“What is happening right now? Why is this woman in our living room?” my dad and I wondered as we stood in the kitchen of our suburban home.
In the next room, my mom sprawled on the leather couch with a throw pillow elevating her feet. On the edge of the couch sat none other than my Grade 5 teacher giving my mom a foot massage. I was 11 years old.
This was my worst fear coming true because, face it, when you’re a prepubescent, obnoxious little imp, the one thing you want is to create boundaries with your teachers. You definitely don’t want your teacher entering your home and massaging your mom’s feet.
How on earth did it reach this point?
Let me tell you about my Grade 5 teacher, Madame J¹, who stood out as a Mary-Poppins type. Styling a dark wool sweater, a long skirt and pearls, the woman always appeared prim and proper. She looked like she didn’t belong in the 21st century.
From her looks down to her personality, she was very old-fashioned. If she asked a question and you replied “what?”, she would give you a stern lecture about being polite.
“Don’t say ‘what!’ It’s rude. The correct thing to say is ‘I beg your pardon.’”
That became her signature catchphrase.
As a group of immature elementary school students, we had a tendency to unfairly spread rumors about our teachers . In Madame J’s case, we gossiped about how she may have maintained a very active social life, and so, she tried to befriend her students — or her students’ parents, which would turn out to be true.
One afternoon, my mom picked me and my brother up after school, and Madame J grabbed her attention.
Oh, great, I thought, I’m in trouble. Evidently, I wasn’t in trouble — but, rather, there was going to be trouble.
Madame J proceeded to ask my mom about her own life — not how I was doing in class. To my horror, my mom mentioned to her that she has Crohn’s Disease. No biggie. Somehow, my teacher seemed excited to hear about my mom’s chronic illness.
The educator started talking to my mom about reflexology, which is basically the study of massaging someone’s feet to help them heal an unrelated illness or pain. I don’t know for sure though as I’m not a doctor. But neither was Madame J.
I still don’t know why my Grade 5 teacher started talking to my mom about the study of foot massages. Perhaps she had a second career as a podiatrist no one at the school knew about. It’s also possible she was peddling something in her off time, which is what my parents believed. Alternatively, it could have been a manifestation of the woman’s kookiness.
In any case, my mom humored Madame J because she didn’t want to offend her. She was concerned that if she did offend her, I might face the impact as one of her students. So, my mom feigned interest in hearing more about Madame J’s tirades about reflexology.
No harm was done at this point, that is, until my mom ended up inviting Madame J to our abode so that the two women could further discuss the issue. My worst fears as an 11-year-old were being realized. I didn’t want my Grade 5 teacher coming to our house and seeing where we live, just so she could talk about my mom’s feet.
As evening dawned on us, Madame J sat on the leather couch in our den, where she was attempting to diagnose my mom through her feet.
The elementary school teacher who apparently doubled as a reflexologist repeatedly pressed into my mom’s feet, trying to activate certain pressure points.
“I’m getting a reading that your colon is flaring up,” she told my mom.
Meanwhile, my dad and I stood in the kitchen trying to process what was happening and how those words about colons flaring up were not being uttered by any doctor, but rather my Grade 5 teacher. We couldn’t fathom how my teacher ended up giving my mom a foot massage on our sofa like it was no big deal.
When I entered class the following day, I immediately gave Madame J a weird look. But I don’t think she noticed and we didn’t say a word to each other about the previous day’s events. Years later, I found out she took a mental health leave and subsequently left the school, with no one hearing from her again.
However, I never forgave my mom for allowing one of the weirdest encounters with a teacher to unfold right in our living room.
¹Madame J is a pseudonym — for obvious reasons.
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This post was previously published on De Minimis.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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