Handlebar

“Is that you?”

I was sipping coffee from a mug with my picture on it.

“Sure is,” I told my colleague. They were sitting across from me at a meeting.

Now, before you accuse me of narcissism, I know that it is narcissistic to sip coffee from a mug with my picture it. Sadly, reader, I don’t care. I just keep sipping away.

The thing that brings me the most joy about sipping coffee from a mug with my picture on it?

My heavenly handlebar mustache.

***

Many moons ago, long before blogs or AI or the disintegration of America democracy, I was but a humble high school educator. A public servant. I taught across the hall from another humble high school educator. He was one of my favorite people for lots of reasons. We were both English teachers, yes, but he had such a wacky and creative soul. I like wacky and creative souls.

One morning, before school started, my friend and I walked to the men’s room down the hall. We stood next to each other at the sink and carefully shaved our boisterous beards into heavenly handlebar mustaches.

I can’t remember why we had razors. And we must have spent time cultivating the aforementioned boisterous beards. Our actions had to have been premeditated. We spent the day proudly displaying handlebar mustaches. I’m sure we arrived at school the next morning with clean faces. Handlebar mustaches are fleeting at best. Like youth.

Students were enamored with our handlebar mustaches. To be fair, students were often enchanted by us. We were captivating public educators.

At some point during the day, the memory escapes me, somebody must have taken a picture of me with a handlebar mustache. That somebody may have even been me. Regardless, the picture showed up at the end of the semester.

“I made you this, Mr. Tanner,” one of my juniors told me. He handed me a coffee mug with a picture of my face on it. I was sporting a heavenly handlebar mustache.

“I did it for America,” he told me. The student had been enrolled in a section of Themes in American Literature. I often talked about the need for a critically literate population if democracy with a lower case “d” could ever be cultivated and sustained in America. That was patriotism, I told them, and I hoped they’d strive for that version of America. You know, like John Dewey or Ralph Ellison.

“Thank you for your service,” I told the student. The mug made me laugh then. It makes me laugh now. That’s an enduring joke.

***

Most of the artifacts from my high school teaching days are long gone. The mug remains. It traveled with me to Pennsylvania. And then to Iowa. It sits proudly on my desk. Don’t worry, I wash it routinely. I typically pour whatever coffee I bought from Coasters Coffee in the Hawthorne Building or Devlin Family Cafe in Linquist Hall into the mug. Then I walk around like the boss from Office Space, sipping my coffee. Decaf these days, yes, but coffee still the same.

And here I’ll mention that, at home, I sip decaf coffee from a mug that reads “Tanner” and “RAHS Drama” on it. This was made for me by students when I left Roseville High School to go on the odyssey that has been my academic career.

It is comforting to sip coffee from mugs that remind me I was loved. Am loved. Is that narcissistic? Maybe, but it’s comforting too. Just as comforting as the memory of crafting handlebar mustaches one morning with my friend across the hall. Say what you want about teachers and school, I’m glad to have that memory.