The Gym Teacher Who Taught Me the Power of Being Seen

When you’re 9 years old, you have no idea the moments that you’ll remember for the rest of your life. The big ones, of course, but what about the seemingly insignificant ones that will potentially end up making a mark on the trajectory of your life? 

That’s the story I want to share about Mr. Antonoff, my Physical Education teacher from about 4th-6th grade, and how in just being himself and making me feel seen in the smallest way became a highlight of my day, and a dot that I can trace back to for how I structure my life even decades later.

Elementary school PE class

I always looked forward to my gym classes with Mr. Antonoff so much (I only just learned his first name is Noah – it’s funny how as a kid it never occurs to us that our teachers actually have a name and a life we know nothing about). 

He had such a quiet confidence and authority about him. He didn’t need to shout or demand respect. He was so calm and collected and always knew exactly what he wanted to convey a concept to us in a simple way we could understand. 

His quiet confidence

The gymnasium had a big open floor and a stage where we’d hold school assemblies. At the beginning of gym class, Mr. Antonoff would be sitting on the edge of the stage, dangling his feet–so relaxed and at ease. In front of the stage were these foot long pieces of duct tape stuck to the floor to mark our assigned spots, 5 rows of 5 assigned alphabetically so he could take a quick attendance just by looking to see which spots were empty. 

At the start of every PE class, we were to sit cross legged on our assigned spot on the gymnasium floor. My spot was the second tape mark in the second row (I’m not sure why/how I remember such an insignificant detail decades later). 

I loved gym class more than anything, so I wanted to get right to it and soak up every second I could. When other kids would come into the gym and start lollygagging or talking with each other, I’d run to my spot and sit down silently. I’d practically be staring at Mr. Antonoff, giving him my full attention to let him know, “Those kids may not be ready, but I am.” 

A quiet moment of acknowledgement

I was always one of the first people to their spots and would wait while the other kids were taking their sweet time wasting the moments of the day that I most looked forward to. 

Mr. Antonoff would never yell to get anyone’s attention or to get them to sit down faster. He’d just sit there patiently. 

“This is your class,” he’d say quietly and completely at ease, without even a drop of tension or frustration. He was so calm and relaxed, willing to wait. 

As students would start to sit down and stop talking, he’d quietly acknowledge our individual  attention with a whispered acknowledgement barely loud enough for anyone but us to hear: “Thank you, Jolie.” 

I lived for that little whisper. It felt so good, that moment of being seen. At that point in my life, I didn’t get much of that. My parents were going through a messy divorce and it was way too much for my 8-year old self to comprehend, so that small gesture from this calm, relaxed, caring adult made all the difference for me. 

He’d whisper to other kids as they’d get seated. Eventually, there’d be more kids sitting silently waiting for class to start until there were just the 1 or 2 absent minded ones that weren’t, in which case they’d soon realize and awkwardly sit down so class could start.

Then, when he had the whole room’s attention, he’d take a few seconds, just looking out at us in silence before he’d start to explain what we were doing today. It’d be understandable if he had a frustrated energy because we just made him wait an extra 3 minutes, but there wasn’t even a hint of tension. It’s as if he knew that this is just the way that kids learn. 

It was a respectable thing. He was taking the authority back in the room. He’d slowly make eye contact with each of us once we were all sitting, or maybe he was just taking a mental note of attendance to see who was missing and take a count of how many of us were there. 

Then he’d energetically explain what we were getting into for that day. I remember less about the actual classes and all the activities we did, but those 2 seconds of being seen and acknowledged each class–I lived for that.

A different type of energy

There was another PE teacher we’d have sometimes (I can’t remember if it was before him, or maybe just a substitute) who was a bit of a Grinch. She’d yell and scream to get everyone’s attention and to tell us if we were doing something wrong. 

When we were doing some sort of new activity for the day, she would talk us through it, but for whatever reason wouldn't actually physically demonstrate it for us, which I always found annoying, and of course led to misunderstandings and us doing things wrong.

This posed such a contrast to the different ways to command attention and respect, and I instantly knew that I gravitated towards the quiet confidence approach. 

These days…

Several years ago, I was interviewing for a new job, and when I finally was offered the position, the employer said, “You have this quiet confidence, and we need that.” In that moment, I felt so proud that I’d internalized that quality of not needing to showboat myself or be really loud or boastful to display my best skills and qualities.

Mr. Antonoff taught me about the energy of a quiet confidence that doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. And it’s the type of energy I gravitate towards most in the people in my life today. 

Playing with him at recess

Sometimes Mr. Antonoff would be one of the teachers on duty at recess. He had this energy that made kids want to be around him. He’d be on the basketball court, but instead of playing ball, he’d let kids take turns hanging from his biceps as he raised his arm and lifted us off the ground. It was so fun. 

These days…

These days, I like to let my niblings and friends’ kids hang on my arms, and it brings me such joy to see them having as much fun as I did back in those days. There’s something really magical about being that small and having your feet leave the ground. 

The Presidential Fitness Test

Mr. Antonoff would be the one to grade us during the yearly Presidential Fitness Test. It was a set of exercises and tests to gauge how we performed physically compared to other students around the country. There was a mile run, max situps in a certain time period, max chin ups, max chin up hold from the pull up bar, and a sit and reach flexibility test. 

I loved physical activity, and still do, but I was terrible with flexibility, so the toe sit reach was the one I was always most nervous about. I’d run into the gym ahead of everyone else that day to buy myself more time to do some practice stretches, thinking that might help. 

One day Mr. Antonoff saw me getting really stressed out about the test and he gave me some tips and pointers about ways to stretch, but also told me not to feel bad about it, flexibility isn’t one of those things I can just get better at on the spot. 

These days…

I’m still not super flexible, but in the past few years I’ve been putting more of an emphasis on trying to train my mobility and flexibility. The competitive nature is definitely still alive and well in me too, maybe that’s why I do Crossfit? Lately I’ve even been training to eventually do a split. (Stay tuned on that…)

“Jolene”

One day I ended up staying after school instead of taking the school bus home. My younger brother had slipped getting onto the bus and cut his head, so we were waiting in the main office for my mom to pick us up after he got checked out by the nurse. 

As I was sitting there in the office waiting area, Mr. Antonoff came in, checking his mailbox. He saw me and said hello, then he started singing the Dolly Parton song, “Joleen, Joleen, Joleen, Joleeeeeeeeeen.” I must’ve had an obviously confused look on my face for why he would be singing that song to me. 

“You don’t know that song?” he asked.

I shook my head. 

“You’re making me feel old!” he laughed as he left the office. 

Even though I didn’t understand the reference, it was another moment of feeling seen and acknowledged, when it would’ve been so easy to just ignore me sitting in the school office after the school day already ended.

These days…

It took me years and years of people singing that song to me over the course of my life to realize that they were singing Dolly Parton’s Jolene. And it’d take me a while to realize they had my name wrong. And then it took me a while to find a Miley Cyrus’s cover of it, which I liked much better than the original. I even sang and performed it at an acoustic performance at a bar this past summer. 

I still think of Mr. Antonoff whenever I hear it.

Mr. Antonoff was probably in his mid to late twenties, and it’s funny looking back now being older than that myself, and having those moments with young kids today when I feel like I was born in a totally different time than they were.

The lasting impact on me to this day

When I stop and think about it, the majority of my life these days seems to revolve around being seen and making other people feel seen and understood, too: whether it’s the cashier at the grocery store that I make sure to look in the eye and say, “Thank you,” or by waving hi to my neighbors, or saying Happy Holidays to the mail carrier walking down the street, or by the work I get to do with the people I coach on a weekly basis. 

It’s all about seeing them as an individual, human being, someone who has an entire world and things going on in their life they’re facing that I may know absolutely nothing about. I offer my presence and the smallest dose of kindness to remind them they’re not invisible.

Every time I’m connecting with someone, my goal is to do my best to fully see, hear, and understand them. Interestingly enough, it often doesn’t take many words to do so. I give them my complete attention. The people I coach, whether an individual or a group of men at a rehab trying to get sober, often don’t need advice from me, but just the space to feel seen and understood. It sounds so simple and insignificant, but the power of that can be life-changing, as it’s been for me.

Thank you, Mr. Antonoff

Mr. Antonoff, thank you for being you, and for always holding space for that 9-year-old version of me. Decades later, that kind gesture still touches my heart. Those small, seemingly insignificant moments really left a mark on me, and I’m so grateful to have had you in my early childhood.