There Can be No Grey Areas: Thoughts on “In Plain View”

At 13, the world seemed to be tumbling down around me. I wanted to be strong, faithful, hopeful. I wanted to have control over something in my life. I wanted to be taken seriously. Everything seemed to matter so much and nothing seemed to matter much at all. Except one thing. I desperately wanted my father not to have cancer.

I strove for normal the best I could and appearing strong felt especially important. But sometimes something would tip the scales of my equilibrium. My emotions would feel monumentally out of control, tripping over each other to escape.

I recall one school day when I somehow broke my glasses, most likely by tripping and falling in a very public place. Devastated and worried about replacing them, I waited for someone from home to come and rescue me. My Dad arrived, an uncommon occurrence for a work day, but his illness kept him home. I don’t remember the details of our conversation, but I remember feeling immense relief at seeing his face. I know my emotions were disproportionate to the circumstances, but he didn’t mind. He understood and whatever he said or didn’t say was just right because 20 years later the memory still makes me feel safe, loved, and understood.

Most school days when something tripped a rare emotional grenade, however, my parents couldn’t arrive to rescue me. Grappling with the social awkwardness and puberty of 13 would have been enough. When I felt especially fearful about one of Dad’s procedures or treatments, I still had to face school. When new problems with Dad’s health emerged, my friends fretted over pimples and periods. I felt alien and alone.

That year, my challenge block class was taught by a unique teacher we’ll call Mr. Doe. Demanding and charismatic, Mr. Doe proudly marched to his own drum and thumbed his nose at the administration. Every new student entered his room with trepidation, full of stories of his temper and high standards, but we all secretly wanted to be in his class.

Mr. Doe talked to us like miniature adults, unless we were excessively stupid or immature. He assigned us books high school sophomores were reading. He wore a leather jacket and he decorated his classroom in an unconventional way. Mr. Doe clearly favored girls and, when freshman dropped by from high school to visit their favorite teacher, boys were conspicuously missing.

I admired Mr. Doe, I liked his quirkiness, and he seemed to “get” me. He challenge me, I ate up his praise, and I wanted to please him. Beyond academics, he listened in ways other adults didn’t, shared real stories and emotions, and seemed to genuinely care. Some days when my emotions threatened to come to the surface, he would sense my struggle and ask if I needed to talk. Other times, I asked if he had a moment to listen. We’d sit in his classroom during breaks or lunch and I’d let it all out – my fears, worries, and hurts. I remember the relief of having an adult to talk to without burdening my already burdened parents.

I moved on to high school and, when my father died my freshman year, I wished for an adult like Mr. Doe. Rumors continued to surround him and the story of him throwing a desk became infamous. I always vigorously defended him, praising his unorthodox style. When unsavory accusations of abuse surfaced later, I quickly came to his defense, offended on his behalf.

This all came to mind in a confused way today after reading In Plain View in the New Yorker by Malcolm Gladwell. Gladwell, in his usual engaging style, demonstrates how predators use other adults to help them find victims, how they “screen” children to see how engaged/aware the adults in their life are, and how they fool communities. It details how they build trust and hone in on the vulnerable,

Reading the article, I thought about how research shows that children need 4 to 6 caring adults in their lives to full develop emotionally and socially. I thought about how true this has been in my life, how adults in church, my extended family, at school, and in my neighborhood impacted my life. I remembered how Mr. Doe helped me through an incredibly difficult time.

And then I felt angry. Angry that this article somehow brought to mind a positive experience in my life and made me realize how fine the line can be between meeting that need of a child and crossing an inappropriate boundary. Furious that good intention-ed adults might avoid becoming a child’s mentor or making emotional connections with a young person because they don’t want any hint of impropriety. Enraged that I have to discuss these boundaries in a frank way with my children because of a sick few and perhaps discourage important bonds to ensure their safety.

Reading Gladwell’s article made me realize my experience could have gone much differently. I was young, vulnerable, and impressionable. I desperately wanted to be heard and I was hurting. Thankfully, I had parents at home who were affectionate, who tracked my whereabouts, who talked with me, and who I felt I could talk to. I benefited from the care of an adult outside my home who helped me find hope and a safe place during times of uncertainty. But add in a few other variables and it might have been otherwise.

I don’t remember Mr. Doe ever touching me more than a hand on the shoulder. Perhaps we hugged. The door seemed to always be open. We had no secrets. We didn’t meet anywhere else but school. I probably wouldn’t even consider it could have been otherwise except for whispered, unsubstantiated rumors.

In college, I tried to find Mr. Doe to write him a thank you letter for the encouragement he gave me all those years ago. At 25, I wanted to send him an invitation to my wedding. I’ve googled him and done a facebook search with no succ. He seems to have mysteriously disappeared, his legacy clouded by a rumored unhappy ending to his local career, but I never knew just why.