I walked briskly to Mr Hood’s office. It was near the reception, at the entrance to the school. I poked my head in and knocked.

“Emma,” he said with a smile. “Come in.”

I did so, and sat down across from his desk. His office was very beige – beige curtains, beige walls, beige carpet – even his suit was a nondescript colour. The only colour that stood out was the curious redness of Mr Hood’s face.

He folded his hands, put them on the desk, and leaned in. “How’s our new drama teacher getting on?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you.”

“I’ve heard great things. Apparently, you have a way with the students.”

“Thank you. I try.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It concerns Robert Buchanan.”

At the mention of the name his smile vanished, his eyes changed, and he sat back in his chair, folding his arms. The atmosphere of the room changed entirely.

“If you are going to mention the business of Robert and the Matric Dance, I’m afraid it’s not up for discussion.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. Why is it not up for discussion? Doesn’t that feel like censorship to you?”

He gave a fake, uncomfortable little laugh. “We get this a lot you know.”

“What, exactly?”

“Teachers like you,” he smirked.

I paused. “What do you mean, teachers like me?” I asked carefully.

“Idealists. People who imagine a perfect world where everything must be fair.”

“I live in a real world, Mr Hood, where people are being victimised.”

“Miss Comrie, I admire you spirit, but prohibiting Robert Buchanan from wearing a dress is not victimisation.”

“But it is. All other pupils have the privilege of being themselves, out of uniform, on this special occasion. You’re denying Robert that same privilege.”

“You think that’s what he is? His true self?” His voice had a sneer in it. He leaned in. “When Robert gets home, he can play dress up in mommy’s clothing to his heart’s content. At my school, under my roof, I will not have that kind of nonsense.”

“Are you saying that identifying as trans is nonsense, Mr Hood?”

He eyes me carefully.

“Our school has certain values, Miss Comrie.”

“And what are they?”

“Respect. Respect for the ethos of the school. Respect for your elders. Respect for God.”

I was pretty surprised about this last bit. I knew it was a Christian suburb, and that Mr Hood was in fact a reborn Christian. I’m just surprised he brought it so easily into our conversation.

“So this problem you have with Robert – it’s religious?”

He waved the air as if a fly was in his face. “Of course I have no problem with Robert.”

“What you say in staff meetings shows the opposite, Mr Hood.”

He didn’t like this. He twirled a pen. I could see that he was angry, deeply angry, and was trying his best to mask it. Have you ever seen hatred in a face? It twists it. The person can’t help it showing, try as they might. Mr Hood was trying to manage it, and I thought: Imagine caring so much that a male wants to wear a dress. Imagine that’s what keeps you up at night. Mr Hood had problems.

Finally he faced me. An attempt at a smile started on his lips.

“Miss Comrie, you’re still fairly new here so I will forgive this for now. The rules of the school are not up for discussion for quite some time. If Robert comes to the Matric Dance, he will come in a suit, like the other male learners.”

I could see the conversation was over. But I couldn’t not speak up more, I just couldn’t …

“The oppression of trans people is not something I take lightly, Mr Hood. I’m sorry if that conflicts with your school’s ethos, but I simply can’t let that happen.”

He looked at me for a long time. He tapped a pen against his desk. I said something very daring then. I don’t know a lot of verses from the Bible, as I’m not religious, but I know this one.

“Love your neighbour as you love yourself.”

His jaw tightened. All pretence dropped. We looked at each other. He did not like me. He did not like me one bit. I could tell he was furious and trying to keep it under control. For a moment I thought he was going to lose it, and scream at me, but he didn’t. Suddenly the mask was back.

‘Thank you for this conversation, Emma. It’s always good to know where teachers stand.” He wrote something on a notepad, fussed with a folder. “If there’s nothing else?”

He was cueing me to leave. There was nothing else I could say. I stood up and left.

I felt shaken when I got back to class. I collapsed into my seat.

“How did it go, Ma’am?” queried Naledi.

“I don’t know,” I mused. I was angry and upset, but most of all, tired.

From early on, once I grew aware, it often somehow fell on me to flag and blow the whistle on dodgy stuff. ‘That’s sexist,’ I always had to say, when a learner made an untoward comment in class. Or, for example, ‘That’s kind of homophobic,’ I informed one boy who said of another’s collection of drawings: ‘That’s so gay’.

I didn’t want to feel like this police officer. But, the students were interested in my interjections. They were open. The staff: the staff were a different story entirely.

“I just don’t know what’s going to happen to that boy and his rights at this school,” I told Naledi. I felt worn down.

Naledi obviously clocked this. I could see her decide on something then and there. What it was, I couldn’t tell. I’d have to wait and see.

But I knew something then. She was an ally. The whole class were allies. And Robert and I needed allies.

***

Question: What are your feelings toward Naledi? Do you think she is bossy, or do you think she’s cool?