More Than A Sex Symbol

I regret that I recall neither her name nor the name of her son. But I do know that the boy was a student in the first grade and that I was his teacher. The boy’s tuition was being paid by an elderly woman from our church who was the landlady for the woman and her son.

I remember what the mother looked like. She was stunning. Tall, slim, well endowed, long flowing hair. She was a Southern California carhop, a waitress at a drive-in. She came to the cars to take and deliver food and drink orders. Her scanty halter-top uniform, I’m sure, helped her generate generous tips.

It may have been because she was not home in the evening to assist her son with homework or it may have been something else. For whatever reason, he was not doing well and it was time for a parent-teacher conference.

We met in the principal’s office and discussed the issue. I soon learned how much she loved her son and was saddened by his slow progress. She really wanted the best for him. She wanted to be a good mother. We discussed a variety of options. I assured her that her efforts would bear fruit.

As we came to the end of the interview she thanked me. Then tears suddenly began to roll down her cheeks. She looked across the desk at me and said, “Thank you. You must know that no man in my whole life has ever talked to me in this way.”

It was probably an exaggeration, but I got the message. No human wants to be deemed merely an object, or symbol. We all yearn to be accepted as being more than a title, just someone’s spouse, someone who’s rich or poor, or any other symbol. “See the me who’s a real person” is the plea of us all.