The first time I saw him, I noticed the patterned socks peeking from his high rise slacks, his freshly polished oxfords, his fitted blazer, his mustache coiffed to the epitome of class. When he spoke, I heard the French I had always dreamed of, pronounced with a pattern of stresses that sounded like a Jaques Brel song. A man of distinction? I wondered to myself…

Every once and a while I took the time to look across the “salle de prof” where all the teachers gathered in between classes. He reminded me of someone I once cared greatly for and each little glance brought a rush of happy memories, so creep I did. Six months of rubbing shoulders, sneaking glances and never was a word between us shared.

Then one early morning, as all the sleepy students and all the sleepy teachers traversed the grand courtyard that is the great core of the building, I was smiling to my students who were waiting outside of our classroom. As they noticed me they smiled and yelled out my name. Oh the ego-boosting joy of walking towards a group of your favorite students… The moment was filled with birds chirping poetically in the trees across from us, some nice greetings, students kissing cheeks in the typical French fashion- a real kodak moment, if you will.

Suddenly, A THUNDERING SHOUT! The beautiful French that I was once so attracted to, the rise and fall of intonations that teased my feeble mind, it was at once mucked about in a hurricane of cringe-worthy commands. This man of possible distinction was screaming at his students to FALL IN LINE, to PREPARE FOR CLASS and to FIND THE CORRECT SEAT! I looked back towards my students who were holding their mouths in an effort to cover the uproarious laughter. We shared a few wide eyed regards, I sucked in a laugh myself.

As I made my way to the white board and began writing the subject of the lesson across its surface, I couldn’t shake the image of my favorite man of possible distinction, distinguished now only by his ruby red face and thundering battle cry. I shook my head, turned to my students, trudged onwards..

Since that moment, I have felt a small giggle rise in the bottom of my gut each time that I cross paths with him. I was quite disappointed to find that he was a bulging-neck, mouth-spitting “yeller”. And as with every other person I’ve discovered to be a “yeller” I can’t help but, like my 13 year old students, laugh a little.

I suppose I find the image a little ironic. When you scream at someone, you demean them, putting them in a place of disrespect unworthy of an even-toned, “adult” form of communication. You approach them as a young child approaches their mum and pah in a fit of frustration or rage. A young child!  So surly one could understand how yelling at children might bring a terribly funny image to mind. An image in which a man of sophistication and class reveals a core that may lie beneath and may, just possibly, resemble the shape of a giant baby!