I WAS ALLOWED TO WATCH TELEVISION. BUT I DISCOVERED
something about myself. I didn’t really like television. I didn’t like it at all. I switched the TV off and found myself watching my mother as she sat at the kitchen table, looking over some of her old lesson plans.
“Mom?”
She looked up at me. I tried to imagine my mother standing in front of her class. I wondered what the guys thought of her. I wondered how they saw her. I wondered if they liked her. Hated her? Respected her? I wondered if they knew she was a mother. I wondered if that mattered to them.
“What are you thinking?” “You like teaching?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Even when your students don’t care?”
“I’ll tell you a secret. I’m not responsible for whether my students care or don’t care. That care has to come from them—not me.”
“Where does that leave you?”
“No matter what, Ari, my job is to care.” “Even when they don’t?”
“Even when they don’t.” “No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
“Even if you teach kids like me, who think life is boring?” “That’s the way it is when you’re fifteen.”
“Just a phase,” I said.
“Just a phase.” She laughed. “You like fifteen-year-olds?”
“Are you asking me if I like you, or are you asking me if I like my students?”
“Both, I guess.”
“I adore you, Ari, you know I do.”
“Yeah, but you adore your students, too.” “Are you jealous?”
“Can I go outside?” I could avoid questions as skillfully as she could. “You can go out tomorrow.”
“I think you’re being a fascist.” “That’s a big word, Ari.”
“Thanks to you, I know all about the different forms of government. Mussolini was a fascist. Franco was a fascist. And Dad says Reagan is a fascist.”
“Don’t take your father’s jokes too literally, Ari. All he’s saying is that he thinks President Reagan is too heavy-handed.”
“I know what he’s saying, Mom. Just like you know what I’m saying.”
“Well, it’s good to know that you think your mother is more than a form of government.”
“You kind of are,” I said.
“I get your point, Ari. You’re still not going outside.”
There were days when I wished I had it in me to rebel against my mother’s rules.
“I just want to get out of here. I’m bored out of my skull.”
She got up from where she was sitting. She placed her hands on my face. “Hijo de mi vida,” she said, “I’m sorry that you think I’m too strict on you. But I have my reasons. When you’re older—”
“You always say that. I’m fifteen. How old do I have to be? How old, Mom, before you think I’m smart enough to get it? I’m not a little boy.”
She took my hand and kissed it. “You are to me,” she whispered. There were tears running down her cheeks. There was something I wasn’t getting. First Dante. Then me. And now my mom. Tears all over the damned place. Maybe tears were something you caught. Like the flu.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I whispered. I smiled at her. I think I was hoping for a full explanation for her tears, but I was going to have to work to get it. “Are you okay?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m okay.” “I don’t think you are.”
“I’m trying hard not to worry about you.” “Why do you worry? I just had the flu.” “That’s not what I mean.”
“What?”
“What do you do when you leave the house?” “Stuff.”
“You don’t have any friends.” She started to place her hand over her mouth, then stopped herself.
I wanted to hate her for that accusation. “I don’t want any.” She looked at me, almost as if I were a stranger.
“And how can I have friends if you don’t let me go outside?” I got one of her looks.
“I do have friends, Mom. I have school friends. And Dante. He’s my friend.”
“Yes,” she said. “Dante.”
“Yes,” I said. “Dante.”
“I’m glad for Dante,” she said.
