Sex Edumacation
In the sixth grade, they separated all the boys into one classroom for the dreaded sex ed portion of our education. It was not taught by our teacher. No, instead our poor principal was brought in as the pinch hitter for this masterclass in cringe and ick. Made sense, though. We made eye contact with the principal way less than we did with our teacher. This pivot was in the best interest of everyone involved.
I don’t remember any of the material that was covered, only that we were all given pieces of scratch paper on our way in. The principal was Jerry Winant, a gentle, kind man who regularly played basketball and football with us at recess and lunch. Imagine Mr. Rogers if he had a solid jump shot and the ability to throw a spiral. I looked up to him a great deal.
Mr. Winant told us we could ask any question we had about sex by writing it on the paper, all in the interest of anonymity. If we didn’t have a question, we should simply write, Good afternoon, Mr. Winant. So everyone had to write something. The sound of number two pencils at work overtook the class. It wasn’t exactly as uncomfortable as getting a random puberty-driven erection in class, but it was close.
And then it got more uncomfortable.
A kid raised his hand (let’s call him Carl).
“Yes, Carl.”
“Can we ask two questions?”
“Ask as many questions as you like.”
Two questions?! Was he a moron? A glutton for punishment? A sadomasochist? What kind of psychopath asks even a single question? Leg amputation, thumb screws, a blind date with Aileen Wuornos—any of these would be preferable to actually asking a question in this context.
A moment later, Mr. Winant collected all the papers. One by one, he unfolded them and read aloud: “Good afternoon, Mr. Winant… Good afternoon, Mr. Winant… Good afternoon, Mr. Winant…” This went on for a couple dozen papers. Finally, he unfolded one and adjusted his glasses. “How long does puberty last?”
Okay, a reasonable question. We all had a vested interest in wrapping our minds around the scope of Mother Nature’s imminent and/or ongoing biological torture. Mr. Winant addressed the question, put our minds at ease, and then he said, “Next question—”
It wasn’t lost on any of us that Mr. Winant was reading from the same paper. All of us whipped our attention toward Carl, who had unintentionally incriminated himself. Carl was the kind of kid you look at and think, That kid’s definitely gonna do hard time. It took little creativity to imagine him starring in an episode of Cops, face un-blurred because he was too dumb not to sign the release.
Mr. Winant cleared his throat, and we whipped our attention back to the second question. He sort of shook his head, as if to say, I have an advanced degree—I can’t believe I’m about to read this question aloud. But he did read it aloud.
“What is a…dildo?”
He spoke the words slowly, no doubt wanting to avoid the need to repeat himself. He even enunciated those last two syllables as if he was a dialect coach for a major Hollywood actor. I can vividly picture his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, setting up the first syllable, then flicking downward, before peeking over his teeth—”Dil…” I can see his tongue shooting back up to finish off the articulation, his mouth rounding, his lips pushing forward like a silent whistle—”…-do…”
And then silence.
Silence before the chaos.
Mr. Winant may as well have been Richard Pryor or George Carlin or Eddie Murphy. The angels heard our laughter in heaven. The demons heard it in hell. We laughed with impunity. There were tears and convulsions. Some boys came dangerously close to hyperventilating. Mr. Winant smiled, tried and failed to stifle his own laughter—so tickled by our amusement.
Carl laughed, too, trying to play it off like he was in on the joke. But when the laughter receded, and Mr. Winant went into his measured yet honest explanation, Carl paid attention. Carl was the kind of student who treated school the way most people treat jury duty. Yet here he was, locked in and ready to learn, ready to be educated, ready to hear the truth—the cold, unfiltered, possibly life-altering truth—about dildos.
Something happened a couple weeks ago that triggered this memory, and I had planned to tell that story, but then I recalled Mr. Winant. His daughter reached out to me a while back after he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. She asked me (and others) to write up some memories of him, which she planned to collect and give him in book form. He passed away a couple years ago, but I thought I’d share what I wrote here for reasons that will become clear. Here goes…
In the sixth grade, we used to play football. At the time, my parents were divorcing. My dad wasn’t much of a dad, and my faith in men was dubious at best. So I was a surprised when Mr. Winant sacrificed his lunch time to join us. Some of the other guys—usually the knuckleheads who I’m sure have since developed a meth habit or ended up in a third world prison for human trafficking—would sometimes complain about it. I’m sure they didn’t like the idea of having the principal around when they could be practicing loogey-hocking or plotting ways to torture substitute teachers.
But I loved that Mr. Winant played ball with us. At a period in my life when I'd have given anything for a little attention from my own father, here was a man who took time out of what must have been a schedule teeming with crazy-making (educating the Great Unwashed of Lake Elsinore is no joke) to toss around a football with a bunch of kids. And don’t even get me started about the times that he would throw to me—actually choose to throw to me!—on fourth down, no less. For someone to show that much faith in me, at that time—well, it went a long way. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve misplaced some of these memories, but as I revisit them now, they’re just as warm, just as significant.
During that same school year, I got myself into trouble, which was unusual for me. I was caught uttering choice words in a choice way to a not-so-choice classmate (read: Carl). Waiting to go into the principal’s office, I was sure that I was done for. I imagined I would get twenty-five years of hard labor or maybe I’d have my tongue plucked out of my mouth. An eye for an eye or whatever. When I entered Mr. Winant’s office, he smiled at me. Not what I expected. Nor was I expecting the way he punished me. He said, “Sounds like you got a little hot, so we’ll give you some afternoon detention to cool you off.” It wasn’t just fair, it was gentle.
I had uttered those choice words because, frankly, the kid on the receiving end deserved them. He was a turd, and I thought it was sweet justice to tell him as much. But when I got caught, I was reminded of things I’d heard about the world not being fair and blah, blah, blah, victim, victim, victim.
But Mr. Winant’s discipline was not only fair and gentle, it was didactic. It left me wondering why he smiled when I came into his office. It was a kind smile, a loving smile.
At first I thought he was smiling conspiratorially: “Hey, Norm, you hurled obscenities at that kid so now I have to do what a principal does, but just so you know, this smile on my face means that I wholeheartedly agree with your handling of the situation. That kid is a turd.”
Of course, I eventually concluded differently. That smile was a knowing one, the kind of smile that results when a decent man knows a good kid made a dumb mistake, empathizes, and foresees the honest-to-goodness learning opportunity. I try to think of this when I have to punish my own kids, and I strive to manage those moments with just as much patience and empathy.
Those two are the memories that stand out, but there are others to be sure. I remember the man who was kind to my mom when most men weren’t. I remember the man who grew a beard so he could shave half of it for Halloween to amuse us kids. I remember the man who had the unfortunate job of proctoring the sex-ed discussion for a bunch of obnoxious sixth graders (and “dildo" is still a funny word). I remember flashes of shaken hands, sound bytes of encouragement, an infectiously optimistic attitude that never felt rote or forced.
More than anything, though, I remember a good man.
As a parent, a husband, a teacher, and a member of my community, I could have done a lot worse. I didn’t because I had some good people in my life. Mr. Winant is one of them. And, sure, there’s pleasure to be had in knowing and remembering stories like these, and, conversely, the possibility of forgetting them can be frustrating, perhaps even scary, but I hope there’s some solace in the fact that Mr. Winant doesn’t have to remember. I’m happy to ease as much of that burden as I can.
What I mean is this: His work has ingrained itself indelibly on my life, and the memories here that he might struggle to keep, well, I’ll honor them by doing the same for others that he did for me.
If you enjoyed this, consider reading some of my other stories:
A Portrait of My Progeny as a Young Man: a story of another young man in conflict with the world.
Profanity and Profundity: an ode to bad words.
The Finger: a story that’s equal parts trauma, adolescence, and hilarity.
Conflict Resolution: a how-to guide for dealing with bullies.
Beautifully touching, and also sweetly funny. Now you've left an indelible dildo-shaped (the *word*, people, what were you thinking?) mark on my brain.
Brings tears; my dad was a little scarier but had the same sensibility. I miss him so so much. Dad was a teacher--chemistry and physics--and one of the funniest humans I've ever known, He introduced me to Tom Lehrer, Played the Elements song to his classes. The world is a poorer place without my dad--and my mom, who made him better 🤗🥰🖖