OK - my husband just talked me out of posting a story that involves flatulence. He says that's the kind of thing that gets people in trouble on the web.

Instead I'll recall a story from my high school spanish class. I had taken spanish since 7th grade, and for some unknown reason I had a knack for it. Maybe hanging out with the Spanish family across the street when I was four and five laid down some grooves in my brains. In any case, I really loved spanish because it was easy and fun.

My teacher was Señor Martinez. This guy was quick. He was smart, witty, didn't take garbage from anyone and he treated those who deserved it with respect (which was mostly everyone). Though he could be known to direct a withering spanish comment at an unsuspecting and probably uncomprehending student (usually boys as I recall). He always treated the girls with utmost respect.

He made class fun by bringing in Spanish pop music. He'd play love songs that made us giggle and squirm in our seats. We had to read some pretty advanced novels - in Spanish! But somehow he made us want to do it. I cut a lot of classes in my time, but I never cut his class (unless there was a sub - then I always cut).

So, our senior year we had to do this big project. We had to write something big in spanish (maybe memorize it?) and then present it to the class. It took a long time to do this with twenty five students taking five minutes each. He allowed two or three class sessions for presentations.

Mine was a poem I had written to my best friend. I loved her so much. She was really different from the typical socialite (snore) girls at my school. In the poem I talked about her hair and her smile and how much fun we had together.

Here's the wierd thing. Señor Martinez never made me present my poem. He had placed me last on the list of students to present and he just never got to me. Even stranger, he gave me an A+ on the project. Hmmmm...I couldn't figure out why?

Did I question? Noooooooooo way! I was happy to slide through. Plus I knew I could do it just fine. I guess I figured he felt the same way.

Only later, when I learned he was gay did I formulate another possible theory: maybe he thought I was gay too! The poem to my friend was pretty passionate (though not sexual). Perhaps he projected his own stuff onto me and didn't want me to be exposed or "outed". What do you thinK? Is it plausible?

At the end of the year, thanks to Señor Martinez's superb teaching I received the Spanish Student of the Year award for the whole school - or something like that. He kissed me on both cheeks and gave me a coffee table book of Salvado Dali. I still have it. That guy (Dali) was twisted.

I loved Señor Martinez. Sadly, he died a few years later. Sometimes I still talk to him. Que Dios le bendiga.