The birds, the bees...and blood?

Spring is here. I work in a high school, and at the first scent we teacherfolk catch of that Spring air wafting into the building, many of us heave a collective sigh and brace ourselves with an “Uh oh, here we go again”. Inevitably, alongside the blossoming of flowers and tweeting of birdies, comes the hypnotic, hormonal haze of teenage love. The girls start wearing fewer clothes and become particularly conscious of how they flick their hair and strut their stuff, the boys are permanently wide-eyed, restless, and eager, and the making and breaking of couples is happening left, right, and center. Interestingly, Spring also often tends to be the time in the high school Science curriculum when students get to learn all about the birds and the bees. A colleague in his last year of teaching was telling me last week that he has just started the good ole springtime unit on the reproductive system with a group of Year 7s. As he told me of his creative ways of helping squirmy little 12 year olds understand all the essentials, I couldn’t help but remember the many times I have had to teach Sex Ed, always an amusing and delicate undertaking. There was the year I had a student confused about the proper way to put on a condom (he’d unrolled it and tried to pull it on like a sock, and that- surprise, surprise- didn’t work so well). There was the year I had to remind my class of the boundaries between teachers and students when nearly half of the questions in the infamous, anonymous question box were addressed to me specifically, interesting though not quite appropriate questions like “When did you lose your virginity?”, “Have you ever had sex?”, and “Have you ever experimented with lesbianism?” And then there was the year I had to assure a panic-ridden girl who had missed her period that it was highly unlikely she was pregnant, given that she had never had sex nor had even ever been in the vicinity of a naked penis. As teachers, we collect stories, and I have to say, I think my story of the first time I had to talk with kids about the birds and the bees is probably one of the best in my collection.

Before I went back to school to study Education, I did a short stint as a teaching assistant at a local high school, where much of my job involved integrating kids with varying levels of developmental delay and special needs into mainstream classes. I got to work with a wonderful variety of cool and quirky kids, but I spent most of my time working with a hilarious and rambunctious trio of seventeen-year old boys. Let’s, for the sake of this story, call them Rob, Ryan, and Jesse.

Rob was the self-appointed leader of the pack. He had one of the healthiest egos I have ever encountered in a teenage boy, and he strutted down the hallway with the swagger of Danny Zuko from Grease, high-fiving the guys as he passed, and blazing his gun fingers at all the ladies, sometimes with a nod or a wink for extra effect. He knew everyone's name and from the Heys and nods returned as he confidently walked with head high and smile wide, it soon became obvious that he must, indeed, have been one of the most popular kids in school. His confidence was so healthy, in fact, that on the last day of school, he presented me with a neatly typed letter that can only be described as a break-up note. Made up of lines he must have borrowed from MTV afterschool specials, he told me that we’d had a good run together but that he had his life and I had mine and it was time for us to move on and go our separate ways. Rob enjoyed attention, he loved being the best, the fastest, the strongest, and he had a flair for the dramatic. When upset, he bit his lip or crossed his arms or made a fist and slowly turned away, in much the same exaggerated style as the dames of 1940s cinema. Once, after the boys received their results back from a little Science quiz, Rob became silent and visibly upset. After a good ten minutes of refusing to say what was bothering him, he took a deep breath, blinked his eyes, paced and shook his head, and then only after much more lip-biting, sighing, and arm-crossing in the corner, did he finally confess that he was upset because Ryan had scored higher than he had. With hands thrown up in the air, Rob cried, “But why? I just don’t understand. How could this happen? I always get the highest mark. Everybody knows I am the smartest in the group.” 

Rob’s best friend and faithful follower was Ryan, a tall and spaghetti-thin boy, with hair that was always a little too long, and pants that were always a little too short. He was a huge Michael Jackson fan, so much so that he dressed up as the king of pop every Halloween. He could frequently be heard singing one of MJ’s hits and he could do the kick/spin/crotch grab/Owww with practiced perfection. His gait was similar to how I imagine a tipsy, marching llama might walk- back straight, with one long leg thrust out far in front of the other, each step landing first wobbily, then solidly, on the sole of his velcroed sneakers. He often snickered to himself, sometimes because of a shared joke, but also often because of a private one, and he sometimes needed a gentle reminder that no matter how nice and warm it was down there, one really shouldn't be putting one's hands in one pants. He came from a particularly large and loving family, and the kindness of his parents could be seen in Ryan, who was himself a kind, calm, easygoing soul. His response to the above incident of the Science quiz was evidence of his nature- Ryan quickly hid his own excitement and instead put his arm around Rob's shoulder and gave him a bit of a talk-down, assuring him that he shouldn't worry or be upset because he'd do better next time.

Then there was Jesse, who was desperate to not ever miss a thing but was always just a little bit behind the pack, rushing to catch up because he'd been distracted or forgotten something or because he needed to know what was going on here, there, everywhere. He was almost always in a good mood, always eager to share a story- enthusiastically, loudly and so close to my face that I could smell what he’d had for breakfast. He had a very very long list of special needs and medical conditions, one of which was near-blindness. I'd heard that when he was younger, he used to have to wear a hockey helmet because he kept bumping into things, not only because he had trouble seeing but also because he was an excited, distractable type whose attention quickly strayed from the path in front of him to the gazillion other stimuli swirling around him. The most frequent thing I said to Jesse was “Personal space,” a friendly but firm reminder repeated several times throughout the day. He would respond each time by taking two giant steps back and then, of course, as he continued telling his latest story, as his excitement built, he would inch closer and closer and closer until he was right up in my face again, and- again- I would offer up yet another reminder. “Personal space, Jesse. Personal space!”

The four of us worked together in a variety of classes, and I very quickly grew to care about this awesome group of boys and looked forward to our daily adventures. The boys enjoyed school quite a bit but they really really enjoyed Science, especially, of course, when they got to be involved in cutting things up or blowing things up. They also enjoyed, however, the simple practice of taking notes and labeling diagrams, and all three were quite proud of themselves once they were able- after much practice- to locate essential organs on the body, like the heart, the brain and the lungs. They’d learned about the nervous system and the digestive system and the circulatory system, and at long last, with the arrival of Spring, it was time for the reproductive system.

I took the boys aside and tried to explain what was coming.

“Boys, listen. Very soon in Science class, we are going to start talking about the reproductive system. Do you know what I mean when I say ‘reproductive system’?”

“I do,” piped up Rob.

“Oh really? That’s great. Can you tell the boys a bit about it?”

“Well, I know what it is, but….but…it’s kinda hard to explain.”

“Yes, you’re right. It is kinda hard to explain, isn't it? Well then, why don’t I explain it? Basically, what we’re going to talk about is the ways that boys and girls are different from each other, and also the changes that happen in your body as you grow from being a boy to a man, and we’re also going to talk about how babies are made.”

I pause and look at each of them for a reaction. All three seem to be doing their very best to avoid eye contact with me. Ryan, of course, is snickering away, his natural reaction to an unfamiliar situation.

I continue. “So the question is: do we want to learn about all of this stuff together with the rest of the class or do we want to learn about it alone in our own small group? What do you think?”

Silence. They look at each other, then at me, then at each other. They do almost everything together and seemed to be waiting for one of their crew to speak up first and take the lead.

“How about we try and see how it goes with the rest of the class, and if you’re feeling uncomfortable at any time, we can always change it up and talk about this stuff on our own. How does that sound? Do you think we can all agree to that?”

Again, they’re looking at each other, then at me, then each other, and then slowly but surely, they each nod in agreement.

Phew.

So, the first class comes and goes. There’s talk of progesterone, estrogen, testosterone, but no anatomical pictures have been put on display, and the p-word and v-word have not yet been uttered. All is good, the boys are totally fine, and we finish that first class without any issues whatsoever.

Again, phew.

Well, the next day I arrive at work and walk into the common room our program shares, only to find Jesse rocking back and forth on the couch, weeping so hard that snot and drool and tears are streaming down his face and soaking his shirt. He is inconsolable.

“What is going on?” I ask.

A colleague shakes her head in confusion. “I don’t know," she says. "We’ve tried to get him to talk, but he won’t. He has only said that it has something to do with what you guys are talking about in Science class.”

“What???” I am completely confused.

I mean, we’ve barely started and there’s been absolutely no talk yet of penises or vaginas or any of that other stuff that tends to make kids uncomfortable.

I sit down beside Jesse with a big box of tissues, and try to first clean him up a little and then to figure out what on earth is going on.

“Jesse, sweetie,” I start ever so gingerly, “You’re so upset. What’s going on?”

My question is met with another bout of wailing.

“I am told it has something to do with Science class. Did something in yesterday’s class upset you?”

Another full-throttle wail.

“Did it remind you of something?”

Now, he nods his head vigorously and starts almost hyperventilating, and then another round of crying begins.

Oh no. My first thought frightened me. I couldn’t help but think of the unfortunate truth that these kids we work with are far more vulnerable to sexual abuse. I was scared to death that Jesse’s reaction was stirred up by a dreadful secret, rooted in some kind of horrible, abusive experience in his past. He was so so so upset.

I try to get more details by asking some simple yes/no questions.

“Does it remind you of something that happened to you?”

He shakes his head “No” and I heave a great big sigh of relief that no matter what it is, it can’t be as bad as my initial fear.

“Does it remind you of something that happened to someone you know?”

Through stuttering breaths comes his “Y-y-y-y-es-s-s-s.”

“Okay, so it reminds you of something that happened to someone you know?”

He closes his eyes and nods his head.

“Um, okay. Do you want to tell me about it? Maybe I can help.”

“We-see-um-no-n-n-n-n-no” He can’t get his words out. He can’t catch his breath. I’ve never seen him so upset.

“Why don’t you take some time to catch your breath and settle down a bit, and when you feel ready, then we can talk about it, okay?”

Again, he nods his head, and whimpers and hiccups and sobs some more.

As the day passes, I keep my eye on Jesse, and watch to see if he has calmed down. He is quiet and withdrawn for most of the morning, and then by lunch, he seems to have returned to his usual, jovial self. Finally, mid-afternoon, he comes to me and says, “I think I’m ready to talk.”

Excellent. I take him aside and start with the same question we ended with earlier this morning.

“Jesse, you said this morning that what we’re talking about in Science reminds you of something that has happened to someone you know. Right?”

He puts on his serious face, sighs deeply, and nods his head.

“Is that person a friend of yours?”

“No.”

“Is it someone in your family?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister?”

“No.”

“A cousin?”

“No.”

“Hmm, well then, who?”

 The stuttering breath and tears start again. Through sobs and whimpers, he cries,“My gr-gr-grandpa.”

“Your grandpa?” I can’t help but sound confused.

“Yes,” he shrieks.

“Well, what happened exactly to your grandpa?”

In a voice so loud, it can be heard by everyone in the room, he cries out, “It reminds me of when my grandpa had to go to the hospital because he had a low white blood cell count.” And then he returns again to the hysterical, inconsolable, full body weeping.

“It reminds you of your grandpa and his low white blood cell count? Is that what you said?”

“Y-y-y-yesss.”

Oh my. I sit there for a moment, trying desperately to make the link between progesterone & estrogen and Jesse’s grandpa’s white blood cell count. My forehead wrinkles in a little confusion and I have to bite my lips together to stop them from forming into a bit of a confused, concerned, but inevitably relieved smile. The poor kid has been distraught the whole day, and has spent so much energy on all this sadness and stress. A beloved grandpa in the hospital is enough to make anyone upset- that's for sure; but he maybe needs a little clarification, all the same.

“But Jesse," I exclaim, "that has absolutely nothing to do with what we’re talking about!”

Jesse stops, as if a switch has been turned from on to off. He stops shaking, stops sobbing, then sniffs a little, and looks up.

“It doesn’t?” He is surprised, terribly confused, but also, it seems, relieved.

“No, nothing at all.”

“Really?”

“Really.”
"Really?"
"Really."

“Well,” he pauses for a minute and then turns to me and whispers, “but…but…I…well…I don’t want to talk about all that stuff with the rest of the class. I just don’t want to.”
“That’s okay," I whisper back. "Then we’ll just do our own mini-class together. Does that sound like a plan?”

He nods in agreement, and just then, Rob and Ryan, who have been hovering around throughout the entire conversation, join us.

Ryan snickers, of course, and says, “Me neither. I don’t really want to talk about it with the whole class.”

And then Rob pokes his head in and offers up his two cents. “You know when you asked us a few days ago if we were okay with staying with the class for all this reprowhatever stuff? Well, when I said ‘yes’, I had my fingers crossed. On both my hands.”

Fingers crossed, huh? On both hands? Well then, I guess that settles that now, doesn’t it?!