In fifth grade, a time when the last remnants of the cooties were disappearing, the topic on everyone’s mind shifted to puberty. At first, the association between puberty and fifth graders might seem completely foreign; after all, our class was the happiest when our teacher told us we could spend the whole period coloring.

Regardless, puberty’s presence became increasingly tangible as the year progressed. In hushed voices, we would eagerly discuss Brian, a fellow classmate whose voice had recently acquired the habit of cracking on every other word. Fortunately, this meant that his frequent cheating on tests could no longer remain inconspicuous; his signature stratagy of asking hurriedly under his breath, “What’s the answer to question...?” mutated itself into, “WhAAtts the aNNSw-”, his voice sounding like that of a dying cow. At the time, we interpreted it as a sign of an upcoming apocalypse. The onlookers to the event would shake their heads and sigh towards the ground with such notable sadness that you might think his entire family had been killed, his house set on fire, his money stolen, his limbs fallen off, and a terminal disease contracted. This wasn’t because we felt bad for him, but because we knew it only a matter of time before it happened to ourselves. Inwardly, everyone thought the same naive thought: “I hope that will not happen to me.” As it later turned out, that was nothing but wishful thinking on our part.

Aside from the marvelling at Brian’s voice, the passage from gawky kid to teenage would have happened largely unnoticed had it not been for our school’s burning desire to call attention to it. Once a year, the school hosted an event lovingly dubbed, “Maturation Night.” The fact that they had called it a “night” revealed their true intentions: to put on a show. Had our school the budget for it, posters would have lined the walls. “Maturation Night!” the posters would have said, words written with bubbly letters above an acne-plagued face. “Bring your mom, dad, and even your grandparents!” All we needed was a score by Andrew Lloyd Webber and it would be a full-blown Broadway show.

While the event was free- what a bargain!- all students were required to have their parents sign a permission slip in order to attend. As if it weren’t enough to come to terms with our changing bodies, we know had to tell our parents our changing bodies. My strategy upon receiving the slip was to slide it across the the table “important business man” style to my mother who would ideally sign it without a word. My plan would have worked perfectly had my mother been sitting at a table, if I looked anything remotely like a businessman, and if I had the hand eye coordination to slide something across a table. My desired path of action having been thwarted, I resorted to Plan B: throwing the slip at her and running away as fast as I could.

The evening’s performance was to start at eight, but our presence was required promptly at seven thirty. Father and son both entered what was to be the theatre for the night’s performance: the dinky cafeteria, decorated with filthy tables and an abundance of plastic chairs. It set the tone for the evening; the filthy table was clearly a symbol of the kids’ filthy minds that were to be matured and the plastic chairs kept things gritty and uncomfortable and helped keep everybody on the edge of their seats – literally. All the fathers dwarfed the chairs.

When the cast arrived, a motley collection of underpaid school personnel who looked like they’d rather tell students about dead cats than the miracles of the human body, the audience fell silent and anticipation mounted. The school nurse informed us gently that the information to be presented during the evening was to focus exclusively on puberty and not sex. At that moment, it seemed all the parents let out a sigh of relief in unison, happy that there was one less topic to cause awkwardness. At the same, the fifth graders sat with mouths wide open having just heard the word “sex” used in public.

Each table was host to a packet with the words, “Maturation Night” written across it in bold letters. What ancient knowledge was contained amongst these packets? How many nights were spent painstakingly translating and transferring ancient Mayan secrets from dusty scrolls in an underground library? Apparently none, I concluded when I opened the packet and was greeted by a poorly drawn picture of a particular part of male anatomy.

The format for the show was as follows: one at a time, a speaker would make his way to the front of cafeteria, the clicking of shoes ringing off the floor, from which point he or she would prophesize in deep booming voices the changes that were to come. Voices would deepen, tempers would flare, individuals would start smelling like dying cats, etc. Out of all of them, the majority of the boys were horrified at the thought of their voices changing. Looking back on it, it was completely irrational. We should have been thrilled at the possibility of joining the ranks of deep-voiced celebrities such as that-guy-who-you-always-hear- narrating-dramatic-movie trailers. The once insignificant act of borrowing a pencil would be a scene worthy of an Oscar and reading passages from Shel Silverstein books would be be like the James Earl Jones recording of the Bible. Even funnier was the fact that we were all protective of our voices to begin with, which, for the record, closely resembled Mickey Mouse on helium.

Perhaps the best part, dramatically speaking, of Maturation Night was the audience participation. It was exactly like a game show except no prizes were being rewarded and the questions asked included the stumper, “What fluids can pass out of the male body?” My friend Alec took pleasure in raising his hand at every question which he would answer correctly with a large smile on his otherwise small face. “Urine is one, right?” he said, to which the teachers would nod in obvious approval of his academic prowess.

In a section on anger management, the teachers suggested that we each find something we enjoyed to calm us down in, say, the event we felt like smashing a wall or stabbing a person. Armed with a mic, a teacher headed straight into the audience to hear some of these things from the crowd. It took me only two seconds before I realized he was walking straight towards me; after all, I only looked happy. The teacher stuck his face in mine, pressed the mic against my lips, pulled back his lips to reveal a set of yellowed teeth, and shouted, “WHAT CALMS YOU DOWN WHEN YOU’RE ANGRY, SON?” I wasn’t angry before, but now I certainly was. This man, besides violating my bubble of space, violated one of my rules life: no man who is not my father shall refer to me as son. “Books,” was the response I stammered before casting my gaze at the floor. This pleased the teacher who from that point continued his rounds of the cafeteria. I could breathe freely again.

The night ended with the teachers handing out a gift both appropriate and suggestive: sticks of deodorant. From the school doors, the audience poured out, the sound of grubby hands tearing off crinkly wrapping paper filled the air like the opening of presents on Christmas morning. When we had entered the building earlier that evening, we were a group of stupid kids. Leaving that night, we felt confident in making the transition to being stupid teenagers.