Poet (Maya already heard this story)

Maya asked me to post about this, but I wanted to wait and see how it went. However, Dapo's question about yoga boy affirmed that the five of you who actually read this blog wanna hear about it anyway. Here goes!
I'm teaching a unit on poetry. As a part of that, we had two poets from a local slam troupe come in to teach workshops for our students a couple of weeks ago. I'd never met either man and didn't arrange the workshops. I sat in on three of them to help with student behavior. Two from one guy in the morning and one with the other guy in the afternoon.
AM poet was ok. He was a late 20s/early 30s, black British guy who did a motivational speech on how students should listen to their teachers because we were there to help them. He recited one of his poems and gave me a copy of his self-published book. The kids like him because he mentioned peeing in the poem.
PM poet was great! His workshop had the kids writing and performing their work. It turns out that PM poet had been a teacher for ten years before becoming a poet full time. (Life after teaching, who knew?!?!) PM poet was also black American. (That's rare! Besides Roger, he's the only other black American man I've met in the UK. Women abound.) I picked up on the accent and asked where he was from- NYC. He guessed DC from my accent. We chatted about home and living in the UK at the end of the workshop as I collected unused materials.
I told him that I liked his work and wanted him to come back to perform in two weeks when we had our middle school wide poetry performance. He said that he had something tentatively scheduled, but would try to rearrange for me. He asked for my email address and said he'd let me know for sure on Monday.
At that moment, the school porter walked into the room. The porter and I are very friendly. He's always there to lift heavy boxes and carry stuff around for me. He and I laugh, joke, and gossip about the latest on campus. He gives me travel tips because his wife works for BA and they go everywhere. He's just a good old boy with an easy way and a friendly disposition. He'll be one of the people I miss most if I leave this school. Anyway, the poter walks in and catches the tail end of our conversation. He says, "What? Exchanging email addresses? What's going on here? A love connection?" I wanted to melt into the floor.
I told him that it was strictly professional and that I wanted him to come back for poetry performance, blah, blah, blah, but the damage had been done. I finished writing down my email address, collected mt things, and scurried from the room in shame. The porter took PM poet back to the tube station. I fumed in my classroom and vented to a colleague on the way home about how embarassed I was that the porter said that when I was merely extending a professional invitation.
Oddly enough, prior to the porter's comment, it hadn't actually occured to me at the time to establish a romantic link with PM poet. He was handsome, intelligent, creative, articulate, good with children, and an American living abroad. All reasons that I should try to date him, but he was black. That was reason number one why I never considered him. My thinking on the subject is that there are plenty of black men in America for me to date and in America I date them almost exclusively. There's no need for me to waste time abroad dating black men when there are a host of exotic others to entertain me. Thus black men are not even a consideration. They are also, as previously stated, such a rarity that it's not even a viable option.
On Monday, I had a reply from PM poet that he'd cleared his schedule to come work with us again. He advised me to contact his agent to set it all up. I was excited to get that sorted and contacted his agent right away.
I also saw the porter Monday morning. I was still salty about what he'd said, but tried to play it off as a joke. I told him he was fired as my wingman because he'd blown it for me if I was trying to get a date with PM poet by saying so out loud. We laughed about it and he vowed to keep his mouth shut the next time. He told me that PM poet mentioned it in the car, so I had a chance if I wanted it. I joked that I'd try again since he was coming back in two weeks anyway. He said he had to go pick PM poet up from the station anyway, so I could ride along if I wished. The visit became the running joke between us for the next two weeks and my anger at the porter over the awkwarness of the inital situation disapated. (It's so hard to laugh at yourself sometimes!)
The big day came. I got all dolled up as part of the joke and because I was to be on stage, in front of the whole school, introducing both PM poet and my students. I even wore heels and for a teacher that's no small feat (sorry, couldn't resist the pun)! I also woke up with a crick in my neck that got progressively worse and spread into my upper back as the day wore on. I had my flatmate massage it for me, but she stopped when I started crying from the pain. A colleague gave me some balm to put on it. I went to the nurse and took some ibuprofen. She also gave me a heat pack shaped like a teddy bear. By 11am I had to go lie down because I was in so much pain. More ibuprofen and I stayed in bed until noon. The poet was due to arrive at 1pm. I got up and did attendance and homeroom. All my students asked about the bear and tried to calm my anxiety. Shortly after they left, I got a call that the porter had gone to get my poet. By the time I'd hung up the phone and gone back to my desk the two were standing in the front of my classroom. I thanked the porter and we exchanged knowing smiles, laughing to ourselves at our inside joke. The poet had a seat and we chatted about what I wanted him to do and when. I had to explain about the bear. (So shameful!) We talked about inauguration andhis son's January 20th birthday and America and teaching and traveling and how he ended up in the UK. The porter was right, our vibe was so good. We could have talked for ages, but time was against me. I had to get him some coffee and set up the room for the performance. I left the bear in my chair and set about my mission with the poet in tow.
We headed to the auditorium first so that he could check out the space and I could drop off my laptop to set up sound for the performance. There was a PE class going on and I panicked slightly, but told the teacher we needed to setup for the performance. I headed to the office to verify that the PE class would be gone in time and to get the poet his coffee. On the way to the office I humiliated myself once again by asking the correct pronuncation of his last name and making a comment which he quickly told me was trite. In the office fretted over programs, the PE class, the video camera, and chairs. After my mini-meltdown, I went back to the auditorium to get ready for the performance. The adrenaline and four ibuprofen finally kicked in and the performance was great. The poet and I sat next to one another and chatted between acts.
I thanked the poet several times and we walked back to the office to call the porter and arrange a ride for him back to the tube station. We had no time to chat on a personal level as a colleague accompanied us the entire way. His departure became even more abrupt as the porter was sitting in the office having a cup of coffee with the secretary when we walked in, so we didn't even get to chat while waiting. All we got in was a final word of thanks from me and a lovely to see you again from him with a long, lingering handshake, and at least ten full seconds of unbroken eye contact. I can never seal the deal!
Slightly deflated, I went back to my classroom and sent him an email thanks with an offer to write him a letter of commendation for the work he did. As I was on Spring Break and trying not to be a nerd, I didn't check my work email until Thursday. On Monday afternoon, he replied that he'd like for me to do that. I told him I was away, but offered to meet him to discuss the letter over coffee when I return to the UK.
We'll see where it goes and I'll keep you all posted.