Ashley R.: A Fart and A Smile

Ashley R: A Smile and A Fart

I accepted the teaching position at Mercy High School, an all girls’ school, because, frankly, it was the only offer I had received upon graduating from college. It was hardly an ideal position. The school failed to pay its teachers a living wage, the English department head was an absentee head, three of the five English teachers, including myself, were new hires, it demanded teaching five classes with three preparations (all four of the other teachers taught four classes and had two preparations), and it was, after all, an all girls’ school.

            I am not now, nor have I ever been, a girl’s girl. I generally prefer hanging around guys more than chicks because men are rarely cold, caddy, or dramatic. I have never had a plethora of girlfriends simply because I cannot stomach the games and backstabbing that usually accompanies the female race. The girlfriends I have had over the years are straightforward, intelligent, driven, and generally defy gender stereotypes. Therefore, working with a staff comprised mainly of females, and teaching approximately 135 females, all at the height of teenage drama, did not give me the thrills or the excitement I imagined my first teaching job would produce. However, I gave myself two years in the position to develop the necessary experience to find the teaching career of my dreams, and hoped to find a handful of students who shared my love of literature and all things academic. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I would find a kindred spirit in the form of Ashley R.

            A petite girl, Ashley could not have been more than 5’5” at the time I taught her, she often wore her hair piled high on her head in a ponytail that bobbed as enthusiastically as she spoke. A natural brunette, Ashley highlighted her hair blonde, as if in protest against the dullness of brown. Her eyelashes, which were extraordinarily long and always coated in mascara, framed wide eyes, giving her what appeared to be the vapid stare of a porcelain doll. Rosie cheeked and red lipped, Ashley was a walking Mary Kay advertisement.

            Ashley’s physical appearance, combined with her ever-present smile, light bouncing step, and dramatic inflection when she spoke made it easy, upon first inspection, to write her off as nothing more than an airhead cheerleader with hardly a brain and even less depth of personality. However, Ashley had the power to captivate and surprise with her exuberance, humor, and spirit; that left little doubt as to both her extraordinary intelligence and depth of character.

            It is hard to reconcile the fact that I do not remember the first time I met Ashley with the lasting impression she has had upon my time at Mercy and my life. I am sure I called role on the first day of class. I am sure she answered, “Here.” A response that would have been, for Ashley, entirely mundane. More likely and appropriate would have been a barrage of questions from her, regarding the class, regarding the books we were going to read, and regarding my personal life.

            Each time Ashley raised a hand, I both dreaded and eagerly anticipated the coming question or comment. I never knew whether Ashley’s contribution would be meaningful and insightful or so humorous that the tenuous order I fought hard to keep would dissolve into complete chaos.

The year I taught at Mercy was the year of my engagement. Though all of my classes loved to try to distract me from the task at hand by asking me questions about my wedding, no one succeeded in doing so more than Ashley. I simply could not refuse her eagerness and zeal. Her genuine interest in knowing and understanding people captivated me. Most memorable, however, was Ashley’s penchant for farting in class. A trait that after Parent Day, I believed would cost me my job.

Each year, during Catholic School’s week, Mercy allowed parents to visit our classrooms. I simply dreaded this day. I had several difficult classes, full of students who had mastered the art of lying and manipulation. I felt that allowing these students’ parents into my classes would only give these girls the opportunity to negate the suggestions I had been giving their parents regarding their academics and behavior. Ashley’s class was not one of these classes. In fact, it was the class I most enjoyed teaching. Therefore, it did not concern me when I had the largest number of parents’ attend this particular class; these girls were well behaved, studious, and fun.

The class began as every class did, with role call and journal writing. With ease, we then transitioned into the lesson of the day, a writing lesson. Things were going smoothly. The girls were participating respectfully. I was happy. Things seemed to be in control. That was until Ashley began farting, and the class began hilariously laughing.

When I say Ashley farted, I do not mean that she sat quietly at her desk and tried to conceal her indiscretion. Ashley was a proud farter. If her farts did not make the necessary noise to attract the attention of the class, the smell did, and she would, without embarrassment, claim the smell as her own. Ashley’s farting was so commonplace that the girls eventually began to direct every “icky”, “yuck”, and “gross” at her. Throughout the year, I struggled to address her farting in a professional manner because, frankly, I found it hilarious and most days had to struggle not to laugh aloud.

Therefore, I found it particularly difficult on this day, with parents’ judging my every move, and panic setting in, to not only regain some shred of order in my class, but to also address Ashley’s farting without exacerbating the situation and encouraging the behavior. As calmly and firmly as I could, I said, “Girls, that’s enough. It is time to calm down. Ashley, do you need to use the restroom?” A large grin spread across Ashley’s face, as she shook her head no.

 With the class now chatting, snickering, and generally acting like wild squirrels, I attempted to continue the lesson. Ashley continued to fart. The parents continued to stare. I felt a hot red rash fight its way from my chest to my neck and conquer my face. I stumbled my way through the remainder of the lesson, tripping over my words, and praying for the peace and sanctity of my car; all the while feeling like a naughty child who would, the next day, be called into the principal’s office for a verbal thrashing.

            Ashley was a leader. She could control a crowd with a look, a laugh, or a comment. Her peers admired her. Her teachers adored her, and not because she was an A student who sat at attention and listened with interest and intrigue, but because she was dynamic, energetic, and full of pizzazz. Ashley was also interesting and optimistic. However, most importantly she was simply herself.

            In October 0f 2009, Ashley was killed in a car accident. I remember being at home, in my living room, when Jody delivered the news. At first, I was convinced that it was a different Ashley R. Ashley R., the girl who farted in class, who had a special way of saying, “Miss Coupe”, who made me laugh daily, and who embodied what it means to live could not possibly be lifeless.

I write this with tears in my eyes, and then I think about the last time I saw Ashley R. and I smile in remembrance of her vivacity. She was a senior, working at Abercrombie and Fitch in Towson Town Center. Jody and I had gone to the mall for a romantic food court dinner. As we walked toward our destination, I heard the unmistakable voice of Ashley say, “Miss Coupe?” After chatting for ten or so minutes about how she was, what she was up to etc., we bid Ashley farewell in hopes of seeing her again sometime soon. Though three years had passed, Ashley had remained unchanged. She was, and will remain, the one and only Ashley R.