Flash Nonfiction
Personal Essay, Memoir, or Vignette
Janelle Cordero
HEALTH CLASS
They taught us about STIs in seventh grade, how those tender aching parts of us could become blistered and inflamed, could kill us if we’re not careful. They taught us about drug use in eighth grade, and I remember a poster on the classroom wall with a gradient of mug shots of the same woman, taken over time to show how her face collapsed from meth, how her beauty shriveled. In ninth grade, we had to write our names at the top of a piece of notebook paper and then pass the paper around. Every student in the class had to write something nice about everyone else. It was supposed to be anonymous, but it was also easy to recognize someone’s handwriting, or the color of gel pen they always used. I didn’t care what my paper said at the time, and I still don’t. What I wonder now is: what did I write on the papers of others? I grew up with all those kids in my hometown of 5,000 people: I played soccer and t-ball with them at 5 years old. I sang alongside them in the elementary school Christmas concerts, our voices sharp and high as bells, our hands tugging at our turtlenecks and itchy sweaters and hemlines, kicking each other on the bleachers with our gleaming black dress shoes. I was there when we all started dating each other in 5th and 6th grade, pairing up at random and kissing in the concrete stairwell at recess, or when the most popular girl pierced her own belly button with a safety pin at a slumber party while we watched The Exorcist. What I’m getting at is, I knew these kids, really knew them. So did I do them the favor of writing something true and kind on their papers, something to make them feel seen? Or did I phone it in, write something stupid like you’re cool or you’re funny on these sheets of paper with their names at the top? God, I wish I could remember—of all the things I’ve lost, I wish I could know the truth, whatever it is. And I wish good health and happiness for all those kids now, despite what we learned in health class about our bodies, about pleasure, about love.
About the writer:
Janelle Cordero is a poet, artist, and educator living in Spokane, Washington. Her writing has appeared in dozens of literary journals, including Driftwood Press, Jet Fuel Review and Hobart, while her paintings have been featured in venues throughout the Pacific Northwest. Janelle is the author of five books of poetry, including Talk Louder (Papeachu Press, April 2024). As a fifth-generation resident of eastern Washington, Janelle has a deep love for cedar groves, lilacs, and small towns with one main street.
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