RESPECTABLE WOMEN: The trust and respect we find for ourselves, with and despite others

While trying to jog my memory for the story I want to tell, I started flipping through my high school yearbook from 1999–2000. I’m specifically trying to find the name of my junior-year trigonometry teacher. Not only did I find who I was looking for, but pictured right next to a group photo of him and his department colleagues was me, sitting in his class.

Wrapped in the backwards windbreaker of my tennis uniform, wielding a mechanical pencil, presumably to jot down notes and numbers that made some (or sum) sense.

In the moment, I took a quick snap with my phone and texted some girlfriends who didn't know this Shannon.

Find yourself some friends who love you and your hair.

I can assure anyone reading that I am not the person who pulls out the high school yearbook to reminisce about the “good old days." I didn’t see myself then the way my girlfriends see me now in our text thread. Honestly, I barely saw myself at all then. Like a lot of teens, I saw what others saw, whether based on what I was told or what I deduced over time.

By now, in this photo, I’m 16 or 17 and ... yeah … I’m actually kind of a bad ass (with nice hair). I'm an undefeated tennis player with awards and recognition for excelling in a sport—that few people knew or cared about, of course. Nevertheless, I was actually good and proud of myself at something—but careful not to be too proud or loud about it.

I don’t think I would ever dare describe myself as “excelling” in anything. Despite being an undefeated athlete in a sport I had just started as a freshman—arguably because tennis was the only school sport that couldn’t afford to cut anyone. Though I wanted to excel and be recognized for it, that desire was too terrifying to fully commit to. Excelling at something, or believing I did, felt like a sure way to open myself up to criticism and taunting that I had grown to deeply fear.

However, back in 7th grade, before tennis was a thought, I found myself thinking I might excel at something else and enjoy it: math. And I really loved my 7th grade math teacher, Mrs. Elizabeth Martin, at Gentry Middle School (no relation, my family name is not one that any school is named for). 

My core memories of Mrs. Martin’s classroom include how she didn’t accept unkindness or cruelty. We were there to learn math, and not be dicks to each other—quite a task as any 7th grade teacher knows. I admired Mrs. Martin for her boisterous presence and humor, and I genuinely respected her and her opinion of me as a student and person. She stood up for kids and expected better from everyone, at least, that’s how I remember.

I liked math and I liked the kinds of challenges it came with. Math didn’t require me to publicly embarrass myself trying (and failing) to run a mile in the gym while listening to Hootie and the Blowfish. (I have since ran countless 5Ks and half marathons, but still can’t listen to "Hold My Hand," "Only Wanna Be with You," or "Time" without feeling a pit in my stomach.) 

Those few years making the transition from elementary to middle and into high school, I increasingly focused more on my weight and appearance, as well as what others thought about my weight and appearance. Mrs. Martin’s large presence wasn’t just her personality; she was also a larger woman, but she carried herself differently than I knew how to then. She was confident. The kind of confidence that I trusted and wanted for myself. 

Mrs. Martin made me feel like I could be someone like her: smart, funny, thoughtful, and respected. I was so proud and eager to stand out in her class. She made me feel seen how I wanted to see myself: funny, smart, and overall a good person.

Thinking about it now, I would describe most of my math teachers from middle and high school in much the same way: smart, funny, thoughtful, and respected.

They also all happen to be women. Respectable women.

Math classrooms continued to be a place where I felt more confident in myself. In math, the right answer mattered more than your looks or physical ability. Math classrooms were also more predictable for me in two ways: 1) I wasn’t likely to have my feelings or opinions mocked, or be seen for anything other than my ability to solve an equation; and 2) the topic of anyone going to hell never came up.

A lot of people where I grew up, including young children, think it’s a kindness, a calling, or a service to warn others (including children) that they’re going to hell if they don’t go to church, or more specifically, if you are not “saved.” And look, if that’s what you believe, it’s not my calling to change your mind. This is not a challenge, I truly don’t care what you believe and I support your right to do so. This is my story and my experience.

When I started 11th grade trigonometry, I met “Mr. Trig,” the teacher whose name I was trying to remember in the first place. Mr. Trig was a very personable young man, only a year or two into his tenure as a teacher. Mr. Trig was relatable because he graduated from a North Carolina college, pursuing a path I thought I might one day take. I liked that. Mr. Trig was funny and his class felt relaxed and “cool” because we could talk about “real life” in between worksheets and lessons. Like so many teachers before, his opinion was one I came to respect and trust.

Mr. Trig was also a preacher (or maybe youth pastor?) outside of school. This was something we all knew and it came up enough to remember now above all else. Classroom conversations eventually turned from simply fun and personable to full-blown theological discussions that still sounded… reasonable, I guess? 

It was so normalized to me by then. I knew people thought this way, I knew because of the kids I went to school with and the occasional church services I attended with friends (always a one-and-done affair). And while I don’t have a deep well of childhood memories, I do remember each time someone told me I was going to hell, for absolutely no reason other than that’s what they were taught. It never seemed to actually have anything to do with me, who I was, what I did, or even how they said they perceived me as a person. A confusing and hurtful occasion each and every time.

It became something to deal with; being damned in the minds of some of my peers was something I could put into the same box reserved for other sentiments (about my weight, my looks, my joys) that hurt me. At least they were never affirmed by my teachers, parents, or family. This time was different. 

As Mr. Trig explained in class, eloquently I might add, the reason he and others share “the good word” to accept Jesus as the one and only savior is to save that person's soul from hell—it’s the one and only way. I took this as a chance to ask questions. 

“What about people who live a good life, people who are just good people living their lives and have never even heard of Jesus or this religion?” I asked, knowing I was really asking for myself. Because if he thought those people were damned, then I was certainly amongst them.

“Yes,” he confirmed. Of course, I can’t directly quote him now, as I can’t be sure 25 years later exactly what he said, but “yes” was his answer. I don’t remember the nuance that came with it. However, I do remember my shaken response: “I just don’t think there’s a god that cruel.” 

I said it with cracking in my voice, grief in my heart, and fighting the tears in my eyes that never seem to let me quietly feel anything. The bell rang and class was over.

This was the first time an adult who I respected, in a setting in which I typically felt more comfortable and safe, indicated that I was among the countless unsaved souls destined for a fiery future. It didn’t matter if you carry yourself with integrity; your kindness didn’t matter; your humanity didn’t matter; nothing about you (me) really mattered. In fact, you could be an objectively awful person; lie, steal, cheat, rinse and repeat, as long as you were good enough to go to the right church and be “saved” from your sinful self.

When I realized this adult thought (and was certain in his heart) I was going to hell—without really knowing me or the swathes of people across nations he believed were doomed, too—I guess I lost respect for him, along with any interest in his class. Go figure. I wasn’t rude or disrespectful, I just didn’t trust him or his opinion anymore. He made me feel unseen for anything that mattered to me or made me feel like a good person inside, or who I wanted to be. I think that’s about the shittiest thing an adult can do to a kid (well, almost), let alone an educator to a student during one of the most vulnerable and emotionally precarious times in their life.

It didn’t help that he was also the type to comment on what I wore when it wasn’t modest enough. I suppose he was trying to help me understand how to be a more respectable woman. Soon entering my rebellious era, I pushed back on those boundaries because dress codes in most cases are dumb, disproportionately target girls, and only matter when someone chooses to make it matter.

(Just ask the “Homescumming Queen” featured in the same year book, just a few pages away. Drag and midriffs were perfectly fine, as long as you also identified as a “saved” male Christian.)

What I almost immediately realized as soon as I started writing this is that the people reading right now don’t need to know Mr. Trig’s real name, nor do I need to share it, carry it, or remember it. Ever. 

It’s not that I think he’s a bad guy, I think he was nice and believed he was doing the right (or even righteous) thing. I just think he was a bad teacher in this time that I knew him. Good math teachers don’t tell students who they think are going to hell, it just doesn’t come up. I feel like that’s a fair assessment and I don’t know him outside of that context. For all I know now, he could be preaching to a megachurch in Kansas or running a lucrative meth lab in Kentucky. I don’t care. I wish him peace and love.

What I actually want to share right now, with students looking for respite from religious judgement and misguided men in academic spaces (for no particular reason at all today) are some valuable lessons I eventually learned: 

Trust the people who carry themselves the way you want to carry yourself, not those who tell you how you should carry yourself.

Trust how people make you feel, not how they say you should feel.

Trust how you come to define what kind of “respectable woman” (or man or person) you want to be for yourself and community, no one else.

Thank you, Mrs. Martin, for being a teacher I can remember with a warmth in my heart and smile on my face.