From the whiteboard, I notice one of my students cringe and fold forward on her desk. The boy behind her reaches into her hair to retrieve the eraser he’s playfully flicked there. His hand explores her shoulder before he finds and yanks back the purple nub. He recaps his pencil and scribbles on. She stays crumpled up. They are both 12. His action is neither aggressive nor sexual, just childish, stupid.
I stiffen. I pause the semicolon lecture and start a conversation on consent.
My reaction (in volume and message) is amplified, partly because I’m shocked. The offender is the astute Troy, a compact and industrious writer who has amassed encyclopedic knowledge on orcas, catapult physics, horny Greek gods, stone buttresses, and more. It is through his weekly journals that I’m becoming re-acquainted with Theseus and learning about zoomorphic architecture in Sydney. He doesn’t laugh when the words “obesity,” “fecal,” or “mating calls” are used in passages. My point is that he’s a mature student who likes learning so much that he does it on his own, often about obscure topics.
But even Troy ― when I ask what consent is ― has no definition to give. He’s just apologized to Lila because I’ve asked (read: demanded) him to, and he’s slinking so low in his chair that I can only see his bangs. The troublemakers who shout out nonsense for attention are silent. Even Jason. They know this is serious because I’ve never called out Troy before.
“If someone wants to touch you,” I ask the uncomfortable preteens, “are they allowed to do it if they don’t ask you first?”
When it’s posited this way, they know the answer is no. I only have these kids for six weeks this summer. It’s week four. They’re trained now ― they know my baritone when I’m disappointed, my exuberant wide-armed stretch when I’m proud of them. On Fridays, they expect my bag of bulk candy; they ask about it if it’s not hanging from the crook of my elbow when I walk in. A minuscule tremor of an eyelid tells them whether or not I’ve had my coffee. I seem unreasonably upset over an eraser right now, I know, but I keep imagining Lila’s hair and Troy’s sticky Jolly Rancher fingers. Her contorted face.
Day-to-day though ― if you asked without my sharp, warning tone ― their answer is a resounding yes. They are always touching. They play games similar to the cootie shots of my day, pressing the soft inseams of their arms together. Thumb-wrestling. Shoulder-tapping. Drawing on knees and arms with Bic pens. Scribbling on notebooks that do not belong to them. Tagging the walls of the after-school learning center. Slurping from the same juice boxes. Tackling and punching and slapping and pinching. I can’t look out into their sea of small heads without noticing at least two points of contact. They are learning nonverbal cues ― if a kid doesn’t recoil, they’re game. It’s jungle law.
If they had to ask permission each time they touched, they’d never stop talking.
But they’ve stopped now. No one wants to have this conversation. I have no place starting it, and the loaded silence that follows signals their confusion at this fact, their refusal to participate. I’m getting paid to teach ‘writing,’ which ― for seventh graders ― mostly means ‘grammar.’ To keep the dry landscape of commas and subject-verb agreement from straining their eyes, I liven up the passages. I include characters like “my insanely hot babysitter, Stacy” and “my dog who eats shoelaces, Roscoe.” I make up stories using their names on tests. To them, this is another one of my erratic tangents that ends in hilarity. They arrive each day not knowing what to expect, which is all that keeps them awake.
Besides, I assume, the constant touching.
I ask again, “Are they allowed to do it if they don’t ask you first?”
Troy, who likely believes I’m talking only to him, speaks up, eager to move on. “No,” he squeaks from behind Lila. “They can’t.”
“Why not? Why can’t I just go up to Greg” ― he’s one of the troublemakers ― “and just, I don’t know, touch his butt?”
Greg squeals. Half of the room joins him.
“That’s his butt though,” counters Jason. “Troy didn’t grab anyone’s butt.”
“Can I touch Troy’s bicycle without asking him?”
The room responds, “No.”
“Can I touch his bed? Pet his dog? Unwrap his sandwich? Use his toothbrush?”
“No” echoes in unison. Greg sasses, “Nonononono.”
“Why not?”
Some half-hearted answers clamber over the din: it’s illegal, it gets you in trouble, it is just awkward. Nothing satisfactory about body ownership or autonomy, which I have to remind myself is okay ― remember, they’re literally 12.
Jason, a frequent hell raiser, shoots his hand toward the ceiling. “Troy needed to get his eraser,” he spells out for me. “That’s different, okay? It’s his.”
Kudos to Jason, I think, who failed a pronoun quiz last week. “His” buzzes for a few seconds; two dozen eyes stare on. They are watching my tight mouth, imploring me to move forward. They can talk about farts until kingdom come, but the second we bring up consent, everyone wants out.
I walk down the row to Jason and drop a mini Reese’s Cup in his Sharpie-graffitied backpack. He grins and darts to fetch it.
“Ah ah! No, that’s my candy.”
“It’s in my book bag!” he cries.
“Doesn’t matter. It’s mine. So now I need to search your book bag to get it. Like touch everything in there. Is that okay?”
He guffaws, “No!”
The lesson clicks for him and ― I assume ― most of the other students. He nods. I let him keep the candy and everyone asks for one, too. As the bag of chocolate makes its way around the room, I catch Troy and Lila chatting, all smiles. The awkward seven minutes has passed.
We get back to semicolons but, very much encouraged, they write about touching butts.
I left out an important interaction because I wanted to conclude with it. Immediately after Troy’s hand grazed Lila’s shoulder and tugged her hair, she responded to my wide eyes with her own. She was apologizing for him before I could open my mouth. “It’s really okay. Sorry, sorry,” she muttered. “It’s okay, please.”
She knows Troy like I do, understands that he didn’t mean it, that it was an absentminded reflex for him to reach forward and touch her. The intent was not malicious. But what does it mean that in Troy’s 12-year-old view, Lila’s body is another piece of the scenery, a neutral zone that neither accepts nor rejects an advance? For me, her reaction is what separated that instance from the other touching in the room. They’re on the verge of teen years where this type of behavior turns flirtatious, purposeful. Mutual.
No one wants to start fires. The fact is that we can’t lead young people without that light. More important than our discomfort at discussing consent is the comfort with which young people embrace easy, permissive roles.
This scene specifically was familiar to me, though my vantage point had changed. Nearly two decades ago, while playing Twister in the gym, a boy grabbed my upper thigh and shoved my leg off of a circle he wanted. We all toppled down without casualties ― he landed at the apex of our dogpile ― and our gym teacher continued observing cooly, returning to her newspaper when we unfolded our limbs from one another. The game restarted. At the time, I was elated she hadn’t called attention to it, because I knew I’d end up as part of that conversation. These days, though, I’m disturbed that she acted as if nothing had happened. That she encouraged a norm where boys ‘will be boys and will touch you.’ If it was mutual (say, if we were wrestling), I would have participated without qualms. But it wasn’t. I know part of that shy, embarrassed girl wanted an adult to point out the wrong and correct it. And pass out Reese’s Cups afterwards.
authentaux 