Recently, in the Writer’s Craft class I am teaching, we read Kobe Bryant’s “Dear Basketball” letter, and I prompted students to write a letter to an object. Of course I wrote in front of them and chose a hard/funny topic. Here it is, slightly revised and a little more scandalous than what I shared in class.

Dear first floor boys’ bathroom,

I don’t understand your allure. You are, apparently, one of the most attractive things in the school – boys flock to you, hang out with you, lie to be with you – and yet, I’ve seen you, and, frankly, you are nothing special. In fact, sometimes you are downright nasty.

What sanctuary do you offer? Sometimes I imagine you are a hiding space, a place for boys to be away from the prying eyes of teachers. Other times, I think you are an invitation to transgression: when boys spend time with you, they know they walk the line between what is and is not allowed. They’re kind of safe – after all, everyone needs the bathroom sometimes, and they have time to hide anything really bad when they hear an adult walking in. You offer just the kind of trouble that gets them sent back to class, out of your secret spaces and into the hallways where they must walk in the light.

I cannot imagine the pull of a stinky space where people go to take care of bodily functions as a place to hang out. But what do I know? I mean, Yeats wrote, “But Love has pitched his mansion in/ The place of excrement” lines that shocked me when I was in high school, so I’m probably not the best judge. Not that you know about Yeats; I suspect you’re more a reader of graffiti. Even as I write to you, my mind goes to brothels and back alleys, places that offer physical satisfaction and frissons of delight to those willing to go just to the edge of what society accepts. 

Perhaps you are the opium den of our school, or the whorehouse – and if I’m going to share this, perhaps you are enticing me, too, to the edge of what is allowable. Still, downstairs boys’ bathroom, your siren call is undeniable, and I’m not yet willing to tie myself to the mast to keep students from being lured to your shores – or toilets. For now, I will gently suggest that boys ignore your temptations, knowing full well that they will not be able to resist.

Yours,
The teacher down the hall