Teachers of preteens develop a sixth sense about topics which will provoke fits of giggles or veer dangerously into territory inappropriate for the classroom. I choose vocabulary carefully, keeping an eagle eye on the student most likely to send the conversation spinning into mayhem.
I know better than to try to draw Florida on the whiteboard. I know that at least one student researching Egyptian polytheistic myths will discover that Set lost his testicles in a battle with Horus. I know that studying the solar system will provoke a spate of Uranus jokes: “Is Uranus cold? Is Uranus dark? Is Uranus a gas giant?”
I’m prepared for the doubts that arise when we study the digestive system. Too many children have heard that pregnant women have babies in their stomachs, which leaves me fielding questions like “Doesn’t stomach acid hurt the baby?”
I don’t even raise an eyebrow when a concerned and confused little boy raises his hand to ask if girls have kidneys, or are those just for boys. I’m ready for the kid who wants to use the word “rectum” at every possible opportunity, always with a smirk.
Still, I was caught off guard by the student who recently asked me, “Teacher, how do you tell the difference between male elephants and female elephants?”
I looked hard at the boy, searching for the hint of a smile, wondering if this was the beginning of an inappropriate joke or an attempt to get me to name anatomical parts. His face was devoid of mischief though, and I answered him carelessly, “The same way you tell if people are male or female. Males and females have different body parts.”
The look on his face was pure confusion. “Really? They do?”
I began, “Yes, they –” and then stopped. I was dangerously close to the territory where parental consent is needed to continue. “This would be a good conversation to have with your parents, hon,” I finished.
“I can’t. They don’t want me to talk about inappropriate things.”
I froze. For once I was speechless. The 11-year-old in front of me did not know the difference between boys and girls.
Without parent permission, I could offer neither an explanation nor a book.
The fifth grade science book isn’t detailed enough – for which I am mostly grateful – to clear up his doubts.
A few classmates eagerly offered to explain, and an animated discussion about gender and toilet use began in one corner of the classroom until I shot them all the teacher death stare that says, “Don’t go there.”
I wrenched the lesson back on track, shaking my head and wishing we could give students The Talk.
Remember The Talk? When I was in school, it usually happened in fifth grade. Parents signed a permission slip, girls and boys were divided up, and the girls were ushered into the classroom to watch an animated movie about menstruation.
The boys were herded off by the PE coach or whichever male teacher drew the short straw, admonished to use deodorant, and then allowed to play soccer.
As a teacher, I’ve given The Talk to both groups of boys and groups of girls. I’ve rarely encountered a parent who has refused permission for her child to participate.
I’m able to teach basic anatomy and answer the questions that burn in the minds of 11-year-olds about the changes they are experiencing. Sometimes they’re well into puberty without really understanding what is happening.
Students are relieved to ask questions they are too embarrassed to ask their parents. Sometimes they come armed with misinformation and The Talk clears that up. It’s a way to answer “Am I normal?” and “Am I OK?” and even the heart-stopping question “Could I be pregnant?” which has come up as early as sixth grade.
The school at which I teach no longer includes The Talk in fifth or sixth grade. It’s now a class in middle school, taught by workers from the local health clinic. This means that my student will sit with his doubts about the difference between males and females for two more years, because his parents won’t talk to him about it and I can’t. He will grow and change with no idea what is happening to his body and no one to ask. Perhaps he will go to the internet for answers; perhaps his classmates will inform or misinform him.
He needs The Talk. All kids do. They need to hear it from parents or teachers or both. They need it sooner, rather than later.
It’s unfair and dangerous to send him and other children careening toward adulthood in ignorance. It’s unjust to prepare students for common core testing, high school exit exams or the workforce, yet fail to prepare them for life.
Let’s talk.
