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What Did You Ask Me For?

Hannah Garson

    “Where’s my condom?”
    Did I hear right? Did that student just ask me for a condom? I jiggled a finger in my ear, trying to remove his question.
    Snickering rocketed around the room, proof that yes, I had heard right.
    “Get back to work,” I told my eighth grade English class.
    Students were always asking me: How old are you? How much money do you make? Where do you live? What’s your religion? But even with a few years under my teaching belt, being asked for a condom was a new one for me. Why couldn’t he ask me for a pencil? I had plenty of those, sharpened, too!
    But no, he was signing up for the 1990 proposed condom distribution program, the plan to try to stop the spread of AIDS among NYC’s high schoolers. My student (where does this piss pot think he is, he’s still in middle school) was eager to participate, thinking I was giving him a condom that day instead of a textbook.
    What to do? In my mental filing cabinet I quickly skimmed educational textbooks, looking for one on “How To Answer Those Questions,” but didn’t find it. I reviewed faculty conferences and professional development meetings. No luck. I backtracked to undergraduate and Master’s Degree lectures but nothing there either. I was on my own.
    Breathe, I told myself.
    Stay professional.
    Don’t pass out.
    I approached the student’s desk.
    “Where’s my condom?” he repeated.
    All eyes were on me waiting, wondering, “What’s she gonna do?” That’s what I wanted to know, too! I could call the dean. Or the assistant principal. Let someone else take care of this matter. Wash my hands of it. But that’s not me. I always handled situations on my own, kept things within the four walls of my classroom.
    “Not for you. They’re for high schoolers. Stay focused here,” I advised him, tapping on his opened notebook. “Remember, you have a test tomorrow. Keep your head in the books.”
    “I do keep my head in the books,” he quickly replied. “But what about Friday nights?”
    My heart jumped. Too much information. Now I knew that this student’s after school activities were broader than basketball.
    “And Friday nights, too,” I commanded.
    “Saved by the bell” never meant more to me than it did at that moment. When it rang, the student nodded, his way of saying he understood he wasn’t getting what he had asked for. He and the other students gathered their belongings and left for the next class.
    I collapsed at my desk. Maybe I’d write that book for teachers, Find the Answers to Those Questions.

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