Back in Denver, my goateed history instructor wore burgundy leather pants and a purple lace shirt at least once a week. My English teacher, in thigh-high boots and a miniskirt, taught us to write poetry by lying on a carpeted floor with the lights out, listening to music.
That summer, I attended Thomas Jefferson High School in Sonsonate El Salvador. We sat quietly at desks, watching teachers in ties write on the blackboard. The Popular guys had their uniform pants tailored with a slight bell, and when they were required to get haircuts, they staged a protest.
Cool schoolboys rebel
when ordered to change their hair,
bringing it in bags.