So far, Life Sciences is my favorite class. The teacher, Mr. Farrell, is cool, and there are three times as many girls as guys in the class. Rory noticed that on the first day. “I’d say our odds are pretty good,” he said. He wasn’t talking about blackjack.
Daisy and Rowena are sitting at the back. Rory has already grabbed the desk next to Daisy’s. Because I spent most of recess with Miss Aubin, I have to take the only empty desk in the middle of the front row.
We are doing a unit on baboons. We have already learned that there are five species of baboons that live in Africa and southwestern Arabia. They have long muzzles and sharp teeth, and their predators include crocodiles, lions and sometimes humans.
“Today you’ll be taking notes on the baboon life cycle,” Mr. Farrell explains. He tells us how in the wild, baboons live to be about thirty. In captivity, they can live up to forty-five years.
“Yeah, but who wants to live in captivity?” Rory calls out.
Another teacher might get ticked off at someone calling out, but not Mr. Farrell. He steps away from the whiteboard and asks whether anyone else wants to contribute to the discussion.
Rowena’s hand shoots up. “We all live in captivity,” she says with a sigh. “I don’t mean to depress you guys, but we’re trapped in this building until the bell goes at 3:15 pm.”
Mr. Farrell chuckles. “Four fifteen, in my case. I’m supervising in the detention room.”
Now Rory’s hand shoots up. “Should we write that down in our notes?” he asks. Even Mr. Farrell chuckles at that as he turns back to the whiteboard.
“Between the ages of four and five, female baboons reach menarche.” Mr. Farrell is looking around the class. I can tell he wants to know if we are familiar with the word. I think I know what it means, but because it’s embarrassing, I pretend to study my notes.
“Menarche,” Mr. Farrell says, “refers to menstruation. Like human females, female baboons get a monthly period.”
There’s some giggling, and someone whispers something about baboon-sized sanitary napkins. “There’s no need to be embarrassed,” Mr. Farrell says. “Menstruation is perfectly natural. There would not be baboons—or humans, for that matter—without it.
“Male baboons take a little longer to mature than the females do,” Mr. Farrell continues. “Another parallel to the human life cycle—and something I am sure some of you have noticed.”
The girl next to me nods.
Mr. Farrell writes the words reproductive signaling on the whiteboard. It turns out that to signal her fertility, the female baboon wags (Mr. Farrell does not say wags—he says presents) her swollen rump in front of the male baboon’s face.
Phil raises his hand. “Excuse me, sir, but is this a joke?”
“This is not a joke,” Mr. Farrell answers. “It’s Life Sciences.”
Mr. Farrell goes to the computer on his desk. Thirty seconds later, we are looking at the hot-pink, swollen rump of a female baboon. Mr. Farrell has projected the image on the whiteboard. It could be the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.
“Are you saying male baboons think that’s sexy?” Rory asks.
Mr. Farrell nods. “I suppose they do.”
Some of the girls giggle. Other students squirm in their chairs. The girl next to me covers her eyes.
Mr. Farrell stands perfectly still at the front of the room, without saying anything. I think he is giving us a moment to settle down.
“Earlier in today’s class, Rowena drew an interesting parallel between the experience of baboons and our own human experience. She pointed out that, like baboons who live in captivity, we too are sometimes restricted in our actions.
“Now, if I may draw your attention back to the screen, can you think of any parallels between the female baboon’s reproductive signaling and our own society?”
I think I know where Mr. Farrell is going. I raise my hand. “Are you talking about how girls dress, sir?”
“I’m not talking about how girls dress, Eric. You are,” Mr. Farrell answers.
“Well, uh, I guess some girls dress in a way that is, I mean, could be…meant to attract guys,” I say.
Mr. Farrell looks at the rest of the class. “Do any of you want to respond to what Eric just said?”
I should not be surprised that Rowena has a response. “Why do you automatically assume that how girls dress is about guys? Why can’t a girl’s clothes be a form of self-expression? I have a friend who wants to be a fashion designer. Her clothing choices are part of her identity.”
I know she means Daisy. “Uh, I guess it could be that too,” I say, trying to dig myself out of the hole I did not realize I was digging.
Mr. Farrell saves me. “Eric and Rowena, you’ve both raised valid points. I think the lesson for today is that Life Sciences is not only a class you take to pass seventh grade. The life sciences affect us all. At every moment.”