The iCandidate

by Mikael Carlson

  .

  -FIVE-

  MICHAEL

  I have some great kids this year, but my B Period honors American History class is my absolute favorite. In fact, it would be hard to argue against it being the best group of students I have ever had. Any teacher will tell you that there are always good groups of students and bad ones. Some classes are simply more fun to teach than others, and this is one of them.

  The twenty-five students mill around the classroom until the bell rings and then promptly take their seats. I arranged the desks in a horseshoe facing the white board hung in the front of the room. Since I am an ardent believer in teaching being part performance, this set-up gives me a stage onto which to work.

  In fact, that area is even called the stage. Every year on the first day of school, while I am espousing my teaching philosophy to my new charges, I explain the etymology of the ‘stage.’ Yes, it’s partly because that’s where theater performances are conducted, but has a dual military meaning. When I was in basic training, the area between the first set of bunks and the drill sergeants’ office was also called ‘the stage.’ Perpetually waxed and buffed to a high gloss shine, we lowly privates were forbidden to ever walk on those tiles. The stage was reserved for the men tasked with training us, and only them.

  This being high school, and not military school, my rules are not quite so authoritarian. However, each class understands the purpose of the stage and all adopt the word. So the area in front of the white board and into the space ringed by the horseshoe is my stage, and being on it is the greatest feeling in the world.

  “Good Morning, all,” I sound in my booming voice. “I trust everyone enjoyed their weekend, so we'll skip the pleasantries and get down to business.” I walk to the center of the room as students shuffle items around their desks to get organized. The routine has been the same since day one, and they respond more favorably than you’d expect out of teenagers in their junior year.

  “Essays on the Great Depression are due by fifteen hundred hours today. Homework is on the board. Please note that the reading portion is due tomorrow.” Without looking back, I point to the spot on the white board where the homework is posted.

  I am not sure how we managed to get the Great Depression, let alone find the time to talk about the interwar period. Most of my colleagues are still struggling to get through Civil War reconstruction. As a history teacher, if you reach WWI it’s been a good year. I should be able to cover the Korean War at this pace.

  “The final exam is eight weeks from today, and it’s cumulative. If you are not reviewing your notes and preparing now, I promise you, you will fail. What are your questions?” I look around and see there are none. “Excellent. Clear your desks. It’s show time.”

  I hand out the quizzes and everyone gets to work. I usually provide ten to twenty minutes to finish and, believe me, that’s not a lot of time even for the easier ones. The questions are straightforward multiple choice, true or false, and a fill in the blank section my students would characterize as sadistic. More than fodder to fill a grade book with, I use quizzes as a tool to measure both learning and my effectiveness teaching. If the kids all bomb a quiz, I did something wrong and need to reinforce learning before the exam. At least, I choose to think that way.

  Students take it in stride – they are not in this class because of any rumor about me being an easy teacher. My colleagues think that I am too hard on them - challenging students to rise to a high standard seems to be a foreign concept in America’s public schools. Strange, since my real world experience was much different. I had standards set for me with the expectation to meet them from the day I enlisted and went to basic training.

  Those standards had been enforced by ruthless sergeants every day since, from my time at Airborne School at Fort Benning, to Special Forces Selection, the Qualification Course, Language School, and even on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was charged with carrying on that tradition when I became a sergeant myself. Now a thirty-six year old civilian, my dedication to that principle gets exercised in a classroom instead of a battlefield. I believe reachable, yet demanding standards are a good thing, despite not all teachers thinking so.

  A fellow social studies teacher handed a copy of my quiz on the American Revolution to the principal because he was so upset. Since there is no love-loss between myself and Principal Howell, he smugly pronounced the short test too advanced for the high school level. He even added his own doubts about being able to pass the quiz. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the average grade was an eighty-seven and not a single student failed. Okay, I actually had more than enough heart to tell him, with plenty left over to remind him a half-dozen times since.

  I roll my desk chair over to the middle of the stage, coffee and attendance book in hand as students begin poring over their quizzes. Fifteen minutes later, it’s apparent by the smiles on their faces that they aced this one. As I collect them, a Barbie doll-looking blonde with bright red fingernails and trendy clothes raises her hand.

  “Yes, Miss Rasner?

  “What'd ya do this weekend, Mister B?” Apparently Peyton thinks my social life is pretty active, because she asks the same question every Monday. It’s challenging to come up with new answers.

  “The same thing I do every weekend Peyton, try to take over the world.” Since the students actually chuckle, my confidence on their quiz performance is confirmed.

  “How'd that work for you?” queries Amanda, a girl born to be an accountant. I am pretty sure she could do my taxes in ten minutes and get me a better refund than any tax service can manage. Ten years from now, she will enchant guys in bars, only to send them fleeing for their lives when they find out she’s an auditor for the IRS or something.

  “Well, I am not sitting on a throne, not carrying a scepter, and most importantly, I’m still here, right?”

  “So, not so good?” Peyton asks, persistent in trying to pry some details out of me.

  “Don’t fret Peyton, there are plenty of weekends left for me to try.” Everyone smiles, but I am sure they are thinking they would rue the day I was ever dictator of anything. Running this class is bad enough for them. “Where did we leave off on Friday?” I add, changing the subject.

  “We were talking about the European power's failing to restrain Hitler's ambitions in Europe,” Chelsea is quick to explain. Many teachers will pretend they don’t have favorite students. They fear the admission can be perceived as granting special treatment, even if it’s not the case. I harbor no such sensitivity. I am honest with myself about having favorites, and Chelsea Stanton is one of them.

  “And what did you learn?”

  “That some things never change.” Not hard to figure out why I like her. She’s sharp.

  The students nod their heads in agreement. I scan their faces for a moment, looking for my next target. I settle on Xavier, the only African-American student in the class. Millfield High is not a bastion of diversity. Tall and athletic, Xavier likes to play the role of uncaring teenager. Truth is, this kid will not only go to college on a scholarship in any one of three sports, he’ll undoubtedly be an academic All-American.

  “What does she mean, Xavier?”

  “Talk is cheap. And all anyone ever seems to do is run their mouths,” he says.

  “Then or now, X?” Yeah, I call him X. With the only possible exception being Q, it is the coolest letter to start your name with.

  “Both!”

  I spent all year focusing on causality, because it makes history interesting to students who would otherwise have no interest in learning. Knowing the American Revolution started in 1775 and the Union won the Civil War is important, but convincing young minds it’s actually relevant for more than just an exam is the hardest part of teaching. Getting them to relate the past to the present not only keeps their interest, it exercises the critical thinking skills they will need someday.

  “You all know what question is coming next. Why? Vanessa?”

  It is game day
for Vanessa and the team she captains, so she is dressed in her jersey. A three-sport athlete that includes field hockey and basketball, she is the school’s female version of Xavier. Softball is her best sport, and if X is Millfield’s king of the hard court, she ranks as queen of the diamond. Baseball is a passion of hers, and I learned early on never to get into an argument about it with her without researching ESPN first. At least she is a Yankee fan.

  She finishes tying her hair in a ponytail before answering. “Because talk is easier than action,” she says after a moment of reflection.

  “Okay, tell me what you would have done?”

  “Something to stop him.” Vanessa is sincere, but she clearly doesn’t have a clue what she would do. Taking a look at the rest of the class from the center of the stage, it’s clear most of them don’t either.

  “Do something to stop him. Sounds like a plan, but remember European powers like France and England lost the better part of a generation in World War One. Their economies were still fragile and populations war-weary. The Germans had nothing left to lose after the Treaty of Versailles. Isn't stopping Hitler a little easier said than done, Brian?”

  Brian exemplifies the nerd who always got bullied in school when I was growing up. You know, the one who was the least cool, never had a girlfriend, but was one of the smartest kids in class. Brian is a dorky computer geek with no sense of style, which means he will probably found the next Facebook or Microsoft, make billions of dollars, and be dating a supermodel in ten years.

  “Sure, but if you can take action, you should take action,” he says, tapping his pen nervously on his notebook while he speaks.

  “Bold words, but doesn't everyone have the ability to take action? Not just nation-states heading down a path to inevitable war. In a broader scope, doesn’t everyone have the responsibility to act when a situation arises that calls for it?”

  “Not us. We're only in high school,” Emilee says. She is your average teenager, although more reticent during class discussions than her peers. Like many her age, she is just trying to find her voice and develop the confidence to use it. “We can't even vote,” she finishes.

  “Emilee, do you think age is a prerequisite to making a difference?” The question yields unintended consequence of driving her back into her shell. The challenge fails to deter some of my other students, and one in particular.

  “It is if you want to be taken seriously,” Chelsea says.

  I have been pacing around the room until this point to keep everyone’s focus on me. I decide to sit in my chair, right in the middle of the stage. I turn toward Chelsea and lean forward. “Chelsea, in the military there is the fine line between what’s considered a reason and an excuse. I am not sure which yours is.”

  Chelsea leans forward in her own chair, not for a second backing down to my challenge. “We may never know,” she says, smiling. Again, that’s why she’s a favorite of mine.

  The class ends and the rest of the day’s classes blur by. My academic level students are behind my honors class in the chronology of American history, so I must develop and execute several sets of lessons. Most planning happens on weekends, simply because I am exhausted at the end of a school day.

  That’s another way you can tell the good teachers from the bad. Bad teachers always want to engage in useless conversation at the end of the day because they didn’t expend much energy teaching. Good teachers are mentally and emotionally spent. Great teachers look like they were playing chess against Garry Kasparov all day.

  With quizzes in each of my five classes to grade, I have a pile to plough through. School dismisses a little after two, but teachers are not released until three o’clock. With an hour to kill before leaving, and two before the forced date with my future in-laws, I get right to work grading the quizzes. As I suspected, the honors class did really well on this one. I was about to pat myself on the back when the voice of my arch-nemesis shattered the revelry.

  “The Great Depression and the lead up to World War II, huh? I am amazed, Michael, that you’re the only history teacher in the entire school to get this far,” I hear Principal Howell say.

  I turn in my seat to find him gawking at the assignments for each class detailed out on the whiteboard. I never heard him come in. Well, slink in might be more descriptive.

  Robinson Howell has been principal of the school for the last three years. He was still easing into the job when I interviewed with him, and he has regretted the decision to hire me ever since. If I am Ferris Bueller, he’s my Edward Rooney. I wonder if he likes warm gummy bears.

  “I wouldn’t know where my colleagues are in their lessons.” Not exactly accurate as I know where each one of them is. “I measure the speed of teaching by the effectiveness of the students to learn.” That part is true however.

  “Yeah, right,” he responds, moving toward me.

  Recognizing my productivity will be zero, both during and after the lecture I know is sure to come, I put the quizzes I was grading back into a folder and begin to pack up my stuff. “Is this a social call, Robinson, or are you just going to sling derisive comments my way until I leave?” He smirks, perhaps thinking I might seriously think he was making a social call.

  “I heard some concerns voiced about a few of your recent lectures. Things you discussed outside of your approved lesson plans.”

  “Really?” I feign surprise. “Concerns from whom?”

  “I am really not at liberty to say.” Of course he isn’t. “But I heard you dedicated class time to the history of shopping. Is that true?” Howell folds his arms across his chest, the body-language way of saying I don’t care about your explanation.

  “Oh. I thought you were here to scold me for something not included in the lesson plan,” I reply, barely able to contain the smile desperate to emerge on my mouth. Robinson Howell, for all his bluster and banter, is a schoolyard bully at heart. First he preys on the weak, untenured teachers with little capability or guts to fight back first.

  Once that appetite is satiated, he moves on to making sure the department chairs are forced to do his bidding, thus the conversation with Chalice this morning. Finally, if he feels he has something on one of the stronger personalities in the school, he will confront them individually. Today is one of those days.

  He gives me a puzzled look, trying to recollect what he read in my lesson plans. “You never mentioned–” I don’t let him finish his sentence because I know he finds interruptions irritating.

  “We talked about the evolution of shopping as part of the lesson on the economic boom during the Roaring Twenties. We also discussed the chronology of the skyscraper and the urbanization of America, in case you’re curious.”

  The discussion was another end of the week causality example for my students. Fridays are always the toughest days to teach, so I like to reserve them for topics of interest. A necessity if you want to keep students engaged when they are all looking forward to the weekend.

  The lesson was a simple one. You start with a product one of the students happens to be carrying, in this case a girl’s purse, and talk about how she bought it. In this example, the bag was purchased at one of the countless women’s accessory stores in the Danbury Mall.

  We traced how she would have purchased the same item back through American history. Strip malls, online catalogues, the department store, and so on to the local village merchant who imported the item from England prior to the American Revolution. The whole exercise was exceedingly interesting for the girls, although the boys got something out of it too.

  “I don’t think the State of Connecticut would approve, nor do I believe parents would think much of it either,” Howell says, clearly off-balance.

  “So you are telling me, that as principal, you feel understanding mercantilism is not an important part of American history and who we are as a society today? Because last I checked, consumerism is one of the pillars of modern American culture.” Howell starts to respond, but I’m on a roll. “And while we can agree
or disagree on whether the importance we place on material things is healthy for our society, understanding this in a historical context is an essential part of learning and what teaching American History is all about.

  “The question you need to ask yourself, Robinson, isn’t why I’m teaching this. It’s why everyone else isn’t.” I sneak a quick look at the clock to see if I can hit the door at precisely three p.m. if I take my time getting downstairs. I normally wouldn’t care leaving a minute or two early, but Chalice was right about one thing. I shouldn’t be giving Howell any more excuses to come after me.

  I walk past my stunned principal and wait for him to follow me out into the hallway. He puffs his chest, or at least what can loosely be called a chest, as he walks out of the room. Howell is balding, wears the goofiest glasses imaginable, and hasn’t seen the inside of a gym since George Bush was in the White House. The father, not the son.

  I can feel his eyes burning into me as I close the door and lock it. Howell probably practiced this confrontation in his office all afternoon, and it did not turn out the way he imagined. Losing gracefully is not his style, so cue the final words on the subject.

  “Stick to the curriculum, Michael. It’s developed by people who are far more educated than you. If a single parent complains about this, you’ll be hearing from me again.”

  There are so many things I could respond with, but I choose to bite my tongue as Robinson Howell stomps back down the hallway. In poker, discerning when to raise is just as important as knowing when to just call, win the hand, and take the pot. Besides, I will need to save my strength for an evening at Jess’ parents anyway. With that thought, I head for the door.

  .

  -SIX-

  BLAKE