Portfolio

Click Here to purchase a copy of Unpublished Zine Issue 2: Movement printed in January 2020

Mr. Peters was always impeccably dressed. Every day, his shirt and tie were ironed to perfection and his signature khakis were stiffly starched. Despite the concrete look of his pants, Mr. Peters could cross his large classroom in seconds and though he had a mousy look about him, his voice was exuberant. His voice was my favorite thing about him; warm and versatile, his naturally feminine tone could instantly change pitch to make even the blandest characters come alive when he read aloud.  Mr. Peters was always incredibly cheerful. Every day, his smile was the first thing to greet his students and his laugh was soon to follow. Mr. Peters’ laugh was my second favorite thing about him. Unnaturally loud coming from such a small man, his cackle was contagious and undeniably authentic; it peppered every weekday with joy. 

Except for one.

 On that day, I walked into Mr. Peters’ room unannounced to eat lunch with him as I sometimes did, and he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t laughing. He was crying. Embarrassed, I stopped with one foot inside the classroom and knocked on the open door. Mr. Peters started slightly and wiped his reddening face, telling me to enter in a gravelly voice I did not recognize. His tie was loose, and his shirt was wrinkled in the front.  I sat farther away from him than I usually did and stared at “Peters’ Corner” across the room to avoid meeting his gaze. Spanning the entirety of one wall, Peters’ Corner was a private library in his classroom that students could borrow books from.

 I took advantage of Peters’ Corner more than any other student. We would have discussions about what I had read, just he and I. Mr. Peters understood my love for words more than any teacher had previously; he allowed me to relate the material to my own life and explored complex topics with me, making the information so easily digestible that my appetite for knowledge⁠—  especially uncomfortable truths like the history of slavery or the basis for the War on Terror⁠— became insatiable. Except on that day. When I asked him why he was crying, Mr. Peters said, “Some parents are upset with me.” I was dumbfounded. For the first time, I didn’t understand words that had exited Mr. Peters’ mouth. True to form as the Teacher’s Pet, I told him that I thought he was the most wonderful English teacher in the district and was relieved when his smile returned.  

Seeing him rattled made me profoundly uncomfortable for reasons I could not explain, and I felt anger toward anyone that could make my mentor seem vulnerable. We ate lunch as we normally did, and the memory of his sadness faded almost entirely as we dissected my latest read. That day in class, he was his normal bubbly self as we discussed The Hunger Games and acted out different scenes from it. I looked around at my classmates; every kid was smiling and had the glimmer of understanding in their eyes as he explained how “theme” and “motif” related to the scenes we were recreating. Mr. Peters’ tear-streaked face flashed through my mind, and I couldn’t help but wonder whose parents could possibly be offended by a man who made learning as fun as he did.

***

“Mr. P, why do you talk like that?” asked Jerry Dugan, a greasy jock strap with a mop of hair and a crooked smile. Outside of English class, Jerry and his buddies constantly mocked Mr. Peters’ high-pitched voice and the graceful way his hands gesticulated to punctuate his every word. It was clear from the moment you first spoke to Mr. Peters that he was not like the other male teachers. The man in question stopped writing on the white board abruptly, halting his impassioned speech about that week’s vocabulary terms, and turned to look down at Jerry where he sat on the floor behind me. Mr. Peters had a variety of pillows and bean-bag chairs, letting us sit on the floor and take notes if we were so inclined. It was the only aspect of the class that Jerry seemed to enjoy. 

“Jeremy, I don’t think I speak any certain way.” Mr. Peters said, some of the shine gone from his kind eyes.  “I mean why do you talk like a girl?” Jerry crowed, not bothering to feign innocence this time. His friends snickered behind their hands. A nervous titter swept through the rest of the class. Mr. Peters said nothing. The giggles died off as he looked Jerry directly in the eye. An awkward silence stretched through the classroom.

Every student jumped when Mr. Peters shattered the quiet with a short, hard-edged laugh. “HA! I don’t think doing anything ‘like a girl’ is a bad thing.” He said airily, turning again to the vocabulary terms and resuming his lecture. The girls in the class exchanged smug smiles and crimson crept up Jerry’s neck as boys and girls alike looked at him out of the corners of our eyes. He slumped into his bean bag chair, deflated and maybe even a little ashamed. 

Later, after the bell signaled our release from English, I walked behind Jerry and his friends as we left the classroom. I felt my stomach drop to the carpet when I heard what they were crudely whispering to each other, their heads nearly smacking together like three greasy bowling pins. Empty words like “faggot,” and “I’m going to tell my dad that Mr. P is a queer,” wafted towards me on their breath as Mr. Peters waved us off, seemingly oblivious. The corners of his mouth twitched – whether it was a smile or a grimace that tugged at his lips, I’ll never know. 

Eating lunch in his classroom one Friday, I listened to Mr. Peters hum under his breath as he added new books to Peters’ Corner. He’d stick each one into its new home and slide a finger down its spine adoringly. He left a couple of them tucked into the crook of his arm and sat down at the desk in front of me. A slight man with no wrinkles, he could’ve been a college student tutoring me. “This week’s haul.” He said cheerfully, plopping the novels in front of my tuna salad sandwich with a grin. His happiness was infectious. I smiled too and sifted through my options. Matthew Tobin Anderson’s Feed and John Green’s Looking for Alaska caught my eye⁠— two books that would eventually live among my favorites. 

I read the back covers and bagged them, giddy over the prospect of two new stories. I looked over at Mr. Peters, who had migrated to his desk a few feet away. He was looking tenderly at a small photograph of himself standing next to a handsome young man, one with a stubbly beard and bushy eyebrows over soft eyes. I’d somehow never noticed the photo on his desk before. Though I hadn’t said anything, I felt I was intruding on a private moment between Mr. Peters and the nameless man. I shifted awkwardly in my seat; not sure I should interrupt him. After what felt like five minutes but was likely only a few seconds, I tentatively asked, “Who’s that?” Mr. Peters turned abruptly and gave me a tight smile, saying only, “He’s a good friend of mine.”

That year, I read at least two books a week from his Corner, apart from the in-class reading assignments. Prior to his class I was an uncommonly avid reader, but I came out of eighth grade English a literary addict.  He inspired me to inspect the elements of a novel and see how every part contributes to the whole. He taught me to recognize the beautiful, subtle nuances of literature, and to use my own words to create magic like the authors I so admired. When I told him how much I loved Feed and Looking for Alaska, he let me keep them and wrote “The world is yours for the reading. -Mr. P,” on the first page of each one, citing one of my favorite Betty Smith quotes from a novel of hers that I had read at his recommendation, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn: “From that time on, the world was hers for the reading. She would never be lonely again, never miss the lack of intimate friends. Books became her friends and there was one for every mood.” Thank you, Mr. P, for introducing me to so many new friends, and for being one of them.

 The English class that unveiled how enjoyable school can be, and helped me realize that my words have importance, was taught by a homosexual. I will never know for certain, but I believe his sexual orientation made some parents so uncomfortable that his brilliance as an educator and person was disregarded. It’s likely that he chose to leave, but I wonder if there’s any real choice in a “resign or be a pariah” situation.  Maybe he decided to teach a younger grade, one with children less likely to patronize him with rude comments  or ostracize him with complaints to their parents. Regardless, his refusal to conform his character  to the culture of my school district had a profound impact on me. As an adolescent struggling with my own sexual identity, I disclosed to Mr. Peters that I believed I was bisexual. I had shaved my head, and though I had the eighth grade equivalent of a boyfriend, other students often called me a dyke or lesbian. 

Quaking in my high-top converse, I’d asked him if I was “that obvious.” Mr. Peters reassured me that it was probably just the haircut, emphasizing that I was a wonderful and important person regardless of who I chose to be romantic with. He never said, “I get it because I’m gay, too.” He didn’t have to.  When I returned to the eighth grade English hall to say hello the following year, Mr. Peters and his books were gone, replaced by a young woman with a charming smile. She had moved the bookshelves, now empty, to different parts of the room. Ms. Charming-Smile had no idea where the room’s previous occupant had gone. Three years after taking his class, I came out to my entire high school as bisexual via the school newspaper, deciding I would speak up not just for myself and the other queer students in the district, but for Mr. Peters, too.

There are good teachers and bad teachers, but to me, Mr. Peters was something else entirely. My first real mentor. My favorite librarian. My lunchmate and confidant. The first adult I came out to. He was born to be an educator, and I fervently hope he continued to teach after leaving my school district. I don’t know where Mr. Peters went and frankly, I haven’t looked. I don’t even know his first name. What I do know is that I loved his class, and that I grieved his absence as I began high school. I also know that wherever he is, he is impeccably dressed and smiling, likely at a handsome man with bushy eyebrows over soft eyes⁠— surely, his laugh is still soon to follow.

Click Here to purchase a copy of Unpublished Zine Issue 2: Movement printed in January 2020

The following is

the enduring legacy

of (former) President Trump:

“You have to treat [girls]

like shit,” to the New York Mag,

nineteen ninety-two.

Dinner not ready?

Trump said he’d “go through the roof.”

Nineteen ninety-four.

Could he have nailed late

Princess Di? “I think I could

have.” ‘Ninety-seven.

“[Women] are far worse

than men.. and boy, can they be

smart!” ‘Ninety-seven.

“My daughter, she has

the best body.” To H. Stern,

two thousand and three.

“If she was not my

daughter.. I’d be dating her.”

To The View, ‘oh-six.

On The Apprentice,

victories by women were

about “sex appeal.”

They all flirted with

Trump; “That’s to be expected.”

From How to Get Rich.

On teenage Lohan,

“She is probably deeply 

troubled..” In ‘oh-four.

Then mused: “How come the

deeply troubled women.. they’re 

always good in bed.”

Women can’t resist

him. “They will flip their panties.”

To H. Stern, ‘oh-eight. 

On militant rape:

“What did these geniuses

expect?” Tweet, ’thirteen.

To a reporter:

“…you wouldn’t have your job if

you weren’t beautiful.”

The President spoke

those words in twenty fourteen.

Why? “The look.. matters.”

Megyn Kelly has

“Blood.. out of her ‘wherever.’”

CNN, ’fifteen.

On Fiorina,

“..next president? I mean, she’s

a woman.” ‘Fifteen.

“Heidi Klum. Sadly,

she is no longer a ten.”

NYT, ’Fifteen.

“Nobody has more

respect for women than

I do.” Twenty sixteen.

“Grab her right by the

pussy.” Caught on video

in twenty sixteen.

The #MeToo Movement?

“..a scary time for young men,” 

said President Trump.

“You’ve got to be strong..

to deny anything that’s

said.. Never admit.”

“When you’re a star, they

let you do it.” Don’t forget

to treat girls like shit.

Sources: 

https://theweek.com/articles/655770/61-things-donald-trump-said-about-women

https://apps.voxmedia.com/graphics/vox-trump-misogny-timeline/

Here’s Why Kyle Richards’ Hands Get Fans Talking

The Truth About History Channel’s ‘Alone’ TV Show

Why Lance Armstrong’s ‘SNL’ Performance Is Considered Terrible

Edinboro University Student Paper

Exploring Institutionalized Colorism and MoreExploring Institutionalized Colorism and More / October 18, 2019

First ‘Uncomfortable Conversations’ Lecture Covers the Electoral College / September 27, 2019

Who’s Who in the 2018 Midterm Elections: Governors / September 19, 2018

2nd Amendment: Inside the Most Heated Topic of 2018 / April 4, 2018

A Classic Returns: “The Dark Crystal’ Re-Released in Theaters / February 28, 2018

Black History Comes Alive on the Edinboro Campus / February 21, 2018

Partisan Politics Square Off with US Stability in Recent Shutdown / February 7, 2018

Edinboro group presents domestic violence awareness / November 15, 2017

Click Here to read the news compilations posted January – March 2018 to Pasquines.us

Small Samples, Big Returns: The Power of Small User Groups in User Experience Research

What is User Experience Research? (Part 1)

The Benefits of User Experience Research (Part 2)

Practical Use Cases of User Experience Research (Part 3)

Harnessing the Power of ChatGPT: Revolutionizing Business Conversations

Converting Angular Apps to React: A Comprehensive Guide for Seamless Migration

Cracking the Code: The Art of Software Maintenance for Long-Term Success