Idols

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My almost-twelve-year-old students will be grieving tonight; their Idol did not win. Yeah, I mean American Idol, and though I can think of many reasons I shouldn't watch that show, or at least shouldn't admit to watching it, I'm as hooked as any tweeny girl. John and I watch together and offer up our criticisms, second-guessing the judges, actively agreeing with Simon Cowell usually but not always.

Sadie's gonna marry David Archuleta. She's got it all figured out: when she'll be twenty, he'll be twenty-six, and that sounds okay, he's really not too old for her. Norah won't claim him for a future husband, but her smile is more brilliant than ever when his name comes up. (But she could be an Idol one day herself, such a singer she is.) I found a poem on the classroom floor today, on a scrap of paper, describing his "sparkling eyes." Twelve-year-olds haven't been around long enough to know how tired that sounds. Twelve-year-olds know love as much as anyone, though.

I want to tell them how I loved Fang. I mentioned that to John, not thinking, really. He said, "Fang??" Oops. "FANG!?? Who the hell's Fang? You loved someone called Fang?? My best friend's dog was called Fang!"

Yeah, well, oops. Maybe some secrets are best kept.

But I want to tell them how, in the summer of twelve, Anne and I sat up in the cherry tree talking about Fang and Mark, how I'd have one and she'd have the other. (Oh, yeah, they were from Paul Revere and the Raiders, a pop-rock band who wore pastel American Revolutionary period dress.) I want to tell them about the poster I had on my closet door, and the ink that wore away from so many goodnight kisses. They'd shriek, they'd cry with laughter. And they'd know that I knew how they loved.


There was a flurry of "family life" questions today. I keep a box of little slips of paper and an envelope at the side of the room, expressly for the purpose. The envelope sits empty most of the time, but then something flutters in the room, a kid grabs a slip of paper and pretends to be subtle about putting it in the envelope. Everyone suddenly remembers the questions that have been burning in their brains since the last session.

"Why would a woman put her mouth on a man's penis?" I say that maybe it's because the man would like it, and hope that they get the message that it's about giving, not taking. I tell them adults can do anything together that they both want as a part of loving and communicating, and that THEY, the twelve-year-olds never have to do any of it if they don't want to. (Thanks to Meg Hickling for that, wonderful sex educator.)

"What happens if a man bangs a woman too hard?" How do you answer a question like that? I say, again, that sex is an act of love and communication, that as such, there is no "too hard." I say rape would be too hard, and would do the woman harm, but, again, rape has nothing to do with sex, no matter what it looks like.

"What's an orgasm, and how do girls have one?"

So many questions come up again and again, as if they want to be sure they heard me right the first time, or to see if the answer remains the same, or maybe they didn't understand the first time and now they hope they might. Or maybe they're just setting me up. Doesn't matter. I told them at the start there wasn't a question they could ask that would embarrass me. I think they've tried, despite that. Could be that they're mortified as I read the questions aloud and proceed with graphic answers.

Talking about Fang would probably embarrass me, though.

I thought tonight would be the coronation of David Archuleta; that seemed to be the prevailing opinion. Of the two finalists, his voice is the purest, one of those voices that sends shivers down your spine; at seventeen, he seems something of a miracle, such is his musicality. I shouted when David Cook was announced the winner; he was my man. I am not a fan of "pop" music. No matter how good the voice, I would not buy the record. David Cook, however, seems to be a real musician, competent on his guitar, arranging tunes in unique and tasty ways. I'll be interested in his album, when it's made.

Archuleta, meanwhile, has inspired probably tens of millions of tweeny girl fantasies, and at least a dozen questions in a classroom in North Vancouver.




(Students' names have been changed.)





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