“I’m telling you, Nina, my family has stories for days that have been passed down in vivid detail about my great-grandfather and my great-uncle Otis. As a social studies teacher, my goal is to wear a Halloween costume every year that honors an era in US history. This year I’m honoring my great-grandfather and his struggle to get out of the South and become a proud Californian. He loved it here more than anything.”
“Did it cross your mind that the tweens you teach, whose most pressing thoughts are what’s being served for lunch today, might assume you are posing as a resident of Skid Row? That while your costume choice is obvious to you, it may not be to the rest of RoyalHawkins? That, in fact, it had me moments away from alerting the police?” I ask, working to control my voice from betraying the anger brewing that Jared did not consider any of these ramifications on the school when he came dressed as a retro homeless person. Sorry, hobo.
“Pot calling the kettle black, don’t you think?” Jared straightens up and directs his accusation right at me with no concern he’s speaking to his boss.
“Excuse me?” I can’t imagine what he has to say after that accusatory statement that’s going to improve this interaction, but I’m curious as hell to hear.
“Parading around as Cleopatra, a narcissistic ruler, owner of domestic slaves and devourer of kingdoms. I’m sure you had fun putting together your look, but what message might your costume send to the community?” Jared lays out his argument like he already had it ready. As a science teacher, I really hate debating with history buffs.
“I’m just saying, Nina, before you throw shade on someone else’s costume without knowing the context, just like I tell my students, watch your own assumptions.” I feel like I’ve just sat in on an Ivy League philosophy class, and there’s a small part of me that wonders if I deserve being schooled right now. The other part of me is amazed this young man is handing out lessons to me, while I’m dressed as one of the most powerful women in history, and old enough to be his mama. “People are so quick to jump on one another and assume the worst. What happened to believing in best intentions until proven otherwise? Don’t you think if you had me jump through your rigorous hiring hoops, you should trust that I can make good decisions around kids? Wouldn’t have expected you, of all people, to find me guilty before being proven innocent.”
That last sentence stings, hard, because as a Black person, I know he’s not wrong.
I allow a moment of silence to hang in the air and consider what tactical position to adopt next: boss, mentor, mother, or colleague. I clasp my hands in front of my gown to slow my blood pressure and remind myself that I’m indeed the one in charge of this interaction. This young man can hardly be considered a fully formed adult. Cusping maybe, but no adult.
“As a US history teacher, I give you props for aligning your Halloween costume to your curriculum. And it’s always nice when I get the opportunity to learn about the backgrounds and family histories of the faculty and staff at school.” I pause to take in another steady breath and allow the clench in Jared’s jaw to ease up when he realizes my attack is on retreat. “But I also need you to see this from my perspective. Who knows, you may be a head of school one day.” I hope my appeal to Jared’s possible professional aspirations will end this conversation on a neutral note. “At RoyalHawkins, we are in the customer service business. And with that perspective, we’re always on high alert for what may offend, upset, or cause distress in our clients. The ones who are five, fifteen, and the ones who are fifty-five.”
“So basically, I work for the Nordstrom of education. That’s what you’re saying,” Jared says, giving a muffled chuckle.
“You got it, Jared. You can even return that costume of yours to me, and I will find it a more appropriate home. All returns accepted in my office.”
“Lucky for you I have an extra college T-shirt and my basketball shorts in my desk drawer. I can go change into them if you prefer,” Jared offers. Harvard types are never more than an arm’s distance away from their school swag.
“That sounds great, Jared, thank you,” I say with as much warmth and grace as I can muster for my Gen Z ding-a-ling of a teacher. I can’t wait to tell Leo about this conversation. Making fun of Gen Zers is one of our favorite topics.
“Happy Halloween, Nina. You make a perfect Cleopatra,” Jared says, and gives me a salute before strutting down the hall and leaving me to wonder, just like with Courtney, Was that a shady compliment? I do hope that when I sit in on one of Jared’s classes for his first formal evaluation, his teaching is as smooth as his mouth. I fear for his tenure at RoyalHawkins if it is not.
ELEVEN
Throughout my career, I have found that no one appreciates veterans more than educators. And not just because teachers nationwide would be white knuckling it from Labor Day clear through to Thanksgiving without a day off, but that definitely helps. I personally give veterans a big shout-out in my weekly Royal-Hawkins message from the head of school when the November 11 remembrance rolls around.
“I can’t believe my baby is on the seventh grade Bar and Bat Mitzvah circuit this year.” Marisol dives right into conversation, skipping the normal salutations between two friends who haven’t seen each other in a handful of days. My bestie came ready to distract me since I sent her a text right before meeting at the Mar Vista Clean Slate that requested no talk of you-know-what.
“These late-night party pickups are killing me. The amount of time and money I’m spending to get the pit stains out of Diego’s shirts and blazer is ridonkulous.” I know this seventh grade parental complaint well. “I told him to quit dancing with all those blossoming girls or he’s gonna pass out from overheating. You’d think his Mexican heritage would help him out in high-heat situations, but whenever I pick that kid up, he’s dripping like a Popsicle in the desert. And then he wonders why the girls don’t like him. No mystery there, buddy.”
“Jaime and I were invited to a Bar Mitzvah a few weeks back by a mom who swears by my sugaring technique. I wore the vintage Chanel pantsuit I found at a Bel Air estate sale, and for sure one woman at the Bar Mitzvah was eyeing me like it used to belong to her mother-in-law. Anyway, Diego said best in show so far for the middle school religious party train. The bash was in the ballroom at the Chateau Marmont. Four open bars AND you should have seen the swag bag at this thing. Aviator Nation sweatshirts for all. So wannabe-throwback SoCal for a Jewish transplant family from Baltimore, but hey, I’m not turning down a free two-hundred-dollar sweatshirt. If I don’t end up wearing it, I’ll hawk it on eBay.”
“Why didn’t you snag me one if they were handing them out like free pound cake bites at Costco? You know I love a good gift bag.”
“Wouldn’t you be burned at the stake if the head of Royal-Hawkins walked around in pricy Bar Mitzvah giveaways? Isn’t that the private school equivalent of an ethical violation?”
“Yeah, but I need some, shall we say, less body contouring clothing.” Drew, our favorite Clean Slate bartender, has brought Marisol and me our sodas and cranberry juice, but not without shooting us a look that asks, Who are you two and what have you done with the REAL Marisol and Nina? Drew was on vacation when Marisol vowed to be a sober sister with me until I figured out the solution to my current state. I watch her stir her drink with a frown like she’s preparing to down a gallon of saline water before a colonoscopy.