Lessons From Math Class
Pam Johnson Davis
“You’ve never had sex?!”
That’s the first thing I remember about ninth grade math. I was placed in an advanced class, shyly sitting behind some eleventh-grade girls as they gossiped about boys and who was fucking who after football games. When they would turn to me and say, “Oh my God, can you believe that?!” I would shake my head politely, eyes rounded, trying to evoke the same emotions as they did about why Sarah was sleeping with Malcolm instead of DeAndre this week.
I thought I could fake the funk, remain quiet, nodding in unspoken agreement to everything they said, and get through the semester. Until finally one day, they turned their sights to me.
“Girl, your titties are sitting at a double d already, who you letting suck on them?” They asked conspiratorially, leaning in, ready to hear my hot take. If my skin wasn’t so dark, you would see that I turned crimson red as I stammered through an incoherent response. They all stared at me in disbelief.
“Wait, wait, wait...you’ve never had sex, have you?!” the ringleader practically shouted as I sank further into my chair. Incredulously, they all stared, mouths agape, and I wanted to be raptured on the spot. But...I remember one of the girls, Alexis, looked at me and her eyes began to soften. She reached for my arm, gently patting it, and said, “Good for you.”
It felt as if something unspoken passed between us. Black girl to Black girl. As if I could see the pain of a child forced to grow up too soon being comforted by my chastity, while I secretly longed to be desired like she was. Green grass withers everywhere eventually, I suppose.
