I tell them how tall I am. I am always accosted by a stranger at a restaurant, on a train, in line for the bathroom. The conversation always goes the same.

"How tall are you?"

I tell them.

"Do you play basketball?"

"No."

"Volleyball?"

"No."

"Any sports?"

"No."

"High school sports."

"No."

I'm still waiting for someone to ask if I ever modeled. No one has. The answer's still no. Usually by this point the inquisitor looks me up and down with distrust and disappointment, so I've learned to wave my arms, swivel my hips and sing, "But I dance" (I don't). You, however, didn't interrogate me. You simply smiled, turned and straightened your back to compare. You beat me by an inch.

Height often accompanies athleticism, but my genetics screwed up that equation. Something tells me we are the same here, too. I earned the nickname Gumby, in high school because my peers marveled at how someone could fall, trip, bang, break, knock over, run into, apologize, and spring back up with "I'm ok!" as easily as me. I don't do anything athletic. Okay, that's kind of a lie. I only attempt athletic activity if I've had too much to drink or if I'm angry. Too much to drink? I can't exactly recall what kind of physical activity I do, but it involves an apology tour the next day. Angry? I'll attempt a run. Because of residual religious guilt, I rarely get angry. Therefore, I rarely run.