Nine-Year-Old Ryan Told Me He Could Not Wait to Have Wife
Even then, I was pretty sure he meant husband
I saw his name when I was interviewing candidates for a teaching vacancy in my department. His first and last names, when together, are unremarkable. I added his resume to the pile. I didn't know he was Ryan from up the street until I called him to schedule an interview. Small world, we said. It will be nice to catch up, we said.
The interview started okay. As department chair, I invited the principal to join the interview. This wasn’t a must, but as a new principal, she was still eager to have her hand in everything. Delegation is a skill often learned late. The three of us chatted away about curriculum, lesson planning, classroom management, and teaching philosophy.
When Ryan began to list his extracurriculars to highlight his commitment to the school as a whole, the principal visibly flinched when he mentioned Gay-Straight Alliance. Ryan also caught her reaction and slowed down the pace of the anecdote. His eyes flicked to mine and then back to his hands. The principal declined to ask any more questions and, with an erect posture, indicated the interview was over. Ryan and I stood as she left the room. I shook his hand and said I would walk him out.
Standing in the parking lot near his car, I took his hand again and said nothing. I attempted an apology, but my words sounded hollow.
“Well, I guess she won’t be at our first club meeting,” Ryan said, sad laughter reaching his eyes.
Ryan and I grew up in a small, tightly-knit town in northern New Jersey. We lived in two corner properties on the same block. I often saw him walking to and from school or on his way to the park or a friend's house. Ryan would stop and talk to everyone; at six, on his way to being the Mayor, and by nine, his knowledge of the goings on in the neighborhood put the typical washer-women to shame. He knew everyone and everything that was going on around town.
One afternoon he slowed his walk and pulled his wagon to the curb at the end of my driveway. He had just returned from two weeks at summer camp and was eager to share the highlights. He grasped his hands together and asked, sotto voce, if I knew about sex. Not wanting to learn any more than I had to from a kid still in short pants, I said yes, I did.
Ryan nodded sagely. He explained that now he knew all about it, too, and that his previous secular vocation was no more. “I don't want to be a priest, Danyel,” he said conspiratorially, “I want instead to have a wife so we can do sex together.” His candor shook my normally aloof teenage countenance, and I struggled to keep my cool. I did not want to laugh at him; he was so earnest. He continued to share a few more stories from camp and then was on his way, wagon trailing behind him.
“I told you I wanted a wife?” Ryan’s sad laugh was replaced by a true guffaw. Twenty years later, he was so comfortable in his own skin that he had to laugh at such a story. And sharing the story proved better than my awkward apology.
Ryan turned out to be a phenomenal English teacher. He loved his students and supported them beyond the classroom. He started a new GSA chapter, this one even more inclusive when they joined the Genders & Sexualities Alliance Network. He supported his students and his colleagues. He laughed with them, learned with them, and grew with them. He was a good teacher.
Life dealt him more than one hand that anyone else would have folded. And like many of us, he had his demons.
A few weeks before he died, he and I sat by my pool and talked about a little of everything and a lot of nothing. It was a beautiful night, and Ryan made me laugh by sharing town gossip — always the washerwoman. But he always wished them well in the end, even after sharing their silly secrets. He was a good friend.
Just a few days ago, to celebrate Pride Month, we raised Ryan’s flag for the second year. Many gathered in support, in fellowship, as allies.
As I watched those colors waving in the wind, I was reminded of that young Ryan and his earnest enthusiasm for life. He never lost that passion, even in the face of adversity. He was a good, good man.
