by Owen Thomas
“Are teachers at Wilson High School permitted to supplement the teaching materials with their own viewpoint and perspective?”
“Of course they are. We are not living in China. But everything the teacher adds to the discussion must be reasonably calculated to enhance the primary mission of providing a fundamental education. You see, it all comes back to that primary mission. Mr. Johns teaches history. He did not supplement the teaching materials; he substituted them.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense that he thoroughly denigrated the teaching materials and then substituted them with his own personal, politically-driven viewpoints. Viewpoints that were calculated to be so over-the-top and incendiary that they crossed the line that divides educating from advocating. He was effectively recruiting these kids, Mr. Etus. Proselytizing. I do not think it too strong to characterize his behavior as a kind of intellectual corruption. And not just in matters of history. He used that classroom to influence religious views, suggesting that religion is a bastion of anti-intellectualism and making sport of the closely held religious beliefs of his students. We did not hire Mr. Johns to opine on the validity of Creationism or Natural Selection. We did not hire him to interpret the Holy Bible or to pontificate on the ethnicity of Jesus Christ or to take Christianity down a notch or two. No sir. Nor did we hire him to defend Islam.”
“And you believe…”
“Wait. I’m not done. He also used that classroom as a bully pulpit for political demagoguery. It is no secret that we live in the heart of a divided state that sits in the heart of a divided nation during troubled times. The last thing these kids need is a teacher who stirs the pot. These are students, not sign-waving, rock-throwing recruits. It is not a part of Mr. Johns’ job description to cast aspersions on the President of the United States or to stick up for Iraq. His job, quite simply, is to teach historical fact and we have provided him the materials to assist him in carrying out that responsibility.”
“And you believed he has failed that responsibility?”
“Yes.”
“And that is why you terminated his employment?”
“Among other reasons.”
“Other reasons. Such as?”
“A highly insubordinate attitude, for one, and a legitimate concern that he may have engaged in criminal misconduct in connection with one of his students.”
The people behind me seem to move and breathe as one beast. I can feel its muscles tense and its breath catch at the promise of something more lurid than textbooks.
“Let’s take the insubordination first. In what way was Mr. Johns insubordinate?”
“I called Mr. Johns to my office to discuss the complaints I had been getting. The ones we have just been discussing. I had already suspended him on other grounds, but I wanted to get his reaction to the complaints.”
“And, just so we are clear, on what other grounds had you suspended him?”
“Suspension pending completion of the police investigation into the disappearance of one of his students and his behavior in connection with that student at a Columbus nightclub.”
“Okay. Please continue.”
“While he was on suspension, I called him in for a meeting and during that meeting, Mr. Johns lost it.”
“Lost it?”
“His temper. He yelled at me and used profanity.” Robertson flicks his eyes past Etus to me. “And destroyed my personal property.”
I roll my eyes at the loss of his stupid bobble-head bulldog. I’d do it again in this very courtroom if he had brought it with him.
“And you considered his behavior unacceptable.”
“I will not tolerate that sort of behavior from anyone, and certainly not from the teachers in my school. I fired him on the spot.”
“Why was Mr. Johns angry, if you know? Why was he yelling?”
“Well, I suppose in his defense, he had to be feeling a great deal of pressure. He had already been suspended and he was the subject of an on-going police investigation involving one of his students and, on top of all of that, I was asking him about parent complaints and making very clear my displeasure with his performance in the classroom. So I think he snapped, plain and simple.” Robertson’s face sharpens and he points at Etus. “But that does not excuse his behavior. He brought all of that trouble on himself. He does not get a pass for insubordination.”
“Mr. Robertson …”
“Bob.”
“Yes, sorry, Bob, was any record made of this conversation with Mr. Johns?”
“Yes. I have…well, I suppose I should say I had… a recorder on my desk. As Mr. Johns got increasingly agitated and disrespectful I decided that I may need a record of what was transpiring.”
“Did Mr. Johns know you were recording him?”
“I assume so, yes. And he didn’t like it. Mere seconds after I began he grabbed the recorder and flung it into the window, smashing it. I had to call security. Fortunately, the little … what do you call it … the USB computer thing was intact.”
“And were you able to have a transcript made?”
“Yes.”
Etus snatches a piece of paper off of his table and hands it to Robertson.
“Is this the transcript?”
“Yes. That was all I was able to record. But it’s enough.”
“Your Honor, the Board of Education would like to submit this transcript as an exhibit. I believe it is identified as Exhibit D on our list previously submitted.”
I stand, too dumbfounded to speak. I am still trying to process the idea that bobble-head Bully was wired for sound. Etus hands the page to Archoni. The Judge reads and then looks up at Etus and then at me.
“Very well. Mr. Johns, as you are standing I assume that you wish to speak.”
“I have no knowledge of any recording. I had no idea.”
“Your Honor,” starts Etus, but Archoni holds up his hand.
“You have never seen this, then?” he asks, holding up the piece of paper.
“No.”
“Mr. Etus?”
“Your Honor, I personally made sure that a copy of the transcript, along with an electronic version was mailed to his home last week. Here is the …” Etus rummages through a file on his table and extracts another page, then hands it up to Judge Archoni. “Here is the affidavit of mailing. I sent it along with all of the rest of the exhibits on our list. I also left a personal message on his answering machine advising him to look for it and to let me know if it did not arrive.”
“Mr. Johns?”
“I… your Honor, I have not been living at home for a few days. If he actually sent it, that is my only explanation.”
“Your Honor, as you can see, the entire transcript is only a few lines. I am happy to provide Mr. Johns a copy and he can verify whether it is accurate.”
Archoni nods. Etus returns to his table and sifts through his briefcase. He hands me a single sheet of paper. I remain standing as I read.
Beginning of recording
…because I don’t like the stupid text books? Because I want these kids to think for themselves? Because Woodrow Wilson was a racist? Because all of the whiskey and coke has short-circuited George Bush into confusing Jesus Christ with Julius Caesar? Because I won’t drink the God-damned Kool-Aid?!”
“President Bush is not Jim Jones, and civil society is not a cult, Mr. Johns.”
“Education is not a cluster-fuck, Mr. Robertson.”
“Call me Bob.”
“Fuck you, Bob.”
Unintelligible sounds.
Termination of recording
“Mr. Johns,” says Archoni. “Have you reviewed the transcript?”
“Yes.”
“And do you find that it accurately sets forth the part of the conversation between you and Mr. Robertson that it purports to set forth?”
“It’s not complete.”
“Is the part that you see on the page an accurate representation?”
“Yes. I think so.”
>
“Very well. I will admit the exhibit.”
“I didn’t know he was recording the conversation.” Archoni’s is writing something, head down, and either does not hear or does not care. “I had no idea.”
“Maybe you should have chosen your words more carefully,” says Robertson.
Archoni lifts his head.
“Let’s avoid the sniping, shall we? Mr. Etus, please continue.”
“Thank you Judge.” Etus turns and looks at me. They are all looking at me. I sit.
“Mr. Rober… Bob, you mentioned that the other reason you decided to terminate Mr. Johns was that you had legitimate concerns that he had engaged in potentially criminal misconduct involving a student.”
“Yes sir.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“Gladly.”
It is as I would imagine the story would sound coming from Principal Robert B. Robertson III in a public setting. His words are measured. He is careful to say that he has no personal knowledge of the events. There is a disclaimer here and there about what may or may not be true and about the importance of the criminal justice process.
But those are just words. His lips are moving, but he tells this story with his eyes. There is firelight dancing in the black irises. The eyes sing the story of David Johns and the missing girl as an epic tragic poem. They sing to the people behind me, who squirm and mutter and drain their mugs of mead and wipe the froth from their lips with the backs of their hands and scream for the head of Grendel. Whatever the words, his eyes could not give a shit about personal knowledge or the judicial process running its course.
“So you cannot say whether any of these things are true.”
“No. That is for a jury of Mr. Johns’ peers to decide. Not me. But I am his principal, Mr. Etus. I have a responsibility to protect the children entrusted to my care. When I receive credible albeit unproven reports that one of my teachers has made sexual advances on a student in a night club, that the teacher is a person of interest in an investigation into that student’s disappearance, that the teacher was found with the student’s purse in his car, and that the teacher has been indicted on felony drug possession charges, then the School Board and I have a responsibility to take action. I am particularly concerned about the drugs. I will not retain teachers whom I have credible reason to believe use or sell or buy illegal drugs. This is a place of learning. These children… I had a responsibility to take action.”
“That action could have been a suspension without pay pending resolution of those issues, correct?”
“Yes. Conceivably. But let’s be realistic. Mr. Johns is in a whole lot of trouble here. I wish him well. I hope to God that none of this is true and that he can disprove all of these allegations. But even that will be a long time in coming. Too long to keep someone on suspension. If he is exonerated, he could always reapply. Or, at least, he could reapply were it not for the other issues we have discussed.”
“So then even if the criminal problems we have discussed did not exist…”
Robertson is nodding his head before the question is put to him.
“The criminal issue is simply the straw that broke the camel’s back, Mr. Etus. I cannot have him back in my school under any circumstances.”
“Thank you, Bob. Your Honor.”
“Thank you Mr. Etus. Mr. Johns?”
I feel unable to stand. All of the pointed, devastating questions I had wanted to ask Principal Robertson are gone or too far away for my mind to reach. He re-crosses his legs. Looks at his watch. Flicks at a piece of lint on his knee. Waits.
But I cannot rise, not only because I am punch-drunk exhausted and because I am so overwhelmed I do not know where to begin, but, ultimately, because Robert B. Robertson III, asshole extraordinaire, is right. If I were the principal of a high school and all of this landed on my desk – the complaints, the investigation, the indictment – wouldn’t I do the same? Wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t anybody?
“Mr. Johns?”
I begin thinking of other jobs I might do when I am paroled. Laying carpet for a discount flooring outlet. Selling chicken for Colonel Sanders. I could start a lawn-mowing, gutter cleaning, snow shoveling business. I could eat my baloney sandwich lunch everyday in a beat-up pick-up truck with a lawn mower or a snow blower and a can of gas in the back. A plastic cup of fruit for dessert. Listening to oldies radio. Then back to mowing or blowing and then a drive back into town for a visit with my probation officer. A good enough life. Simple. Honest. Lacking drama.
This is all of the optimism I have left. A glowing coal amidst the rubble of a life that is all but burnt to the ground. This is how I warm my hands.
“Mr. Johns?”
I stand.
“Mr. Robertson…”
“Please, call me Bob.”
“Mr. Robertson, the tape recorder on your desk did not look like a tape recorder, did it?” It is the only thing in my head to ask him.
“No.”
“It was disguised as a bobble-head bulldog, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, although I think the word ‘disguised’ is a bit strong. It was an alma mater novelty I picked up.”
“And isn’t it also true that the transcript,” I hold up the piece of paper, “this transcript, this part of our conversation, occurred after you had fired me?”
“No. I don’t believe so.”
“Really? So I destroyed your little tape recorder and left your office and you called for security and then you fired me?”
I can see him thinking. He smiles. Looks up at the judge.
“I don’t specifically remember. It makes little difference. If I had not already fired you before, I certainly would have done so after.”
I flip through my empty pad of paper as if I am choosing between dozens of issues. I cannot imagine that I am fooling anyone.
“And about the classroom issues. You have never actually been in the classroom when I have been teaching, have you?”
“Not this year. No. Last year once, I think.”
“And did I say or do anything that you thought was inappropriate?”
“You were well behaved. Almost as if your principal was in the room observing.”
There is a snort and a titter from behind me. They think he’s funny. They are relishing the opportunity to relive this moment with him whenever they see him next. Parent-teacher conferences. The football games. They think…
I feel something in the small of my back. I turn, suddenly. Ben is stretched over the half-wall trying to get my attention.
“Ben,” I whisper harshly, bending to him. “I’m busy. I can’t…”
“Mr. Johns.”
“Just one second, Judge,” I say over my shoulder not looking.
Ben holds open his hands. There is one dead AA battery in each.
“I’m sorry. You should have thought of that. You just have to sit and be quiet.”
He returns to his seat, chastened, hunched, hands between his knees, eyes down. The woman next to him is cowering into her companion’s lap, lest he accidentally touch her. I glower at her for thinking there is something funny about my brother trying to get my attention and for being so repulsed. She bugs her eyes at me. I want to scream at her, re-channeling the self-loathing I feel for the last twenty seconds of my life.
“Mr. Johns.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, Judge. I just… Okay, Mr. Robertson …”
“Please, call me…”
“No! I will not call you Bob!”
“Fine. Fine. My goodness, son.”
“Mr. Robertson, I am not your friend and I am not your son.”
“Fine. Fine. Ask your questions.”
“You criticize my teaching, but you have never seen that for yourself, have you?”
“No, I…”
“You are relying entirely on complaints from parents who also were not there.”
“I hope you will let me actually answer the question.”
“Please.”
“I h
ave relied on the complaints of both parents and students.”
“But the Board is not calling any of the students, is it? The ones who were there.”
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Etus about that, Mr. Johns. He’s the lawyer, not me. I’m an educator. I suspect that the Board is hewing to its long-standing policy of not placing young students in the terrible, terrible position of having to testify against their teachers. Frankly, Mr. Johns, I had assumed that was why you, too, had declined to subpoena any of the students. I had given you some credit for that.”
I decide not to tell him that the concept of subpoenas has never even crossed my mind. Or that I had foolishly expected that most of the witnesses called by the Board would, in fact, be my former students, and that I had hoped to engage those students in a careful dialogue to reconstruct the actual history lesson that has tied their parents and the administration into so many knots. I decide, in other words, to not inform Principal Robertson that I am a naïve idiot asshole.
I change course, asking him to admit the pockets of darkness in American history. As if that will somehow help my case. I leave out Christopher Columbus, who has a role in American history only because the textbooks insist on including him, and for whom I am beginning to feel some remorse for an intensity of focus that I had never intended. I bring up the invasion of Cambodia. The Gulf of Tonkin. Watergate. Japanese internment. The slave-owning and fraternizing founders. The Sedition Act. The House Un-American Activities Committee. The Bay of Pigs. The Tuskegee experiments. Dred Scott. Wounded Knee. The Trail of Tears. I want him to say these things never happened. Even just one of them. I want him to become the testifying incarnation of the ridiculous textbook I was expected to teach. I want him to brush these events aside as unimportant, relegating them to historical footnotes to the high-flying patriotic text of American lore.
But Robertson will not take the bait. He gives me nothing to fight, acknowledging each of them, using words like travesty and outrageous. I take to shouting at him.
“Then why do you have such a problem with me teaching these events in class?”
