Stretch

27 01 2008

Almost everything about attending a venerable boys’ school (45 girls to 900 boys my freshman year) was strange, but what I think most amused me was certain old faculty members’ visible, palpable discomfort in my presence. Whereas they called boys, “Smith,” “Harrington,” I was “Miss Ganley” or “Our resident member of the fairer sex.” One teacher, who tortured boys–“It’s a stretch, Jones, just to understand that you are speaking English. Would you kindly grace us with your full attention and your native tongue”– was unerringly polite and anxious with me. Undone actually. Stretched beyond the limits of his stunted imagination.

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