In 1958, a few months after I started teaching health and physical education at a junior high school, I walked into the faculty room to eat lunch and overheard one of the teachers say, “I can’t believe it’s a year since Rosie died.” “Who’s Rosie?” I asked. The pained looks of the faculty made me wonder about their reaction. No one responded. My curiosity lingered. A woman who taught English took me aside and reluctantly answered. “Rosie was 13. Pregnant. The boy was 14. Their parents made them marry. He ran away. She killed herself.” I waited to hear more but she left the room. Suddenly everyone was busy eating lunch, making coffee, engaging in small talk. Why was the staff still talking about this a year later when no one seemed to be doing anything to provide girls with information about their bodies? The next day, a student came up to me and said she was dying. When I asked how she knew, she said she was bleeding. Heavily. When I asked from where, she pointed to her crotch. She knew nothing about menstruation. I was horrified and dismayed. Every student had to take health. What was I teaching? What were they learning? The following day, during health class, (boys and girls took separate classes) I asked the girls what they knew about puberty. They didn’t know the word. Menstruation? Didn’t know the word. Some knew it as “the curse,” although one girl was quick to point out, “It’s more of a curse if you don’t get it.” Her sister got pregnant at 15 and had to drop out of school. I knew I had to do something. When I read that Modess, a company making sanitary pads, had created a free pamphlet explaining menstruation to young girls I decided to order enough copies for every girl in the school. I was sure the material would be helpful and agreeable to the Italian Catholic community where the school was located since the company was respectable and mothers probably used their products. A few weeks later, the principal met me in the hall, visibly upset. “What are all the boxes from Modess doing in my office?” I explained why I’d ordered them. “Who gave you permission to order materials about sex? We could both lose our jobs. You need to send them back.” Shocked, I managed to say, “There’s nothing in the pamphlets about sex. It’s all about what happens to girls when they reach puberty. I’m appalled at how little they know about their bodies.” I was too angry to be tactful. “You think it’s okay for girls to know nothing about menstruation? You have two daughters. Are they growing up thinking they’re dying because they’re bleeding?” He recoiled. “You had no right to order this material without talking to me first.” “I would have if I thought there was anything wrong with giving girls factual health information from a reputable company. I’ll put the boxes in my office.” Several students saw me lugging boxes and offered to help. Once they were stashed in my office the students wanted to know what was in them. I told them. The boys looked sheepish; the girls started to ask questions. “I’ll hand them out in class.” Much to my surprise the boys wanted to know if they’d be getting them too. “You need to ask your teacher,” I said, wondering for the first time if what I’d done wasn’t as simple as I’d thought. I handed out the pamphlets during the next health class. In contrast to the usually sullen responses of the girls, they devoured the material, asking more questions in one class than all other classes combined. It was a revelation to them. We had a lively class and they thanked me as they left. The next morning, the principal’s secretary came to the gym to tell me I needed to go to his office. Immediately. She would take over my class. I had barely closed his office door when a group of irate mothers chastised me for encouraging their girls to have sex. I asked if they’d read the pamphlet. “I don’t need to read smut,” said one. “My girl is a good girl. She doesn’t need you to interfere with how I raise her,” said another. More comments. Each angrier than the one before. All furiously accusing me of teaching about sex—something I hadn’t done. I was so angry I snarled, “You want another Rosie? You want a dead daughter?” The principal gasped. The women gasped. “Okay,” I said. “I am teaching your daughters about puberty, about the changes in their bodies. I want them to learn how to protect themselves against pressure from boys. I invite all of you to come to the next health class so you can see and hear what I’m teaching.” Two mothers came, sitting in the back of the classroom, arms folded, emanating fury. I ignored them and began by asking the girls if they had any questions. They did. I answered, stating facts. When one girl said her boyfriend wanted to have sex, the shocked mothers reacted audibly. I asked if she wanted to have sex. She said no. “Okay,” I said. “It is never all right to be pressured into having sex. Never.” More questions about how to handle boyfriends, with me reiterating the need to make choices based on what they wanted, not what the boy wanted. At the end of class, the girls thanked me again for the information. I was left alone with the two mothers. One of them said, “I got pregnant when I was 14. Our parents made us marry.” There was silence. The other mother nodded knowingly. I didn’t say anything, waiting for them to speak. Grudgingly the first mother said, “You’re right. We don’t want another Rosie.” They left. I kept teaching. Boys started asking me questions. When I suggested they ask their health teacher for information, one of them said, “He says it’s not his job to talk about sex.” Their desperation kept me answering their questions. At the end of the year, I felt all of the disruption I caused was vindicated. No girl got pregnant. A first. How would you react if you didn’t have permission to do what you thought was right?
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Monthly StoriesStories inspired by world tales to challenge and comfort. Archives
February 2025
Categories |