You Only Need to Look

My seventh-grade English teacher was, well, for lack of a better word, fat.

Not chubby or a little overweight. She was a fat person. And

that made the students feel they had the right to disrespect her.

But I loved her. I loved her class. The knowledge about books

that she possessed. The capacity that she had to transport me into different worlds and eras. Sometimes I felt the class was just between her and me because everyone else was passing little notes back and forth (no cell phones then) and whispering to each other and all were more than glad to let me shine. No one cared about F. Scott Fitzgerald or Eugene O’Neill. Except me. Her class was my lifeline.

I admired the way she managed her weight problem. She had beautiful clothes and always smelled like flowers. She wore long pretty earrings and a bunch of little bangle bracelets that tinkled every time she moved her right arm.

Her name was Miss Parmet. Not Mrs., like most of the other

teachers. I supposed she had never married due to her weight.

And I felt that she could see inside my soul. My aching soul. My dying soul. Somehow, through our discussions of the Great Gatsby and The Catcher in The Rye, she saw my loneliness. She saw the need that I had to escape to other worlds and other times. I wished with all my heart that I could be a happy, confident person like Miss Parmet. Not care what anyone thought.

I wish that I didn’t care that I had to wear hand-me-downs. Gifts from moms who thought it made me feel good that they cleaned out their daughter’s closets when I went to visit and sent me on my way with a shopping bag in each hand.

But even though Miss Parmet was fat. She didn’t care what others thought. Why couldn’t I be like her? I wanted to not care. Not care that I was poor, not care that there was no dad in the picture or that my mom was an alcoholic. Not care that there were never gifts under the tree at Christmas. And the only reason there was a tree was because I had put it up.

Miss Parmet was everything that I was not. She was strong,

self-confident and happy. I dreamed that my mother would die, and that Miss Parmet would adopt me. And I would live with her in a home full of books. And since she obviously loved to eat, her house would always smell of homemade chocolate-chip cookies and baked bread. In my twelve-year-old mind, that was all I needed.

I sat through all my other classes waiting for English just to

see her and hear her analyze and dissect novels and plays and poems. It was an added blessing that it was my last class of the day because it filled me with a sort of strength that I could use to survive at home.

One day, after a horrific long drunken night with my mom, I fell asleep in Miss Parmet's class. I didn’t even realize it until I felt her soft, cool, chubby hand on my forehead asking me if I felt ok. She actually called me hon. “You ok, hon?”

I was so embarrassed and at the same time, so thrilled that she

cared for me. Maybe I was special to her?

My mother never called me “hon or honey or angel”. She never asked me if I felt ok. Or cooked. Or put up the Christmas tree. She never felt my forehead for a fever. It was up to me to try to make our house a home. No brothers or sisters to share the load with. I was my mother’s mother. I took care of her when she got sick from drinking. I bathed her and put her to bed. I cooked and cleaned the house.

Money was too tight to buy new clothes for me, but somehow, there was always money for liquor. My needs and desires were of no importance. So, I survived on hand-me-downs and free lunch at the school cafeteria.

I could never bring anyone to my house, it was too embarrassing. Always making up lies and excuses. And on parent-teacher night, I had to say that she was working. I would rather die than bring her to my school and meet Miss Parmet.

The teachers always gave me my report card and I would forge my

mother’s signature and bring it back the next day. My grades and behavior were excellent, so no one would really care much if my parents didn’t go. I guess parent-teacher night was more for problematic students. But that year, someone did care. At the end of her class the day after the parent-teacher's night, Miss Parmet asked me to please stay a minute. As I waited for the students to slowly drift out of the classroom laughing and talking into their happy lives, I felt my heart thumping so hard, I thought it would leap out of my throat. “She’s going to ask me about my mom, she’s going to ask me about my mom”.

“Come” she said, “sit here”. She pointed to the first student desk in front of her desk. She obviously didn’t fit into one of the student chairs, so she was using her own, but still wanted me close.

She looked at me without saying a word. And finally asked softly “Is everything ok at home?”.

“No, it’s not!” I wanted to scream. “I want my mom to be like you, I want you to be my mom!”

“Yes Miss Parmet, everything is fine.”

She stared at me with her soft, brown eyes “are you sure, hon?”

She said it again! She called me “hon”!

That was all I needed to start a cascade of tears so strong that my body trembled all over. She stood up and came around to my chair. She held my head towards her soft bosom that smelled of flowers. We stayed like that for a long time until my crying subsided. She didn’t rush me; she didn’t question me. She just stood there and softly stroked my head. We didn’t speak a word. It wasn’t necessary. She knew, she just knew. She comforted me in silence. And afterwards, I felt such peace.

This teacher, this person, this beautiful human being, looked inside my soul and without saying a word, made me feel that I was worth something. She saw a lost and lonely child. Not because I was her best student, but because she looked, she really looked, like no other teacher or person ever had.

Miss Parmet with her big, soft bosom gave me life, gave me a lesson in self-esteem and self confidence that I would never forget. She managed her weight issues with such charm and grace. I never saw her as anything else, but a strong, brilliant, beautiful woman. A teacher like no other. A figure to emulate.

I went on to study English Literature and became a teacher myself. And I learned to look for the sad-eyed students that sat in the back.

Not the popular, beautiful ones. Those would be ok.