Best Teacher Ever

By Jessica Lake

Let’s call her Stella.

She taught art in my eighth-grade middle school. She was young—barely older than her students—and not much taller. For me, it was infatuation at first sight. I wanted to be that ball of fire when I grew up. She was a temporary teacher, passing through.

A few of us lingered after class, gathering in the far back of the room. I didn’t understand it then, but Stella saw straight through my mask. She did more for me than I was capable of recognizing at the time.

She told us—casually, as if it were ordinary—that the LGBT community existed. That there were people like us. That there were places in the world where difference wasn’t fatal. For me, this was oxygen. It was the first hint that my strangeness might have coordinates.

One day she told us a story.

She was waiting for her flight at LaGuardia Airport when a slight man passed by—swish, click; swish, click. They ended up seated together on the plane. In the overhead bin he placed a large hatbox. They talked. Inside the box was a wig made of human hair.

He told her he was a female impersonator—what we would later call a drag queen. He traveled the country performing in gay bars. I think she said he lived in Chelsea, in New York City.

I hung on every word.

In hindsight, I can’t help but think she was speaking directly to me—telling me, without saying it outright, that there might be a place for someone like me.

One afternoon, Stella pulled me aside. She told me the theme of the upcoming school talent show would be The Pink Panther. Between acts, the school band would play the movie theme. She asked if I would like to mime the Pink Panther—performing silent comedy between and during the acts.

My mother bought white pajamas and dyed them pink. Stella drew a Pink Panther face on stiff paper and pasted it to a paper bag. Disguised this way, no one would know who I was.

The anonymity gave me a sweetness I had never known.

The Pink Panther—like Bugs Bunny—had no trouble with drag. In one act, a boy played the piano. I was supposed to fawn over him. I lay on my stomach, scissored my legs, kicked my feet in the air. I don’t think he liked me.

I had never had so much fun.

For the final bit, the house lights dimmed. In front of the closed curtain, I tiptoed across the stage to the Panther’s theme. Suddenly the lights snapped on. I froze. Then I bolted for the gap in the curtains and vanished.

The applause went on and on.

Stella gave me a gift beyond measure: a moment of success that stayed with me for decades.

The best part was that no one knew who I was.

The worst part was that no one knew who I was.