I remember my freshman English teacher. Miss LaPointe. Man she was hot. She was red hot. She was a very attractive woman. Even her name was hot. Miss LaPointe. I think she was French. Talk about being “hot for teacher.”
Nobody ever cut Miss LaPointe’s class. The room was always packed. People would be fighting to get front row desks. There would be people lined up in the hallway. Standing Room Only. Hoping to get a seat in the classroom.
Miss LaPointe wasn’t TRYING to be sexy. But she was so beautiful she couldn’t HELP being sexy. She’d wear these conservative 3-piece suit kind of outfits. But with the first couple of buttons of her blouse unbuttoned. Just enough to give you just a hint of her cleavage. And every now and then she’d bend over to get something from her desk. And for a split second you’d think that one of her breasts might pop out. And there would be an audible gasp. And every male in the class — as well as several of the female lesbians in the class — would be riveted with our attention. It was a classroom learning experience for all of us.
But the thing I most remember about Miss LaPointe. She was a great English teacher. Every book she turned us onto was a classic and well worth reading. Stuff like Steinbeck’s “Of Mice and Men” (“Tell me about the rabbits, George.”).
But the thing I most remember was this one classroom writing assignment. “OK,” said Miss LaPointe. “I want everyone in the class to be silent for the next 15 minutes. And I want you to write down whatever thoughts happen to randomly pop into your head. Whatever you happen to be thinking, just write it down ”
That seemed like a pretty novel approach. And I would spend the next 40 years of my life as an artist doing exactly that.