mr. delagar teaches up the hill, at what he sweetly calls the "real" university (he's not the only one). He came home early this semester to tell me he had one of my old students in his lit class.
"She's pregnant," he said.
"Oh?" I said.
"She was eating a poptart for breakfast. I yelled at her," he said smugly. "I took it away and gave her my apple instead."
"Ah," I said. "Well."
He looked at me over his laptop. "That was a *good* thing to do," he insisted. "She was pregnant! She needs to eat right!"
"Uh-huh," I said. "And how old is she again?"
He got a grumpy look on his face. "This is going to be another patriarchy lecture, isn't it?"
"You're her lit professor, not her daddy. Or her nanny. Do you think she doesn't *know* she's pregnant? Do you think she doesn't understand basic nutrition?"
"You don't get to tell her what to do with her body. It's her body."
"But the baby!"
I sit back in the chair and look at him. "You haven't heard a word I've said for the past fifteen years. Have you?"