I woke up as the plane touched down in Houston, piercing through the thick layer of fog blanketing the runway.This is really happening, I reminded myself, struggling to keep my eyes open.
For weeks before I left, people kept asking me if I was excited or nervous, but the truth of the matter is that I didn’t really think about it enough to be too much of either.Instead I tried to indulge in lots of American cooking, TV shows, hot showers, and – most importantly – lots of time with friends and family.As my final days at home flew by, however, I couldn’t fight the sneaky suspicion that I was about to embark on something pretty huge – or at least wildly different than what I’m used to.
While the plane took its sweet time taxiing to the gate, I thought of random moments that made me realize just how far away from home I was going.There was my buddy Brian’s defiant turnaround halfway down the parkway to make it up to my party for one last good time together.A couple other close friends hugged me and risked breaking every man law by looking me in the eye and saying they loved me.I thought of Julie’s teary eyed goodbye and why those tears are a sign of something special.
And as I got off the plane to make the next leg of my long journey south, I thought of my great grandmother’s parting words.“Well whatever it is you’re looking for down there, I hope you find it.”Over-tired, jet lagged, and probably still hungover I thought, I hope so too, Grams.
Feeling anxious on the day of a final exam is nothing to see a therapist about, but I thought things would change when I was the one sitting behind the teacher’s desk.Nevertheless, my nerves jittered as I watched my eleven students take their comprehensive one hundred question final.I hope I answered all of the questions on the Scantron sheet correctly, I worried to myself.
Only four weeks prior, these teenage students walked into my classroom for the first time with the expectation to be taught a year’s worth of high school geometry in only sixty hours. For the nine students expecting to place into Algebra 2, they knew they had to have at least an 89 test average.The other two simply wanted to preview the material before the upcoming school year.They knew that we’d be covering a new chapter every day or two.They knew this meant lots of homework for them.What they didn’t know, however, was that their teacher didn’t have one second of teaching experience, nor had he taken a math class since his senior year at the same high school they sat in.
But I knew. And there was not one moment during the course of the previous four weeks that I forgot that I knew. Every time my speech stumbled, every time I failed to maintain order in the class, and every time there was a question I couldn't answer, I was reminded that I wasn't a real teacher. Despite my inexperience and despite my years without math, somehow I survived.We covered all twelve chapters of the textbook in the short time we had, but for some reason I didn't feel relieved.
Trying to appear confident and busy behind my borrowed teacher’s desk, I began double checking the kids’ scores on my Excel spreadsheet.Seeing the scores of the smarter students I thought, I gave them way too much extra credit.Coming across the scores of the students who did not do as well I second-guessed myself, Should I have done more to reach out to them?
I looked at the clock.Damn, only 8:30, I complained to myself.Two and a half hours left and I had absolutely nothing to do but let my anxieties get the best of me.My mind wandered to the day I was offered the job.“You’ll be teaching Geometry.You can handle that, right?” Tom, the summer school director, told me.“Let me get you a textbook.”He came back and handed me the purple hard-covered student edition, a handshake, and nothing else.“So come in Monday by about 7:30 so you can get settled,” and that was all.
I remembered that first Monday and how much time I didn’t spend preparing over the weekend.I remembered my empty sunlit classroom with nothing on the blackboard except for the words “Enrichment Geometry” and “Mr. Barrett” written sloppily.I felt proud – proud for landing the job, proud for playing a part in the education of young people, and proud for taking on this tremendous personal challenge – but that pride quickly disappeared as students filtered into the room.It was time for me to teach.“This,” I paused to point to a dot on the board, “is a point.”I remembered my students’ blank faces and their unimpressed reaction to what I thought would be a mesmerizing revelation.
I reflected on Mrs. M, head of the school’s math department, later that day and our first conversation.As she strode toward me in the hall, there was panic written all over her face with a dash of contempt. She inquired about my math experience and I regretfully informed her it ended in a high school Calculus class.She asked about my teaching history, and had to tell her there was none.She kept asking questions, and, with each answer I gave, her eyes became more and more lost in panic.I reassured her that I would give it my best – and that my best was usually pretty damn good. While I lied to save face, internally my worries relentlessly pummeled my stomach.
Realizing I had become lost in reflection, I jumped back to the present.I peered at the clock.Only a quarter after nine, I silently whined.I did a slow lap around the room, hoping to answer some questions; anything to take me out of my head.
When Plan A failed, I started raiding the cabinets around the classroom until I found shelves filled with Health textbooks.Jackpot, or so I thought.After pages on the dangers of drinking, drugs and premarital sex failed to keep my attention, my mind snuck off to the previous weeks.
I remembered finishing my first week and thinking, This is what I want to do with my life.The sense of accomplishment I felt meeting my daily goals, the chance to be a positive role model to malleable teens, and the chance to continue my life education while helping kids start theirs all kept me waking up at 6:30 and going back for more.I compared teaching to my summer job at a law firm the previous year and recalled how that experience turned me away from a career in law.Those first few days gave me the exact opposite feeling.It felt right being in the classroom.
For however many moments there were that boosted my confidence, however, I seemed to find at least three times as many that made me feel like I should be banished from the classroom for life.
I blushed thinking back on the few times when there were problems I simply didn’t get and had to stall for time by asking one of the brighter kids in the class to explain it.I wondered how much my own teachers did the same when I was in the same seats my students now sat in.
I beat myself up on those days when great ideas for demonstrating the formula for volume or explaining tangent rations popped in my head twenty four hours too late.If you put more time into preparation you would’ve thought of this, I scolded myself.
I felt my stomach wrench with embarrassment looking back two days prior when a young Indian woman came in to observe my class.During our fifteen minute break, I found out that she had been subbing for five years, that she absolutely loved geometry, and that she was just beginning her teacher certification program so that she could fulfill her dream of being a geometry teacher.
“What track did you do?” she asked.
I paused, confused by her question, and responded, “What do you mean?”
“Which certification track did you pursue?” she clarified.
“Oh,” I stumbled, embarrassed by what was about to come out of my mouth.“I’m actually not certified.”
Her face dropped, and her eyes gave me a look that said, Then what the hell are you doing in front of a classroom?
“At a private school you don’t necessarily need to be certified.I just graduated from college and am only teaching this summer,” I quickly continued, feigning confidence.
She hesitated thoughtfully, seemingly satisfied with my answer.“Well, what did you study at university?”
Damn it!“I studied philosophy and political science.”
“You did not even study mathematics?” she exclaimed, looking at me like I just sacrificed her new kitten.
It came as no surprise later that morning when she tossed away her silent observer status and commandeered my classroom.As I struggled to explain a problem to a student on the board, she stormed from her seat to the front of the classroom.I guess I didn’t mind the extra help in answering students’ questions, but I’ve never felt like more of a schmuck.
Just a few moments before ten, I was brought back from my not-so-pleasant reverie when the first student to finish turned his test in.I hope I answered all of the questions on the Scantron sheet correctly, I thought again as I looked at his test.Seeing an opportunity to kill time and keep myself out of my head, I started double checking my work with my student’s.Before long, all of the tests were turned in and my summer teaching responsibilities were officially done.
After my students’ left, I had to sit down face-to-face with Mrs. M, the same woman who expressed her fears to me that the summer enrichment class needed “a real math teacher” only four weeks prior.After grading my students’ exams – and after correcting my own mistakes on the answer key – I printed out my grade sheet and headed to the teacher’s lounge for my final meeting.
“So, all done?” she asked in a tone as friendly as a Brooklyn accent can get.
My heart raced.I pulled in my seat carefully.
“Yes ma’am,” I responded trying to sound polite yet humorous.
“Good.And how’d they do?”
“Most of them did well,” I responded slowly, taking my time with my syllables, making sure not to betray my nerves.I slid the grades sheet and my mind went on overdrive again.
Did I give them too much extra credit?Oh no, she’s going to call me out on that.
I continued, “ Two St. Joe’s guys didn’t do so great and –“
“But that’s what we expected,” she interrupted, “So that’s ok.”
Did I fill in all the answers on the final correctly?What if I messed up my students’ grades?
“Right.And the two public school kids didn’t do so great, but their grades don’t ma-“
“Yeah, they don’t matter,” she interjected.
Should I have paid more attention to them?Did I cheat them out of their learning?
As I watched her examine the scores one more time, my stomach became a contortionist, twisting and folding in unfathomable shapes.
She stopped.She looked up at me.Her eyes – the same ones that were filled with panic only 27 days before – were now relaxed.In fact, her whole face was at ease and her lips unfolded into a satisfied smile.“I think this worked out well,” she said to me honestly as she looked me in the eyes.“I think this worked out very well,” she repeated, as if the words brought her the same relief they were bringing to me at this very moment.My stomach returned to its normal posture, my heart slowed, and that same flow of pride I felt at the end of my first week tingled through my veins again.
We chatted for a couple more minutes about the summer.Without the burden of my anxiety spinning my mind, I could speak openly about my experiences – good and bad – teaching.And to my surprise, Mrs. M expressed similar moments of pride and defeat, of accomplishment and frustration.
“So Tom, how about you come back and teach this course again next summer?” I couldn’t believe my ears.I passed, I cheered inside my head.“I’d love to,” I blurted out, overwhelmed with excitement.
In all my life I never thought I’d have to repeat a class, and I definitely never thought that I’d look forward to doing it.
For the first twenty years of my life, my hair and scalp lived side-by-side in mutually benefic ial harmony.My thick hair provided shade and protection and invited many hypnotic head scratches.My scalp, in return, provided prime real estate atop my dome for my hair to dwell as well as roots that would hold in hurricane-like winds.Conditions appeared ideal for both sides and peace seemed like it would be never-ending.
Then, without warning, the peace dissolved.Without warning, anti-filament fundamentalist insurgents led an uprising of unprecedented proportions.In the shower, scores of innocent victims washed away down the drain to be forgotten forever every single day.Seeing that the fundamentalists were gaining support, my forehead decided to join the slaughter and began a slow but methodically thorough assault on the hair’s front border.With an insurgent war quickly growing from within and now a full-on forehead attack encroaching steadily, thousands fled.These refugees had to abandon their first class abodes for less prestigious landscapes (namely my chest, stomach, back, and – for a very unlucky few – even further down that side).Now, my scalp and forehead have turned from outright violence to a more subtle means of destruction: chemical warfare.By utilizing a potent hormone called dihydrotestosterone (DHT), they have effectively prevented the hair population from reproducing, ensuring a slow and systematic extinction for any of those choosing to remain on top of my head.
Ok, so you’re probably thinking, Eh, I think this guy’s overdramatizing starting to lose his hair.And you know what?You’re probably right.But regardless of how excessively insecure and paranoid I may have been about the early stages of hair loss, it happened nonetheless.
I swear it started in Tijuana, during a service trip in the Fall of 2007.Washing the cement off myself in the dribbling cold water, I extracted enough hair to roll up in a ball and choke a cat.Panicking, I told my co-leader, “I think I’m balding.”She gave my head a superficial inspection and said, “Tom, you’re crazy.”I tried taking her word for it, but by the end of the week I swear I could’ve made a toupee with all the hair I lost.No one seemed to notice.
For a while, it seemed like I was maintaining my lush Jew-fro despite the near-handfuls of dead follicles found in my hands every time I showered.Concerned but wanting to appear cool about the whole thing, I would joke to friends about my balding.“Tom, you’re crazy.You’re not balding,” they’d always respond.
After the most stressful semester of my life ended and I prepared for my semester in Germany, I let myself relax.I told myself, So what?You lost a little hair.It’s probably just stress-induced.It’ll grow back if you calm down.Yeah… just calm down.Surprisingly, my friends back home didn’t make any jokes about it.While at ‘Nova, I figured people were just being polite and trying to ease my balding fears with white lies.Back home, my friends aren’t nearly so considerate.If I were actually losing my hair, I’d hear about it within minutes of our first diner trip.I expected the worst.I could only imagine the jokes that would come.Hey Mr. Clean, maybe we can use your head next time we go bowling.But there were no jokes, nor were they any comments, observations, or even inquisitive stares at my scalp.I dodged the bullet, for now.
By the time I got to Germany, I had developed this nasty habit of appraising the hair situation on all of my male peers.I would look at someone and think, Damn.I wish my hair was still that thick, or, Hey, he’s balding and he’s still a decent looking guy, or, Ew!His hairs so greasy and scraggly.Is that going to be me?Much to my personal disappointment, I found myself playing the appraiser once again.Once again, I became self-conscious about the half-centimeter of scalp that might be poking through my once overgrown locks.
There were only three instances all semester where someone directly pointed out my balding, but my insecurity was rampant enough to turn these off-hand comments into a death sentence for my potential to be a semi-attractive young man.The first came in a bar.While I was sitting at a table in O’Kelly’s Irish pub, my friend – whom I had a slight thing for – scratched the back of my head and exclaimed in fear, “Oh my God Tom!You’re going to be bald in two weeks!”Though she was drunk, the words echoed in my lesser self’s head.The second came two months later after Fucking Tony – we called him “Fucking Tony” because almost everything this kid did made you want to hold your face, shake your head, and mumble “Fucking Tony” – had a little too much to drink.On our way to a bar, he snuck up behind me and screamed, “Hey Tom, what’s this?” as he swirled his finger around the tiny but expanding scalp yarmulke.Although my other friends rebuked him for his clear violation of Man Code, no amount of retributive man justice ease my once-again insecure mind.Finally, about a month later, my roommate called me via Skype to talk for the first time in months.The first words out of his mouth: “Thomas!You’re balding!”
Finally, I couldn’t take worrying about my hair anymore.If I couldn’t handle living with it, I was going to learn how to live without it.With only three weeks left in Europe and only a couple more days in my apartment I asked my roommate Freddy to buzz my hair.Reluctantly he agreed, and before I knew it I was sitting shirtless on a chair in the middle of our living room with my heavily bearded roommate sheering off the source of my worries.My other roommate Baddy (pronounced ‘Buddy’) nervously/curiously looked on.With each tuft of hair that floated to the floor, Baddy’s face grew more and more concerned until he finally had to say it: “Tom… ehh… your hair’s not that dense.”“Thanks for the encouragement, Baddy,” I spit back defensively.
I ran to the bathroom to shower and inspect the damage.As expected, my hair was thinning a decent amount, but miraculously – to be honest – I thought I looked pretty damn good with my new do.In the shower, I washed away the stubbly pieces of hair off my shoulders and watched them and my anxieties go down the drain.When I walked out of this shower, I thought, I’d act with a newfound sense of confidence and self-awareness.I’d tell the world, Yeah, I’m balding.But fuck it.I’ll be damned if I let a few less dead follicles on my head change who I am or who I want to be.After drying off and getting dressed, even Baddy had to admit, “You know, Tom, it’s not that bad.”
My reinvented confidence lasted for a few weeks, but coming home proved to be harder than I’d anticipated.Before long, I found myself playing the hair appraiser once again.Slowly and subtly, I began losing my new attitude and my new peace of mind along with it.I began searching for long-shot, farfetched explanations as to how a young man such as myself could inexplicably lose so much hair so quickly.Didn’t that doctor in Germany say my slow reflexes could be a sign of a thyroid problem?Couldn’t a thyroid problem cause me to bald prematurely?And what about my chest hair?I lose an awful lot of that, too.That can’t be healthy.Yeah, it must be my thyroid.
I decided to see a doctor to get a blood test – despite the fact that I had secretly seen a dermatologist in December and he said it was simple male pattern baldness.I scheduled an appointment, and before I knew it I was sitting on the exam table waiting for the doctor to come in and stick me.He walked in and he was as bald as bald can get.I was not sure whether this should be comforting or if I was somehow looking into my own personal future, so I ignored both thoughts.He listened patiently and open-mindedly as I explained my delusional concerns and he suggested the blood test.Of course, I had to come back for the results.
A week later, I found myself sitting on the same sterile paper waiting nervously.Deep down, I knew what the lab results would say, but my insecure, superficial side still clung to the Hail Mary hopes that I had some mild curable disease that simply caused hair loss and minor fatigue the day following every night I stayed up too late.The doctor came in and explained to me as simply as he could that I had standard MPH.My testosterone levels were high, my cholesterol was low (and I had a high percentage of the good kind), and there were no signs of any thyroidal hormones being out of whack.My shallow hopes were crushed and, as the doctor continued to speak, I sat transfixed by the reality that I could no longer deny.
When my mind could focus on his words, he was explaining how well Rogaine and Propetia worked for maintaining hair and even regrowing it in 80% of cases.He said for him it would be too late, but for someone like me it would most likely be very effective.The only catch: I’d only keep my hair as long as I kept using the foam and taking the pill (which, by the way, decreases sexual ability).But once I stopped using either, I’d not only start losing my hair again, but – like Cinderella turning back to her raggedy self after midnight – I’d also lose all the hair I’d magically maintained over the course of my treatment.
I did not like this.While I did not want to lose my hair, what I really was looking for was some peace of mind.I imagined myself rubbing in the Rogaine every day, constantly inspecting my scalp to see if it was working and checking my hands in the shower to make sure I wasn’t losing an abnormal amount of hair.If anything, I pictured myself being more paranoid and self conscious using these products.The last thing I wanted was to be insecure and live in the fear of what I’d look like if I didn’t take my Propetia every day.
I told him my fears, but he insisted, “Son, you should keep your hair.”I let him write me a prescription, but I had absolutely no intention of using it.Walking out of his office, I felt a similar sense of determination as I did after my sheering in Germany.If I was going to lose my hair so be it.I would never judge someone else by the thickness of the hair on their head and I could not believe that I had let something so shallow pervert my mind for so long.After all, I was healthy in every other imaginable way, and for that I should always be eternally grateful.I realized the process of acceptance would still be gradual and I’d still have freakout moments, but I decided then to approach these moments with patience and as exceptions to what would be the rule of my normal way of looking at myself.I decided to appreciate the hair that I had while I still had it, and let it go as it went, one falling strand at a time.
“Mr. Barrett,” Dan – one of my summer school students – innocently began, “what’s your first name?” After I said, “Tom,” he looked contemplative as he replied, “Tom. That’s a cool name. I wish I had a cool name. Like a traditional Asian name.” Laughing to myself about the idea of a traditional “Asian” name, I wanted to know more. “Ok. So what name would you rather have?” “Hmm…” he paused for a moment. “Something like Ping Pong Table! Or just Ping Pong. Or just Ping… and then Chris can be Pong!” The rest of the class that stuck around during the break burst into laughter and Dan’s face lit up.
Earlier that morning before class started, a student not in my class came in to chat with me. I told him that he looked familiar and he responded, “Well, we all look the same.” Hoping that he meant students, I unassumingly asked, “Who does?” He answered with a wide grin, “Black people!” Having absolutely no idea what the appropriate professional response should be to such a situation, I chose instead to laugh at his comment and to dismiss it with a playful “Shut up.” He laughed too and then headed to his classroom.
Growing up white and without a distinct cultural background – I’m a veritable mutt of a man with Russian, Irish, Italian, and Mexican grandparents – I never felt a particular attachment to one nationality, nor did I ever feel ostracized by my cultural upbringing (I don’t count the “Mexi-Jew” comments). In fact, I’ve always been jealous of my purebred friends. Having relatives to visit around the world, knowing a second language from childhood, or even having a parade to go to: I always thought it would be cooler to be an ingredient in the big melting pot of America instead of a dish ready to be served. Call me ignorant, but I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard these two teenage boys belittling their ethnicities and stereotyping themselves so blatantly.
Curious about his background, I waited for the giggling to calm down before asking, “Dan, where is your family from?” “America,” he responded flatly. “Right. I know that, but I mean where did your grandparents or great grandparents come from?” “Oh,” he seemed a bit more puzzled this time. “I think China. But I don’t know. My parents don’t really talk about it.” And with that comment the topic dropped for the day, but Dan’s self-deprecating remarks were only just beginning.
The next morning, I heard my students parading down the hallway as they did the morning before. When they entered, I saw Dan conducting an orchestra of teens mimicking, “Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice. You want poke fry rice? It cost fo fohty-nine niney nine.” Their movements were like a malfunctioning animatronic hibachi chef, repeatedly offering the same platter. Having absolutely no idea how to quell such racial mockery and having even less of an idea if it was in my place to do so, I feigned fumbling through my textbook as if I was just preparing for class. Realizing the jokes were not going to stop, I started class several minutes early. Thankfully, the clock was fast in my room.
The 9:30 break hit, and after turning my back for one minute to help a student with a problem, I turned back around to find my blackboard covered in Dan’s new song lyrics. The song went something like this:
And there were at least four more verses, a few more choruses, and even a bridge. You can guess the remaining lyrics.
And then, a light bulb moment. “Ok, Dan. How about for every time you say the word ‘sushi’ I take off two points on your test? And one point for every time I hear the word ‘rice.’” The guys knew I was kidding but they played along. Dan feigned panic and shouted, “No!” before running back to his seat. When another student mimicked, “Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice,” I continued my playful reprimand. “And if anyone else says ‘sushi’ or ‘rice,’ Dan loses points.” “What!” Dan exclaimed, popping out of his seat and then just as quickly slid back down into it. The class chuckled and I returned to the lesson, surprisingly undisturbed.
For the next week and a half, my fake test-point-threat kept the “Sushi, sushi. Rice, rice” outbreak miraculously low, but the racial jokes were far from finished and were simply festering under the scope of my radar. Then one day, while the students were doing problems in, I became disillusioned of my apparent success. “Mr. Barrett,” one of my students called out to me, “come check out Dan’s new song lyrics.” Oh no, I thought to myself. Dan screamed, “What!” and hid his notebook and his typical jittery fashion. Do I really want to see these? I decided that I did and made Dan hand them over. If I were still a fourteen year old, I would have pissed myself laughing at these lyrics, but as someone who was now called ‘mister’ they seemed more scary than funny. Here’s how Dan’s second single went:
My lips taste like China I have chinky eyes For 4.49.99 I’ll give you great pork fried rice
The song kept on going for another twelve lines or so, but I couldn’t bring myself to read any more. I had to say something this time, but what?
“Dan,” I started, hoping the right words to enlighten this young man would somehow follow, “you shouldn’t belittle yourself like this.” He looked back at me with a nervous, but mostly confused glance. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” I paused, waiting for the words, but the right ones didn’t seem to be coming. “I mean this is your culture. That’s your family…” still waiting. “But my family doesn’t really talk about it. They say we’re American. I feel more white than Asian.” I looked away for a second and when I looked back Dan stared at me with his hands smushing his eyes together, making them wider. “Dan!” His hands shot away from his face. “Being American doesn’t mean being white.” The words were starting to flow a bit more now. “Don’t make fun of yourself by using stereotypes that some dumb white people made up about Asians.” And then I was out of ammo. Dan looked away with a possible pensive but more probably confused glance and simply said, “Ok, Mr. Barrett.”
The confrontation had finally happened, but nothing felt resolved like I had hoped it would. There was no cheesy music playing in the background signaling that some profound realization had occurred in Dan’s mind. There was no High School Musical dance scene with a song about embracing diversity. Instead, there was just another student raising his hand across the room asking how to do number 22.
