So I tell myself, "boys will be boys" and do my best to be patient, but it's really, really nice in the classroom with 45 girls and only 13 boys--so quiet, respectful, studious, engaged, and manageable. Even when they're doping off, it's something fairly reserved and quiet--homework for other classes, some sort of art project, sleeping, doodling, or just staring outside. If one of the boys does get rowdy, he gets knocked into place right quick. And realizing it's as dangerous as a newly-transferred Catholic priest saying "I love my altar boys," I'll first say I mean nothing by it, but I love having girls in my classes. Especially ones with strong personalities.
In my 2 G4 classes, I have one with a small handful of kids whose grades have slipped below 90%, one with 20% failing completely, one with 6 boys and one with 10 girls (out of 40 students in each). It goes straight across, right? The ones failing outright are the real jackoffs in the boys' class and the ones who've slipped are the handful of boys in the girls' class.
Except it's exactly opposite: the boys' class can cogitate twice the information in any given period, and I can poke fun if someone misspells something or flips terms--"I am ten year old" or "I live with my Mother, Father, and Olivia" (Olivia helped us learn about family members). In the girls' class, it's still a matter of finding the one or two correct answers and praising the heck out of 'em.
There's an easy explanation, blatant at morning assembly. One of the homeroom teachers is the typical Thai sort of whispy and softspoken, beautiful woman.
The other is a little older, a little heavier. She has the breadth and assurance of a Persian cat, but with a muscular stoutness that gives her a stride like a bulldog--maybe a little bit pigeon toed, but you're not going to say anything for fear of getting completely destroyed by any retribution. But then, she's Thai, so she moves with the grace and ease of an open-water fish: not the flitting sort of jittery reef fish, but the fast and powerful grace of a bluefin, or a blue shark without the predatory nature.
I tiptoe around one because she's beautiful and that's what I do. I tiptoe around the other because I'm afraid that my existence will somehow insult her and she will squash me.
Guess which class has which homeroom teacher.
2)
A few nights ago, I was walking home later than usual and the free aerobics class was going on in the parking lot outside the stadium next to school. The group consisted of a couple dozen ladies of solid middle age, most of whom would be considered somewhat pudgy or plump in American pop culture. Not necessarily flabby or excessively jiggly--nobody's spandex was cutting off circulation, waistlines were still concave, but the curves were robust.
And it was beautiful.
3)
The concept of true beauty struck: after growing up in a culture where thinness and a low number on the scale are paramount, then spending a year with my ribs visible through a not-so-tight fitting shirt and my weight somewhere in the median range of the tubbier 4th grade class (and here I make the distinction between robust and tubby in kids who grow up eating and drinking the worst of the west with pastimes that include cartoons and video games), the best I can say is, FUCK SKINNY!
On the one hand, there's a grain of relief for me when a masseuse says, "your legs are so strong for being so skinny!" On the other, give me sixty pounds and I won't have to ration the number of stairs I climb for fear of tapping myself out before the end of the day.
Who do you trust your kid to: the person who collapses with a missed meal, or the person with enough energy to try to burn off extra meals?
Which is the other part of why I laugh when people ask why I haven't hooked up yet (see below).
So as I sit here with peanuts on my left and fried pork skin on my right. Give me 60 pounds--almost enough to bring me to the minimum military entrance weight--and I'll give you someone with energy to spare on things like happiness and enthusiasm. Give me 80 pounds and i'll show you someone who's either burly as hell or can burn energy on wanton activities like gallivanting through a classroom.
But get below robust and I'll show you someone whose body is stressed. Show me anatomically knobby knees and I'll show you someone whose greatest physical investment is in the body breaking itself down to keep going. Look into the eyes of someone with jutting ribs and you'll see what happens when pain and discomfort turn chronic.
So I'll reiterate: FUCK SKINNY. What's truly beautiful is depleted with the body. The only attractive thing is the model's jetsetting salary, but who wants to deal with the Ferrari crowd at the expense of the ability to live? No thanks, pass the bake-sale brownies, please. In fact, I'll take the plate.
(Add to the list of things I haven't seen since prime rib: brownies, girls whining about weight and waistline [maybe I don't understand, and thank god for that] decent cookies, home-baked anything.)
Henceforth, that's the goal: not climbing mountains or running marathons, but having the padding to be comfortable.
No comments:
Post a Comment