Misadventures of a Suffolk Teenager*The Boy In My Typing Class
It was the second week of September 1979. How do I know this? There are things you simply remember because.
First, I dreaded my typing class at John F. Kennedy High School. Miss Martin was a good teacher – kind, patient, and caring. It was the second week of peck-the-peck exercises we had to complete in beginner typing. It bored me to tears. Second, Ring My Bell by Anita Ward and Good Times by Chic were released in the summer of 1979 and were still being played on the radio. People were coming to class singing the songs. I was about sick of Ring My Bell. Third, I couldn't stop staring when he walked into Miss Martin’s typing class.
That feeling hits everyone. I don’t care where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. Mine hit in 10th grade. Yep. The love bug hit me like a cinder block right upside my head. So, the story about “The Boy In My Typing Class” began.
He was the most handsome guy I ever saw in my life. Attractive, dark-skinned, quiet, and mysterious. His smile was so smooth and warm it could melt 20 inches of snow on a winter Philadelphia day.
I didn’t have a best friend to confide in. I was scared to admit to myself that I fell head over heels for this boy. It was a strange feeling. I had gone through high school up until now without a crush on anyone. I intentionally blocked it out of my mind. I made myself immune to such nonsense.
No decent boy would be interested in me, especially how I looked and dressed. My clothes came from the Salvation Army, the white people my mother worked for, or hand-me-downs from my sister and her friends. Nothing fitted me properly. Plus, the clothes were outdated.
By the time I was in 10th grade, my foot was a narrow size 10, my arms were skinny, and my legs were long. My butt was so flat you couldn’t tell my back from my front.
My hair…Ugh! I did my best when I washed it and used Grandma’s old straightening comb to pull out the kinks. The edges were awful. I was too afraid I would burn my hair out or leave a scar on the side of my face and temples. I wore my hair flat so no one would see the kinky edges. My mother didn’t have money to send me to a hairdresser, and she didn’t do it. So, I was left with no alternative but to handle it myself. Once again, what decent boy would be interested in me?
I had two things going for myself: I didn’t bother anyone. I was a quiet, nice person until I fired back at someone for bothering me first. I was also smart; an honor student. My name was always printed in the Suffolk News Herald each semester. How foolish of me. I thought those two things were enough. I wasn’t in any cliques. That was another plus. That said, I pursued this guy my way.
The day he walked into Miss Martin’s class, I sat at one of the Royal typewriters in the back of the class. All that was left in the right corner of the room were those old ones with jacked-up ribbons and a bell that dinged when you came to the end of your typing line.
He went to sit down and wasn’t pleased with the leftovers. That’s when he spoke. “These things don’t work. I can’t do my assignment.”
“Come up front and sit with me,” Miss Martin responded. “You can use my typewriter.”
“I’ll stay here.” He replied.
I got up, took one of the old typewriters, and let him sit at mine. He looked at me, continued chewing on his toothpick, moved his things to the desk, and never said thank you.
I struggled with the old typewriter while he finished his assignment on time, left class when the bell rang and never gave me a second look or thought. After that, I didn’t politely give up my Royal typewriter. He was always late and was lucky to get a good typewriter. I don’t care if he did or not. I stand by my first impression, though. He was good-looking and sexy.
After that, I always saw him around Kennedy with his friends. I knew the guys from East Suffolk (they never passed up a chance to tease me and call me ugly). The others I didn’t know. I wondered where he had come from. I know he wasn’t a product of East Suffolk. Perhaps he went to Driver Elementary and Driver Middle Schools?
One day, when I returned home from school, my mother handed me a letter. It was from the Suffolk School Board. The neighborhoods had been rezoned. Anyone who lived in North Jericho was reassigned to John Yeates. I was horrified. My days of seeing this boy were numbered. I had to do something to get him to notice me.
I found out his name and learned that he lived in Oakdale. I wrote it all over my notebooks. Of course I guarded my notebooks like Fort Knox. If they fell into the wrong hands, I would be the school's laughing stock. I was already unpopular because of where I lived, how I looked, and being poor.
One day, the drill team was behind Kennedy practicing. The loud, uncouth football team burst out the gym door and headed to the field for their practice. He was in the bunch. When I saw him in his uniform, drool spilled from my mouth. One of the (pretty, popular girls) on the drill team pointed at me and broke out laughing.
Of course, it was spread over the school that I had a crush on someone on the football team. Geez! My secret was no longer a secret. The girls on the drill team told their friends. I was laughed at and teased for months. They never found out who the boy was. I wasn’t that stupid.
The drill team was responsible for creating a fundraiser to pay for uniforms and a spot in the Suffolk Thanksgiving Day parade. Many of the girls decided on a “Tag Dance.” The girls in the school had to tag a boy for the dance. The tickets were blue and pink.
We each had to sell 5 sets of tickets for $10 – a ticket for him and a ticket for her. I worked cleaning houses for two white women on weekends. I asked Miss Briggs (on Wilroy Road) and Miss Howell (on Constance Road) for extra work so I could earn enough money to pay for my tickets.
Yes. My bravery came out of nowhere. I spotted him at his locker near the gym days before the dance. I walked up to the locker and handed the ticket to him. Not knowing what to expect, I stood there waiting for a response. He took the ticket and walked away. I guess he was embarrassed. I don’t know what was going through his mind. A simple thank you would have sufficed.
The night of the dance, he walked into the dance, hugging a ninth grader. I was so hurt. I spent the night of the dance up in the bleachers crying. I did all that work so he could attend the dance with a ninth-grader.
This didn’t deter me. I always looked for him when I went to the school dances at Kennedy, Booker T. Washington, and the Suffolk Armory. If his friends were there, I knew he would be too.
A strange thing happened at one of the dances at Booker T. one Saturday night. I was on the floor dancing to One Nation Under a Groove, and when the song ended, I sat down on the first row of the bleachers (the dance was held in the gym). The DJ put on a slow song. I never danced to those. I usually went outside for air or to the ladies' room.
Next thing, I realized he had come over and asked me to slow dance. He took my hand and led me to the floor. I had no clue how to slow dance. It didn’t take him long to find that out. He left me standing in the middle of the floor and looked for someone else.
I felt tall as an ant. I was ignorant about many things. My opportunity to put my arms around this guy left as quickly as it had come. My heart sank.
Time was running out. What was I going to do? He was a junior. I was a sophomore. This was my last year at Kennedy. He would graduate the next year and go live his life. I carried around his face in my mind for a long time.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
First, I dreaded my typing class at John F. Kennedy High School. Miss Martin was a good teacher – kind, patient, and caring. It was the second week of peck-the-peck exercises we had to complete in beginner typing. It bored me to tears. Second, Ring My Bell by Anita Ward and Good Times by Chic were released in the summer of 1979 and were still being played on the radio. People were coming to class singing the songs. I was about sick of Ring My Bell. Third, I couldn't stop staring when he walked into Miss Martin’s typing class.
That feeling hits everyone. I don’t care where you are, what you’re doing, or who you’re with. Mine hit in 10th grade. Yep. The love bug hit me like a cinder block right upside my head. So, the story about “The Boy In My Typing Class” began.
He was the most handsome guy I ever saw in my life. Attractive, dark-skinned, quiet, and mysterious. His smile was so smooth and warm it could melt 20 inches of snow on a winter Philadelphia day.
I didn’t have a best friend to confide in. I was scared to admit to myself that I fell head over heels for this boy. It was a strange feeling. I had gone through high school up until now without a crush on anyone. I intentionally blocked it out of my mind. I made myself immune to such nonsense.
No decent boy would be interested in me, especially how I looked and dressed. My clothes came from the Salvation Army, the white people my mother worked for, or hand-me-downs from my sister and her friends. Nothing fitted me properly. Plus, the clothes were outdated.
By the time I was in 10th grade, my foot was a narrow size 10, my arms were skinny, and my legs were long. My butt was so flat you couldn’t tell my back from my front.
My hair…Ugh! I did my best when I washed it and used Grandma’s old straightening comb to pull out the kinks. The edges were awful. I was too afraid I would burn my hair out or leave a scar on the side of my face and temples. I wore my hair flat so no one would see the kinky edges. My mother didn’t have money to send me to a hairdresser, and she didn’t do it. So, I was left with no alternative but to handle it myself. Once again, what decent boy would be interested in me?
I had two things going for myself: I didn’t bother anyone. I was a quiet, nice person until I fired back at someone for bothering me first. I was also smart; an honor student. My name was always printed in the Suffolk News Herald each semester. How foolish of me. I thought those two things were enough. I wasn’t in any cliques. That was another plus. That said, I pursued this guy my way.
The day he walked into Miss Martin’s class, I sat at one of the Royal typewriters in the back of the class. All that was left in the right corner of the room were those old ones with jacked-up ribbons and a bell that dinged when you came to the end of your typing line.
He went to sit down and wasn’t pleased with the leftovers. That’s when he spoke. “These things don’t work. I can’t do my assignment.”
“Come up front and sit with me,” Miss Martin responded. “You can use my typewriter.”
“I’ll stay here.” He replied.
I got up, took one of the old typewriters, and let him sit at mine. He looked at me, continued chewing on his toothpick, moved his things to the desk, and never said thank you.
I struggled with the old typewriter while he finished his assignment on time, left class when the bell rang and never gave me a second look or thought. After that, I didn’t politely give up my Royal typewriter. He was always late and was lucky to get a good typewriter. I don’t care if he did or not. I stand by my first impression, though. He was good-looking and sexy.
After that, I always saw him around Kennedy with his friends. I knew the guys from East Suffolk (they never passed up a chance to tease me and call me ugly). The others I didn’t know. I wondered where he had come from. I know he wasn’t a product of East Suffolk. Perhaps he went to Driver Elementary and Driver Middle Schools?
One day, when I returned home from school, my mother handed me a letter. It was from the Suffolk School Board. The neighborhoods had been rezoned. Anyone who lived in North Jericho was reassigned to John Yeates. I was horrified. My days of seeing this boy were numbered. I had to do something to get him to notice me.
I found out his name and learned that he lived in Oakdale. I wrote it all over my notebooks. Of course I guarded my notebooks like Fort Knox. If they fell into the wrong hands, I would be the school's laughing stock. I was already unpopular because of where I lived, how I looked, and being poor.
One day, the drill team was behind Kennedy practicing. The loud, uncouth football team burst out the gym door and headed to the field for their practice. He was in the bunch. When I saw him in his uniform, drool spilled from my mouth. One of the (pretty, popular girls) on the drill team pointed at me and broke out laughing.
Of course, it was spread over the school that I had a crush on someone on the football team. Geez! My secret was no longer a secret. The girls on the drill team told their friends. I was laughed at and teased for months. They never found out who the boy was. I wasn’t that stupid.
The drill team was responsible for creating a fundraiser to pay for uniforms and a spot in the Suffolk Thanksgiving Day parade. Many of the girls decided on a “Tag Dance.” The girls in the school had to tag a boy for the dance. The tickets were blue and pink.
We each had to sell 5 sets of tickets for $10 – a ticket for him and a ticket for her. I worked cleaning houses for two white women on weekends. I asked Miss Briggs (on Wilroy Road) and Miss Howell (on Constance Road) for extra work so I could earn enough money to pay for my tickets.
Yes. My bravery came out of nowhere. I spotted him at his locker near the gym days before the dance. I walked up to the locker and handed the ticket to him. Not knowing what to expect, I stood there waiting for a response. He took the ticket and walked away. I guess he was embarrassed. I don’t know what was going through his mind. A simple thank you would have sufficed.
The night of the dance, he walked into the dance, hugging a ninth grader. I was so hurt. I spent the night of the dance up in the bleachers crying. I did all that work so he could attend the dance with a ninth-grader.
This didn’t deter me. I always looked for him when I went to the school dances at Kennedy, Booker T. Washington, and the Suffolk Armory. If his friends were there, I knew he would be too.
A strange thing happened at one of the dances at Booker T. one Saturday night. I was on the floor dancing to One Nation Under a Groove, and when the song ended, I sat down on the first row of the bleachers (the dance was held in the gym). The DJ put on a slow song. I never danced to those. I usually went outside for air or to the ladies' room.
Next thing, I realized he had come over and asked me to slow dance. He took my hand and led me to the floor. I had no clue how to slow dance. It didn’t take him long to find that out. He left me standing in the middle of the floor and looked for someone else.
I felt tall as an ant. I was ignorant about many things. My opportunity to put my arms around this guy left as quickly as it had come. My heart sank.
Time was running out. What was I going to do? He was a junior. I was a sophomore. This was my last year at Kennedy. He would graduate the next year and go live his life. I carried around his face in my mind for a long time.
Edited by: Michael A. Robinson Jr
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