Lizzie

When Jane and I went to high school in New Jersey in the early 80’s, there were no state-imposed SOL’s (standards of learning) or tense parents’ Q & A nights for the Sex Ed program.  Instead, the Driver’s Ed instructors doubled as “Health” teachers—probably an appropriate combination, given that sex and driving were the two extra-curriculars most likely to result in our self-destruction.  

Jane 

Especially when they occurred simultaneously, ha ha.

Lizzie

Sex Ed was, in fact, taught a whole lot like behind-the-wheel.  From the teacher’s perspective, it seemed to go something like this:  “Let’s just take a spin together and see what we come to.  If I don’t like what I’m seeing, I’ll slam on my passenger-side brake and tell you that students like you make me fear for the safety of us all.”

Mr. Genovese was a compact fireplug of a man with a thick Jersey accent.  I guess he was in his mid-30’s at the time, and he had a sort of fading Sicilian handsomeness and a good bit of swagger.  He not only taught Driver’s Ed, Behind the Wheel, and 9th-Grade Health—but he was also the school wrestling coach.  He had a brash, “bring-it-on” attitude, and one of his primary goals for us 9th-graders, he told us, was to make us completely comfortable with the correct names (and acceptable alternative names) for all of the organs and secretions of the human reproductive system.  

He had an interesting method for accomplishing that worthy objective.  He would lecture for a while as we took notes and tried to stifle our giggles.  The stuffy air of the trailer classroom would be filled with terms like “scrotal sac,” “inner labia,” and “vas deferens” and the chalkboard full of enthusiastically drawn diagrams.  At the exact moment when it began to feel slightly normal absorbing all of this sexual vocabulary, he would drop the mild lecturer persona and become suddenly the Grand Inquisitor.

Rapid-fire, with a courtroom delivery, he would shoot the questions out at us.  “What is the name of the primary male sex organ?”  “What is another name for the birth canal?”  “What part of the penis is removed during circumcision?”  If he didn’t hear voluntary, intelligible, correct responses from the class, he would call upon individuals to ask more ticklish questions.  United by our bond of discomfort, we had all learned that the best approach was for all of us to cheerily call out the names of the requisite “naughty bits.”  It felt odd to chirp, “Testicle!” while sitting next to the boy I had a crush on; yet it was still better than having the bare light bulb of anatomical correctness glaring down upon my head.  Or upon one of my classmates.

Most of us overcame shyness to call out in this way—but for one boy in the class, the choral sex-organ chant seemed to be the highlight of the day.  No one was more eager than Drew to beat his classmates to the punch.  No one had as bottomless a reservoir of sex-ed vocabulary.  The problem was, only about half of Drew’s wealth of knowledge qualified as correct responses.  The rest was crude—as if ripped from a page of Hustler.   Moreover, every answer Drew gave was preceded by a sharp intake of breath and a slurping sound of saliva being gathered between his teeth.

Mr. Genovese:  “What is the name for what happens during arousal when blood rushes to the penis?”
Drew:  (Fast loud inhale and slurp of spit.)  “Wood!”

Generally, I managed to do pretty well at keeping a poker face in Health class.  But Drew’s responses would strain my frozen expression almost to the cracking point.  I don’t know what my classmates’ expressions looked like, because I would not allow myself to look anywhere but straight down at my notebook or directly at the teacher. Mr. Genovese, however, was a master of the poker face—and had, with a faintly bored expression, corrected most of Drew’s street-lingo infractions with the correct term.    

Drew outdid himself (and nearly undid Mr. Genovese) on the day we were all being interrogated before the final exam.

Mr. Genovese:  (Wheeling around to face us after drawing a diagram of the female genitalia on the board.)  “What is another commonly used term for the clitoris?”

The classroom was dead-silent for a moment—because, for some reason, having to say “female penis” was even more awkward than having to say “penis.”

Drew, however, did not miss a beat.  With a giant grin and a triumphant, slurping intro, he yelled, “CLIT!”

Our previously unflappable sex-ed teacher had finally reached his straight-face threshold.  He reddened, the corners of his mouth quivered, and he turned to face the board.  His shoulders shook for a couple of seconds as he labeled the diagram with the correct term.  He turned, composed but still blushing, to face the class. And…changed the subject to personal hygiene practices.  The sex-ed equivalent, I suppose, of hitting the passenger-side brake before the little Reliant K could sail blithely into the red-light district.  And then pointing in toward the car wash.

Jane 

I am so with Mr. Genovese and his lack of composure on this one.  Sitting here reading Lizzie’s blushing recollections of 9th Grade "Health" class, I couldn’t help but crack up, and do a bit of blushing myself.  I have my own Drew story, which I will recount someday soon when I describe my brief childhood and pre-teen forays into the world of team sports.  

Lizzie’s story brought back many memories I must have purposely buried.  The trailer classroom,the detailed chalk drawings on the chalk board, Mr. Genovese screaming at me during my disastrous Behind the Wheel portion of Drivers Ed, (How many people do you know that actually got pulled over during Driver’s Ed?) and of course those brutal group shouting out of embarrassing bits of anatomy.  

Prior to this afternoon, believe it or not, I did not remember all that much that was funny or outre about High School Sex Ed.  Due to my very precocious reading of The Happy Hooker, The Joy of Sex, various Harold Robbins novels, and of course Cosmo magazine, there wasn’t much that was taught in 9th Grade "Health" class that I didn’t already know.  Sort of like Drew, with perhaps a more literary bent.  I suppose this lack of memory is itself a symptom of the times we grew up in. (and perhaps a symptom of the several brain cells I destroyed during the walk from the main High School building to that trailer classroom, whoops).  My own young children will, of course, be far more sheltered than we were. (yeah, right)

What I do remember, quite vividly, is The Film we were  shown in 6th grade.  All the girls in the class were ushered into a special room (no boys allowed!) for this cinematic extravaganza, as we were were made privy to that most embarrassing secret of our budding womanhood, Menstruation.  After the film, we were subjected to class discussion, handed a pamphlet, and a pad with a belt.  Seriously.  A belt.  As though adhesive strips had never been invented.  

Then of course there was all that "self-taught" sex ed going on, but that, my friends, is a story for another day…