Voices From My Kitchen Table: You Can't Sit With Us

This week, enjoy a piece by my high school English teacher, whose story about wrangling kids uncovered teenage wounds I didn’t know still needed healing.

Michelle Obama refers to her close friends as her "Kitchen Table"—the diverse group of people from different parts of her life who gather around to share vulnerable, intimate stories with those they trust. Sometimes the stories are funny, raw, or uncomfortable but they are always heartfelt. This is my opportunity to share some of the stories from my own kitchen table.

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Many years ago, I reconnected with one of my favorite high school teachers on Facebook. She mentioned that she had shared a story about me on her blog, but, out of fear of offending me, had changed my name. When I read it, I was so moved by her retelling that I happily permitted her to use my real name. Now, she’s graciously allowed me to share that story here.

What struck me when I first read it was how often we focus only on our own experiences, oblivious to the experiences we are creating for those around us—especially when we’re 14. But this story, even over 30 years later, was a gift. It validated the reality I had lived. I knew I wasn’t popular, and I knew much of my adolescence was spent being bullied or made fun of. But I often wondered, “Was it all in my head?” Hearing this from a trusted adult who was there in the trenches with me and the other students made me feel truly seen and it is amazing how healing that can be.

It was also fascinating to hear how headstrong I already was at that age. I only remember being shy and awkward, wanting to disappear. But despite the taunts, I knew deep down I had so much more to do in life. And I did.

I hope you enjoy this submission from my Sophomore English teacher, Pat Kurz...

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Every year, I share certain stories with my students. One is about Don MacDonald and how rumor and reputation can shape how we treat people. Yesterday, I told another favorite—about seating charts and group choices, two of the more irritating necessities in teaching.

It would be fantastic if students could wisely choose their partners or seats—sitting in spots that wouldn't distract them and creating a setup that didn’t isolate anyone. But without teacher direction, they invariably choose their buddies and can’t focus on work. And if there’s any way to isolate the “weird” kid, they’ll do it.

In my first year of teaching, I had a notoriously difficult 10th-grade English class. My teacher training at EWU and Whitworth hadn’t exactly armed me with classroom management magic. I had one master teacher whose 10th-grade class was remarkably well-behaved, but his strategies didn’t work for me. To this day, I don’t know how they worked for him.

I arrived in April after his students were already trained, so I probably missed the crucial steps of breaking their wills and getting them to comply. My 10th graders, one year later, never did settle down. Discipline, I soon learned, is one of the most—if not the most—difficult parts of teaching. It means saying “no” and punishing people you genuinely like. I liked this class a lot, but nailing down the issues was like chasing shadows.

One day, fed up with trying to make another seating chart that would please everyone (or at least reduce the whining), I decided to try something I’d learned in teacher school. I asked the students to write down two people they wanted to sit by and one they’d prefer to avoid. It backfired. Badly.

That afternoon, I tried to accommodate one of everyone’s desired neighbors and seat each person at least one seat away from the person they’d chosen to “keep away.” It was immediately obvious that it would be impossible. Almost everyone had chosen the same kid as their personal anathema. No one wanted to sit by Bob.

I liked Bob. He was smart, funny, nice-looking, animated, and usually engaged with the lesson—though maybe that was because no one wanted to talk to him. I couldn’t understand why he was the target of so much enmity. I was troubled about how to handle it. Out of frustration, the seating chart I created was entirely my own design, without including a single request.

The next day, Bob was absent. I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but I decided to confront the class about their shared feelings. I asked them why they didn’t like Bob and why no one wanted to sit by him. They shifted uncomfortably in their seats, their eyes darting to the floor or their desks. Nobody could pinpoint anything specific about Bob. After a long, awkward silence, I gave them a mediocre lecture about tolerance, which was probably just as ineffective as it sounds.

The next day, Bob returned, completely unaware of the conversation he’d missed. Despite sensing how his classmates felt, he seemed either blissfully ignorant or entirely unbothered. He handed me his homework and pointed to the heading. “Miss Kurz,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “I no longer want to be Bob. From now on, I’m Baub,” he declared, drawing out the vowel dramatically.

“Baub?” I asked, mimicking him, “like bauble?”

“Yes,” he replied, drawing out the sound, “Baauuuub.”

“Alright,” I said. Names are important to identity, and who was I to judge how he wanted to spell or say his name?

Years later, while advising an AIDS peer education group at a retreat, I met a young man named Tom—oops, I mean Thom. He was short, slight, and a bit effeminate, so naturally, I teased him by calling him Thor. He quickly caught on, recognizing that I was poking fun at both his stature and the unconventional spelling of his name. He took it in stride, playing along, and even taught me something new.

“Young gay men,” he explained, “often choose to go by their full names, like Thomas, or change the spelling to something unique. They know they’re different, even if they aren’t sure why. It’s a way of embracing that difference and projecting the most fabulous version of themselves, especially while they’re still figuring out who they are.”

Not long after, I was at Ivar’s with my family when our waiter sashayed (yes, sashayed) up to the table. “Hi! I’m Eric; I’ll be your server,” he announced. Except it wasn’t “Eric”—his nametag read “Aeryk.”

Even though many years had passed, I immediately remembered Bob—er, Baub. I suddenly understood why the other kids didn’t like him and why they couldn’t articulate their attitude. It had been 1989, and very few people were comfortable talking about homosexuality, especially in a classroom. I didn’t know if Baub was gay, but his flamboyance and expressiveness reminded me of many gay men I’d known—people who marched to their own beat and set the tone in any room they entered. He even gave an expository speech on Madonna at a statewide Speech and Debate tournament.

As any teacher knows, simply appearing effeminate or being different in any way in high school can make you a target for horrific cruelty. Whether Baub was gay or not didn’t matter; his classmates couldn’t articulate why they felt uncomfortable—they just knew he was different. But Baub had known deep down for a long time that he was different, and rather than letting it weigh him down, he embraced it and learned to wear it with pride. Baub was simply figuring out who he was, determined to live up to his fabulous potential.

One of my favorite aspects of teaching was the lessons I often learned from my students.

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Me again. Pat, I just wanted to share a few words about you and the impact you had on my life...

When I first read your blog, it brought back memories I hadn’t thought about in years. I’m so glad I never knew about that meeting at the time; I can only imagine how embarrassing and devastating it would have been. But all these years later, it validated the struggles I faced and, more importantly, reminded me of how kind and influential you were during such a pivotal time in my life. I vividly remember how challenging that first year must have been for you, stepping into the shoes of a beloved teacher. But with time and consistency, you won us over, and for that, I’m grateful.

I had forgotten how you let me decorate the classroom with my endless pinups from Tiger Beat and Bop, turning it into something more like a teenager's bedroom than an English classroom. You also let me rearrange the desks in wild ways that probably made no sense. You cast me in the play Sparks in the Park (I’ll never forget “one glass of oranj goozey”) and, somehow, made me president of the Speech and Debate Club—granted, by default, but the details didn’t matter. What mattered was that you were one of the first people to believe in me and let me be myself, without judgment. You made me feel like “me” was enough, instilling a confidence I’d never had before and still carry with me today.

I still laugh at my Madonna speech—awful as it was! But at the time, Madonna was my everything, and you supported that wholeheartedly. You never made me feel like my passions were silly, and that meant the world to me. Even then, you knew that a rose bush needs to grow and blossom fully before it can be pruned and shaped. 

Looking back now, I realize how many seeds you planted that shaped my future. Before you, I hadn’t participated in any extracurricular activities—school was just an escape from a very sad home. But you showed me that school could be more than just academics; it could be a place to explore and express myself.

Thank you for giving me that space and standing by me through those chaotic years. I know you’ve touched the lives of many, but I’m honored to tell you firsthand that I was one of them. Also, you’ll be happy to know, that everyone wants to sit by me now. XO