Dear Mr. H:
Raphael Simon is here – Raffi, you may remember me.
The last time we met was in 1982, at an elite school in Los Angeles where I was your student.
Mr H, you are a wonderful teacher – smart, witty, sometimes tough, with a real passion for the subjects you teach. But I’m not writing to thank you for what I learned in class; This is not one of those letters. I am not writing to accuse you; this is not one of those letters.
I am writing to apologize.
Like most apologies, this one was purely performative. It changes nothing. Still, I have to admit it.
Belly dancer? My fault.
I found her. I hired her. I was in charge of the whole thing, except for the belly dancing itself.
You remember the belly dancer, don’t you? Let me back it up.
When I was in ninth grade, I took a mixed history and English class called Research Writing, in which we learned how to use things like card catalogs, document sources, and footnote formatting—skills that were once vital and now Superseded by Time and ChatGPT.
For my first paper, I chose to write about the Calcutta Black Hole, only to discover that the name had nothing to do with astronomical black holes, let alone the nude musical Oh! Calcutta! In my historical novel project, I wrote a mystery about Napoleon’s exile on the island of Elba—a subject I chose mainly because Napoleon is one of my favorite pastries.
It’s obvious that nothing we teach in your classes justifies having half-naked women dancing around our tables.
You were in your 30s at the time. Slender figure, fair skin, brown curly hair. Casual preppy.
I was 14 years old, full of acne and nerdy. California’s version of the typical but slightly feminine Jewish teenage boy. I also started to doubt some things about myself at that time, or I just started to doubt.
Anyway, I like you. All your students like you. Research Writing is an honors course. We sit in a circle, not in a row. Of course we want to celebrate your birthday. Birthday surprise – this was my excuse for betraying my classmates.
Why belly dancing and not a birthday cake?
For one thing, belly dancing plays a bigger role in my imagination than you might think. This is largely due to my grandmother Esther, who had an abiding fascination with belly dancing. She would describe the way they moved their bellies like magic, with muscles unknown to the rest of us. Strong female power, sexy but not submissive.
The first time I saw a live belly dance performance was at my favorite restaurant, the Mount of Tunis, where diners sat on low banquettes and ate at brass tables at sunset. Every hour, music would start playing and women in sequins and silks would emerge from behind the curtains and sway across the room—heaven.
I learned the names of your dancers from the mountains of Tunis. It’s interesting to think about how difficult a task this must have been. I had to consult the Yellow Pages, or, more likely, “information”—something my parents frowned upon because of the fees. When I called the restaurant I had to talk to the person on site and explain what I wanted. This was all before calling the belly dancer.
On your birthday, I remember being nervous, not sure she would come. I jumped when I heard a knock on the door.
Our classroom was in a bungalow. She was standing on the porch, with dyed black hair, bright red lipstick, a windbreaker on her clothes, and a speaker under her arm.
I was very excited; now, too late, I was overcome with doubt. I led her into the room. My classmates giggled. I’m pointing at you. “That’s the birthday boy.”
Without saying a word she put on the music, unbuttoned her coat, and started spinning.
The dance is hazy in my mind, a blur of translucent black veils and long silver scarves.
She circles the room, then circles you, then circles the room again – sexy but never also Sexy.
I watched your expressions as the rest of the class yelled. Your face turns pale, then red, then pale again. It shows flashes of anger and intense embarrassment, ending in polite patience and forced humor.
Of course, it was to see your reaction that I arranged this surprise. This is the real reason for this apology.
Your possible homosexuality has been a topic of debate among your students, not in a malicious way, but in a fun, gossipy way. And then a month or two before your birthday, you almost say our guesses out loud.
I don’t remember the context. Maybe we’re talking about Anita Bryant or some other anti-gay crusader. Or, closer to home, the Briggs Initiative nearly succeeded in banning gays from teaching in California a few years ago.
All I remember is something you once said: “My gay friends and my straight friends.” As if they were equal categories. Just like a friend–anyone–can become gay just as easily as heterosexual.
Just like you, our teacher, might be.
In 1982, the idea of openly gay teachers sparked controversy that would be difficult to fathom in California today—or in part California today. (Attempts to ban LGBTQ+ books and suppress LGBTQ+ speech have recently spread to nearby areas like Glendale and Huntington Beach.) For you to suggest, however vaguely, that you might be gay, it must have taken tremendous courage.
I reward your courage by bullying you with a belly dancer.
When I presented this idea to my classmates, I called it a test. What am I expecting? If you’re straight, should you gasp like a horny cartoon character? If you’re gay, so what? Turning green?
Whether or not you have the word “test” in your mind, judging from your reaction, you feel like your sexual orientation is being challenged. I’m very sorry. The premise of this stunt is both offensive and ridiculous.
I don’t have the guts to claim credit, but I suspect you do too. In my memory, there were one or two knowing glances between us. Maybe you understand something I don’t: I’m trying to insulate myself from the same situation when testing you for signs of homosexuality.
When the belly dancer finishes, you clap like you had a great time. You thanked us for the birthday surprise, even though we both knew it was more of a birthday prank than a birthday gift.
So I guess this is a thank you note after all. Thank you for being more forgiving than angry. Thank you for not asking too much about who hired the belly dancers, or why.
Most of all, thank you for instilling in a student the idea that it might be okay to be gay, even if it takes years for the gay student to absorb that simple lesson.
Sincerely, Raffi
Raphael Simon is better known as children’s author Pseudonym Bosch. He and his husband live in Pasadena with their two daughters. It turns out that Mr. H does remember the belly dancer. He and his husband had just celebrated 30 years together.
