Mr. H:
Raphael Simon here – Rafi, you may remember me.
We last met in 1982 at a magnet school in Los Angeles, where I was your student.
You are a wonderful teacher, Mr H – witty, witty, sometimes difficult, with a genuine passion for the subjects you teach. But I’m not writing to thank you for what I learned in class; this is not one of the letters. Nor am I writing to accuse you of anything; this is not one of those letters.
I am writing to apologize.
As with most apologies, this one is merely performative. It doesn’t change anything. However, I feel the need to confess.
Belly dancer? I’m bad.
I met him. I hired him. I am responsible for everything, except the belly dance itself.
You remember belly dancers, right? Let me back up.
When I was in ninth grade, I took a Hybrid History and English class called Research Writing, where we learned how to use card catalogs, document sources and footnote formats – once-vital skills now lost to time and ChatGPT.
For my first paper, I chose to write about the Black Hole of Calcutta, only to discover that the name has nothing to do with astronomical black holes, much less the muted music of “Oh! Calcutta!” For a historical fiction project, I’m writing a mystery story about Napoleon’s exile on Elba – a subject I chose mainly because Napoleon is the kind of cake I love.
To state the obvious, there is nothing in your class that justifies a half-naked woman dancing on our table.
You are in your 30s. Slim, white skin, curly brown hair. Relaxed preppy.
I’m 14, pimply, bookish. A typical if slightly effeminate Jewish girl, the California version. I also, at that time, just started to suspect about myself, or just started to suspect.
In any case, I like you. All your students like you. Research Writing is an honors class. We sit in a circle instead of in a row. Naturally, we wanted to celebrate the birthday. Birthday surprise – this is the pretext I sold my classmates.
Why a belly dancer and not, say, a birthday cake?
For one thing, belly dancing plays a bigger role in my imagination than you might expect. This was mostly due to Esther’s grandmother, who was very fond of belly dancers. He would describe how to move the stomach as if by magic with muscles unknown to us. The female force is strong, sexy and not subservient.
I first saw belly dancers live in my favorite restaurant, Moun of Tunis, in Sunset, where diners sit on low banquettes and eat off brass tables. At hourly intervals, music will begin to play and women in sequins and silk will emerge from behind the curtain to shimmy and shake their way across the room – heaven.
From the Moun of Tunis I got the name of your dancer. Funny to think what a difficult task it must have been. I have to ask Yellow Pages, or more likely, call Information – something parents frowned upon because of the toll. When I call a restaurant, I have to speak to a live human being and explain what I want. All this before cold-calling belly dancers.
On your birthday, I remember being nervous, not sure if he would come. I jumped when I heard a knock on the door.
Our class was in a bungalow, and he was standing on the stoop, dyed black hair, bright red lipstick, a trench coat over his costume and a boombox under his arm.
I have been very happy; now, too late, I was overcome by doubt. I took her to my room. My classmates giggled. I pointed at you. “It’s a birthday boy.”
Without a word, he put down his music, unbuttoned his coat and began to whirl.
The dancer blurs in my mind, her transparent black veil and long silver scarf.
He goes around the room, then around you, then the room again – sexy but never also witness.
While the rest of the class hooted and hollered, I watched your expression. Your face was pale, then red, then pale again. It shows a flash, but no more than a flash, anger, and strong shame, and finally, polite patience and forced good humor.
Of course, just reading your reaction I managed to surprise. And this is the real reason for the apology.
Chances are your homosexuality has become a topic of debate among students, not in a bad way, more fun than gossip. Then a month or two before your birthday, you almost say our speculation out loud.
I don’t remember the context. We might be talking about Anita Bryant or some other anti-gay crusader. Or, closer to home, the Briggs Initiative, which almost succeeded in banning gays and lesbians from teaching in California a few years earlier.
I just remember the words you used at one point: “my gay friend and my straight friend.” As if they are the same category. As if a friend – anyone – could just as easily be gay as straight.
As if you, our teacher, could.
In 1982, the idea of ​​an openly gay teacher was controversial in a way that is difficult to understand in California today – or in part California today. (Efforts to ban LGBTQ + books and squelch LGBTQ + speech have recently spread to nearby localities such as Glendale and Huntington Beach.) To suggest you can be gay, however ambiguously, must have taken a lot of courage.
And I repay your bravery by bullying you, with belly dancers.
Test, I called it, when I presented the idea to my friends. What do I want? Do you have to pants like a perverted cartoon character if you’re straight? And if you’re gay, so what? So green?
Whether the word “test” enters your mind, according to your reaction, you feel that your sexuality is being challenged. I am very sorry. The premise of this stunt is as offensive as it is absurd.
I dare not claim credit, but I suspect you do. In my memory, one or two seemed to understand passing between us. Maybe you know what I didn’t mean: when I tested you for signs of homosexuality, I tried to inoculate you for the same condition.
When the belly dancer finished dancing, you clapped, as if you really enjoyed it. You’re grateful for your birthday surprise, even though we all know it’s cuter than a birthday present.
So I guess this is a thank you letter, after all. Thank you for being more forgiving than angry. Thank you for not interrogating too closely who hired belly dancers, or what.
And most of all, thank you for instilling in students the idea that gays can be OK, even if these gay students need a few more years to absorb that simple lesson.
Well, Rafi
Raphael Simon is better known as children’s author Nickname Bosch. She and her husband live in Pasadena with their two daughters. Mr. H, it turns out he remembers his dance. She and her husband just celebrated 30 years together.
