In the late ’80s, a seemingly innocuous civics lesson took a sharp, unexpected turn as Mr. Abenshein, your eighth-grade teacher, chose to share a story from his summer job as a ranger at Warren Dunes State Park. It’s remarkable how a simple tale about torch-bearing duties can morph into a vivid tableau of teenage embarrassment and unspoken truths. Picture it: a classroom full of giggles and whispers, where laughter collides with shock, and childish innocence grapples with the harsh realities of societal judgment.
As Mr. Abenshein illuminated the night with his flashlight—not just finding campfires but potentially unearthing something deeper—the atmosphere shifts. What happens when a teacher’s story sheds light on unacknowledged desires or invites uncomfortable laughter? Delve into this thought-provoking narrative that digs beneath the surface of memory, shame, and the glares of teenage dynamics, where one moment can invoke a lifetime of emotional echoes.
Curiosity piqued? I certainly hope so! I think we can agree—how often do we reflect on moments that shape our understanding of identity and acceptance? Writing about those poignant experiences is no small feat, yet Kristian Sean O’Hare masterfully navigates this complex territory, prompting us to confront the shadows of our past. If you want to immerse yourself in this narrative exploration, step right in and click here to LEARN MORE.
In the late ‘80s, your eighth grade civics teacher Mr. Abenshein had worked part-time in the summers as a ranger at Warren Dunes State Park, located right on the shore of Lake Michigan. You learned about this one day, when he shared a story with the class about how on this one night he had gone down to the beach, his usual rounds, to make sure no one was at the beach past curfew. He’d have to put out abandoned camp fires, or clean up empty beer bottles. One night, he saw something out in the water. Sometimes he’d catch a bunch of Chicago people skinny dipping. The kids in class giggled at this bit of news. Chicago people, they rolled their eyes. He said he had to turn on the flashlight to get a better look. He said it was like catching two animals in the act, one man bent over another man.
You can’t remember the punchline, or if there even was one. You just remember how the class no longer held back, girls uncovered their mouths, unlatched their jaws like snakes to release high-pitched squeals while the boys loud whispered faggots, the s sound scraping the walls of your ear canal like an aluminum bat being dragged across pavement before battering the ear drum.
You’re not sure why Mr. Abenshein shared the story. You just remember how he stood in front of the class, how his eyes moved from student to student, nodding in approval while silently marking some imaginary grade in some imaginary roster until his eyes stopped on you. Then you were caught in the heat of that flashlight, frozen and exposed, like those two men, with nowhere to run or hide. Your mouth opened like a ventriloquist dummy and you waited, but no ventriloquist to save you, dummy. Nothing. No sound came out. Even Marie Jones, the nice Pentecostal girl who you sat next to on the bus, who wore long jean skirts everyday, shook her head as she smiled, like she disapproved, but that shame, your shame, fed her joy, even if for a second.
Kristian Sean O’Hare’s writing has appeared in Third Coast Magazine, San Francisco State University’s Fourteen Hills, Hawaii Pacific Review, South 85 Journal, New Orleans Review, The Indianapolis Review, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, Hobart, Fauxmoir Lit Mag, Reservoir Road Literary Journal, Sweet: A Literary Confection, Peatsmoke Journal, and Raleigh Review. He lives in San Francisco and teaches first-year writing, creative writing, and modern literature courses at San Jose State University.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Eric Verleene
