Mallard Duck Day- And Paper Clip Club
I know we’ve moved on from Jr. High, and we’re knee deep in the mess that were my high school years, but I missed something important, so we’re going back in time.
If you recall Jr. High was a challenge for me socially. I felt pretty isolated from my peers most of the time, but there were some faculty members who probably saved my life. They are at least worth a mention.
I had the same teacher for English and French and I loved her classes. She was smart, and witty, and she knew so much. I never understood why all of the other students fought her so hard.
She was spunky, and animated, but also serious and had wonderfully high standards. I kinda loved her.
She had a paperclip club, and to this day, I still smile when I see paperclips. She would give out colored paperclips when we did well, as a token of her pride in us. The other students seemed to have formed a consensus that this was “lame.” I earned so many paperclips.
She made me feel competent. She made me think the future might hold possibilities for me. She made me think that I was likable, and that maybe the other kids were just jerks.
In 8th grade, I got to take Introduction to Physical Science, which covered beginning chemistry and physics concepts, without all the heavy math. I struggled with formalities like keeping my lab book, but that class was awesome.
He made me feel like I was interesting, like I wasn’t too much. He was proud of me when I did well, and it was clear that he enjoyed interacting with a student that was completely interested.
In 7th grade, I had this brand new teacher for Social Studies and Life Science (introductory biology). He was fresh out of college and had so much energy and passion for teaching.
He made a safe environment for us to truly engage and ask questions. He deflected bullies and focused on the joy of learning.
He made me think that the world actually contained fun people who love what they do and are a delight to be around.
He was gentle and understanding when we talked about reproductive health. He installed a box where anybody could write any question they had about reproduction, and he would read them and answer them.
He didn’t act like anything was gross or shameful. I submitted SO MANY QUESTIONS.
Reproduction is absolutely fascinating and I have never ever been able to understand why it’s taboo to talk about it. If I hadn’t been shamed so hard for being interested in something that is absolutely magical, I might not have had to go figure it all out on my own in person.
I knew a lot before 7th grade. I had seen the results of the process, and had attended Lamaze classes which go over the gestational part of reproduction. I would hope that most of the other students were less well versed.
He somehow managed to level that playing field. It was all just science in his hands. I didn’t feel like a pervert, or a slut, or a victim. I felt like a scientist who was interested in reproduction.
I remember when we were covering sexual dimorphism he used the example of mallard ducks in which the males are brightly and beautifully colored and the females are quite camouflaged. He suggested that we should have a Mallard Duck Day, at the school where all of the boys wear makeup and do their hair and all of the girls wear jeans and t-shirts.
My genderqueer autistic brain was over-the-moon about the idea. It was brilliant. It was fun. I had so many ideas.
I brought it back up a few times, but we never had mallard duck day.
Toward the end of the year, some of the students started writing on the desks. I remember how hurt and devastated he looked, asking who had written it as most of the guys in the class laughed at him.
I was so confused, but we went back to class. They kept writing on the desks, and there was no response he could make that didn’t make it worse. He couldn’t leave it there. If he cleaned it off, or ordered them to, he just seemed hysterical, and they laughed because they got to him.
They acted with impunity, knowing fully that somehow, for this they were untouchable. It was scary watching them torment my favorite teacher. It was scary seeing him become powerless. It was terrifying watching them all get off on it, and build on their enjoyment of it.
Eventually, I saw what was being written. They called him gay, queer, f@&0%, and absolutely nothing was done to them. The administration did not care, and they did not back him up in any way.
He became somber for the rest of the year. He went through the motions but the spirit of joy he brought us was gone. How dare they?
My mom couldn’t stand him.
He did not teach again the following year and my heart was absolutely broken about it.
Survivor Literacy 
Leave a reply to 52) Human Trafficking Part Two – InvisiblY MisdiagnoseD Cancel reply