Mrs. Stonehouse

When I hit high-school they put me in an all-boy class. Packing a classroom with nothing but teenage boys has to rank as one of the dumber ideas in the history of education, and here’s why. In a mixed class, the boys and girls are, to a greater or lesser extent, trying to impress one another. That can run the gamut from innocent flirting to brazen show-offery and everything in between. I know I’m indulging stereotypes here, but by high school the civilizing effect women have on men is already visible. Segregate those teens and the all-boy classes turn into case studies of raw, unmitigated, and savage Lord-of-the-Flies-style assholery. You’ve got 30-something testosterone-addled adolescent boys trapped in a classroom. French was a mandatory course, due to Canada’s bilingual heritage. This was a recent policy ammendment widely resented by not only the students, but many of their parents. As a result, the Ministry of Education decreed that every student would be granted the French credit even if they failed the course. Which brings me to our French teacher, a Mrs. Stomehouse. The poor woman was put in a room with a pack of teenage boys who a) didn’t want to be there in the first place, and b) knew they’d get the credit even if the teacher failed us! Well! When one kid in an all-boy class pulls an asshole stunt, there’s at least a dozen guys willing to take a shot at topping it. I was briefly top dog in the a-hole sweepstakes after dropping my desk out of our third-floor window when Mrs. Stonehouse had stepped out of the room for a moment. Mrs. Stonehouse was not exactly a ray of sunshine at the best of times. Her spring chicken days were long behind her, and she seemed to relish torturing us with French verb conjugations. My pal Barry Kline and I noticed that, while she was crabby all the time, she was extra crabby for a few days at a time… like every month or so. Our math teacher would have been impressed that two idiots in his class had successfully graphed their French teacher’s menstrual cycle. Once we could accurately predict the extra-crabby days, the whole class slathered on extra helpings of boorish assholery. A room full of chimps would have been easier to manage. We successfully drove Mrs. Stonehouse out of the room in tears at least once or twice a month for the rest of the year. Many years later I found myself standing in front of a classroom, facing obnoxious teens keen to pit their asshole skills against mine. They never stood a chance! But I did grow to regret how I treated Mrs. Stonehouse. If your still out there M’am, please accept my apology.