Epithets

 On a normal day at work, I can expect to be called fat, bald or both. Not by my coworkers, which I wll count as lucky. Instead, these observations come from my young charges. More often than not, they aren't made with any particular venom, but they aren't made with buckets full of respect either. Of course, if what I was looking for was buckets full of respect, teaching in an urban Oakland school might not be the place to find them. 

Being bald isn't really an issue. It's pretty solidly a statement of fact. On a pretty regular schedule I shave my head to remain hairless up there. It's a conscious choice.

The fat thing? Well that one kind of stings. Most of my life has been spent buying pants off the husky rack. I have been terribly self-conscious about my weight for all but a handful of the years I have spent on the planet. I have exercised and fiddled with my diet and made periodic inroads to losing the spare tire that has plagued me for so long. 

But it's as much a part of what I am as my bald head. So when an eight year old points out that I am folically challenged and/or weight advantaged, I try not to give a response that would give the impression that I care. 

I do. It brings back all the insecurities from my own youth, when I didn't have the comfort of my elevated age and position to slough off periodic attempts to assault my character via my appearance. It used to make me cry. Now it makes me more tired than sad. But it's still not a terrific combination. 

I bounce back. I move on. I come back the next day. 

And then there was there was Addie, a fifth grader who asked me, "How did you lose your hair?" Suddenly I was tensed for a little razz, but she continued. "Do you have cancer? My mom has a friend who lost all her hair because she had cancer." 

There was concern here. I could feel it. "No, I don't have cancer." My mind filled with all the ways my father described his receding hairline for all those years. I chose instead to play it straight. "I just stopped being able to to grow hair on the top of my head. It's easier to cut it all off than to try and make something out of nothing." Then I piled on, "I'm just a fat old man."

"You're not fat," she said.

Suddenly I felt young again.