The funniest comment I have ever received on paper was from my history teacher last year. I can’t find it now, but it was something along the lines of, “It’s been a pleasure watching Julia bloom this year.” I think I refrained from laughing at the time, but I certainly wanted to. I really hadn’t changed much over the course of the class; Mr. Brown had. At the beginning of the year, he once asked nervously if I needed to go to guidance. He apparently thought I was crying. In fact I had been yawning, which makes my eyes water. (I didn’t tell him this, as he probably would have taken it as an insult to his teaching ability.) In September and October, he would stand at the head of the class nervously reading his notes from an overhead projector. There was no chit-chat between class and teacher. I used to have fun staring at him when he was explaining something to me, because he couldn’t keep eye contact for more than a few seconds.

By the end of the year, he was discussing music with us and even let Dandan do her term paper on the Beatles. He was no longer terrified of the class, and I no longer had the sport of seeing his eyes pop out of his head when he yelled at us. So I guess Mr. Brown thought that because we were on friendly terms by the end of the year, I had “bloomed.” I’m not sure if it counts as a coming of age when you’re however old he is, but you could say he was the one blooming. (Good lord, I never thought I’d apply that verb to him.) I like the little visual pun in this ironwork. It’s a funny expression: “late bloomer,” “early bloomer.” Sounds almost like Victorian underwear. “I think I’m going to bloom in college,” says a friend of mine, “because I’m sure not getting any attention now.” I guess refer to people as blooming when they’re becoming something greater than they are, which is a good summary of what coming of age should be about for anyone, even history teachers.