(3) A Lesson on the Sidewalk

New Orleans is subtropical in climate and it was the end of an especially balmy summer where wearing flip flops or open toed shoes was a must. I came by for my interview at the school on time and knocked on the large, metal, orange doors. No one answered. I knocked some more, and a gray haired lady finally opened up and irritatedly asked what I was doing there. She was followed by another woman. I later learned that they were custodians who were doing summer cleaning. I told them about the interview and they informed me that 1) the principal was not there, 2) that their shift was over and 3) they were about to lock up the building so I needed to go.

Without giving me a chance to process this information, they shoved me further outside as they themselves made their way out, locked the door and waited on the sidewalk for their ride. I regrouped and insisted that I had an appointment with the principal. They didn't care. Without a better option, I decided to wait for the principal for a couple more minutes. While we stood on the sidewalk, the ladies talked to each other and completely ignored me until one of them (the one who had originally answered the door) caught a glimpse of my blue toenail polish. For the first time, she showed some interest in me and asked,

"Blue polish, huh? You know who wear blue toenail polish, don't you?"

I didn't know and had to ask.

She laughed (the kind of laugh where you know it's at your expense) and said, "Hookers." Now the other lady laughed too and I was mortified.

Soon afterward, the principal drove up and apologized for being late. He walked me back into the building and I said good-bye to the ladies.

(6) Mrs. Prentiss' Penis Problem, Part 1

I'm going to post a story that I think best illustrates the kind of camaraderie that we had as a teaching staff. I wrote it at the time because it was one of those events that I really wanted to remember. The story is longish, so I'll post it in parts. Just an FYI, it was our custom to call each other by our last names without any title.

Feel free to read with a southern accent. If you know a N'Awlins accent, even better!

"Excuse me baby... I forgot to call about my pig," with that, she whipped out her cell phone right in the middle of my fourth period class where she was helping me distribute textbooks to my students.

When I first laid my eyes on Prentiss, she frightened me; she still does. This late middle-aged, dashingly dressed, high-heeled, Virginia Slims 100's smoking (out of a fifties cigarette holder), black woman with a jutted jaw and a martini voice, is my colleague. We teach fifth grades at a school in what locals call a blighted neighborhood within the New Orleans public school system. She has been here for twenty-seven years, knows the families in the neighborhood, taught the children's mamas, grand-mothers and aunties. I've been at the school for three weeks now. Prentiss and I are peers.

"...err, yeah...Hello. I dropped off my pig yesterday to be worked on."

"His name?"

Here's where I couldn't hear too well. She mumbled pig's name.

"His problem...?" He's been urinating blood... This afternoon? Okay...When you might think I can pick him up? ...Okay...."

Click.

"I'm sorry baby... I had to call. My pig hasn't been feelin' too good. ...he's a pot belly... 'took him to Baton Rouge yesterday to the hospital, but they haven't worked on him yet. 'hope he's gonna to make it."

'Um....now where was I?... Taylor, Dondrel...You're next."

Next morning, just to make conversation, I asked Prentiss for news about pig.

"They found out what's wrong with him," she says.

"Oh yeah, what's the matter?"

With impeccable frankness, she delivers the following line:

"Baby... his penis is bleeding because he masturbates too much."

I didn't know where to look or what to say.

Part 2 to follow.

(7) Mrs. Prentiss' Penis Problem, Part 2

The staff lunchroom conversation that afternoon was interesting. By some perverse destiny, Woods, a special education teacher, happened to be eating pig fried chips. The rest of us told her to have some respect and decency for the sick. Prentiss was eating at the other end of the table.

"What's the matter with ya'll?" Woods asks flustered. I wouldn't have traded places with her for anything.

"How can you sit there eating those things when pig's in the hospital?" Jones pipes.

"What?... Who?... What are you talking about?"

"Mrs. Prentiss' pig!" Jones answers annoyed and assuming that Woods knew already.

Woods yells across the table, "Prentiss! What's the matter with pig?"

"Baby, he's sick."

"What's the matter with him Prentiss?"

Prentiss doesn't yell back. Her voice carries very well, even when she is talking in a hush.

"He's been masturbating too much. His penis is bleeding."

"What? Masturbating! Pigs masturbating... how do pigs masturbate?... I mean, I didn't think they could."

"Woodson, you fool!" Boudreaux joins in, then explains basic sex to Woods.

"He rubs himself on furniture... a table...a chair."

"That's terrible!" Woods is genuinely upset.

"I feel sorry for him... you know... I never thought about that. How do pet pigs have sex? If you are a dog or cat or somethin', you can just run away and get some."

"So, what's going to happen to pig, Prentiss?" Woods yells across the table.

"Baby, I don't know if he's going to make it."

"Of course, he's going to make it! They'll fix his penis." Boudreaux interrupts Prentiss.

"Prentiss, what happens if they can't fix it?" Woods keep on the subject.

"I don't know, baby...."

Woods answers her own question innocently and then sighs, "If pig doesn't make it... pig is livestock."

All together: Shut up Woods!