It is clear that Phil and I have very different philosophies of education. I sadly acknowledge that he objects to some of my methods and practices.
Sincerely,
Karl A. Larson, Teacher
Many parents thought that Mr. Larson should not be a teacher. Several school board members thought that Mr. Larson should be fired, and several other board members thought it would be nice if Mr. Larson retired—early.
But as every principal and every school board knows, getting rid of a teacher is not an easy thing to do. There has to be something serious, something provable, something that violates school policies, or something that violates the law.
Dr. Barnes closed up Mr. Larson’s fat file folder, put it back in the drawer, shut the cabinet, locked it, and dropped the key back into its place.
He set his copy of The Landry News in the center of his desk blotter. Then he laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in his chair. He smiled. He had a good feeling about this little newspaper. This situation had possibilities. This could turn out to be just what a lot of people had been hoping for.
Sitting up suddenly, Dr. Barnes reached for his phone. He punched Mrs. Cormier’s extension. He could hear her bustling around behind him out in the main office area, no doubt getting ready to leave. He could have swiveled his chair around and talked to her, but he enjoyed using the phone. It seemed more official.
The phone on Mrs. Cormier’s desk rang one, two, three, four times. She finally answered. “Yes, Dr. Barnes?” There was an edge to Mrs. Cormier’s voice. It was four-fifteen on a Friday, and she was in no mood for secretary games. Standing at her desk with her coat and hat on, Mrs. Cormier could see Dr. Barnes sitting there, fifteen feet away, drumming on the desk with his fingers. Really—how hard could it be for him to just swing around, smile, and talk?
“Uh, yes . . . Mrs. Cormier, um . . . please put a note into Mr. Larson’s box for me. I want to meet with him Monday, right after school—right after school. It’s a matter of some importance.”
Mrs. Cormier hung up her phone and called through the open door, “Monday is Columbus Day, Dr. Barnes. But I’ll leave him a note about a meeting on Tuesday, and then I’ll be going. Have a good long weekend, now.”
Mrs. Cormier scrawled a hasty note onto a sheet of Dr. Barnes’s stationery, stuffed it into Mr. Larson’s mail slot, and was out the door in thirty seconds.
CHAPTER 12
GROWTH SPURT DOESN’T HURT
ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON Mr. Larson called the class to order. He wrote three words on the chalkboard, from left to right: Positive, Neutral, Negative.
Mr. Larson said, “An editorial writer has only got a little bit of space, so every word has to be chosen for power.” Tapping the board as he said the key words, Mr. Larson continued, “The words a writer chooses can be positive, negative, or neutral. Is the writer building something up? That’s positive writing. Tearing something apart? That calls for negative punches. And if the writer is just exploring, just looking all around an issue, that’s a neutral treatment.”
Cara raised her hand. Mr. Larson said, “Question, Cara?”
“But if an editor is taking a negative position on something like war or drugs, wouldn’t that really be positive?”
Mr. Larson said, “Yes, and no. Yes, the effect might be positive. But the treatment—the words themselves and the images they communicate—they would be negative. Now, everyone, look over the editorials you clipped. Let’s get some lists going up here, positive, neutral, and negative.”
For ten minutes the kids peppered Mr. Larson with words and phrases, and he wrote them down as quickly as he could.
The negative column filled up fastest with words like stupid, disgraceful, foolish, laughable, wasteful, outraged, idiotic, scandalous, uninformed, half-baked, shamefully.
Positive words and phrases included generously, public-spirited, wise, beneficial, commendable, carefully researched, useful, honorable, good.
Neutral words or phrases were a lot harder to find. In fact, the kids only found five: apparently, clearly, not certain, understandably, presumably. Then Mr. Larson led a rousing class discussion, more like a shouting match, about which kind of editorial treatment was best. Everyone finally agreed that there were times and places for all three kinds.
Reaching over to his desk, Mr. Larson grabbed a sheet of paper and taped it up onto the chalkboard. The class hushed. It was a copy of The Landry News.
“I know you’ve all seen this new and improved edition of The Landry News,” he said. “And I know from the condition of the room and my shrinking newspaper stacks that you’ve all been looking at a lot of other newspapers, too.” Mr. Larson smiled. “So give me some opinions. How is The Landry News different from the other papers you’ve been looking at—and how is it the same?”
No one said anything. “Come on, now, we’re not being negative here, we’re being neutral. In fact, we have every reason to be very positive.” Pointing at the newspaper, he said, “This is quite a big change to happen in one week. I’m not asking for comments about the paper, just tell me—how is it similar to the other ones you’ve been reading, and how is it different . . .” Mr. Larson paused. “Who’s got an idea? Ed? You must have an idea. Tell me a difference.”
Ed gulped. Glancing at Cara and Joey before he spoke, he said, “Size? Our paper—I mean The Landry News—like, it doesn’t have as many words?”
“Size! Excellent, Ed. Size.” Mr. Larson wrote the word on the board. “Now someone else,” said Mr. Larson, “another difference . . . LeeAnn?”
LeeAnn was ready. “Those other newspapers have hundreds of reporters and printers and stuff,” she blurted out, “and this newspaper has only a few.”
That broke things open. In just a few minutes, there was a long list of differences—things like advertisements, a purchase price, color pictures, comics, gossip columns, advice columns, world news.
Then came the list of similarities. It covered all the basics: The Landry News had local news stories, it had reporters, it had writers, it had a black-and-white picture, it had an editorial, it had readers, and it was interesting, just like the other papers.
Looking back and forth from list to list, Sharon raised her hand. Mr. Larson nodded at her. “Sharon?”
She said, “Well, why couldn’t The Landry News have more of those other things in it, too, like columns and comics and stuff?”
“That’s a fair question,” said Mr. Larson, “but I can’t answer it. You all missed another similarity that The Landry News has to those other papers. The Landry News also has an editor in chief, and if you’ve got a question about changing The Landry News, you’d have to ask her.”
All eyes turned to Cara. She was sitting on a desk, one foot on the chair, the other leg crossed, her sharp little chin propped on her fist, with her elbow on her knee. She looked like that famous statue, The Thinker, but thin, with her brown plaid skirt covering her skinny knees and her ponytail flopped to one side.
She could feel the color rising in her cheeks. Mr. Larson was asking her to make the decision—Cara Landry, the editor in chief. The first thought that flashed through her mind was how much fun it would be to tell her mom about all this at supper tonight.
A lot had happened to Cara in the last ten days. Less than two weeks ago, Cara Landry had been the invisible girl. Now, every kid and every teacher in the school knew her name and her face. The Landry News used to be something Cara did completely on her own, something with a single voice and a single vision, an extension of her own thinking and her own two hands.
To make the newspaper that Mr. Larson had taped up there on the chalkboard, Cara had needed the hands and eyes and ears of others. She had made new friends, and they had all worked and laughed, then argued and thought, and then laughed again. She had seen how good it made all of them feel to make the newspaper together.
Cara didn’t feel famous. What she felt was . . . useful. She felt needed. And she liked it.
&nbs
p; And if just having four or five kids help with the paper could make it that much better and that much more fun, could it hurt to have the group get bigger?
Cara straightened up and looked around. Then she smiled—a warm, inclusive smile that made her whole face shine. And the editor in chief said, “If it’s going to have more features, it’s going to need more writers and reporters, more typists, more of everything. And it’s not all that easy or fun—just ask LeeAnn or Joey! So whoever wants to help, come back to my desk. The deadline for the next edition is this Friday—and it’s a short week!”
The whole class followed Cara back to her desk in the comer, and soon Joey and Ed and LeeAnn were helping Cara figure out how to divide up the work.
Left alone up at the front of the room, Mr. Larson turned around and slowly pulled his copy of The Landry News off the chalkboard. Sitting at his desk, he carefully peeled off the piece of tape. Then he pulled open the deep drawer on the bottom left, and took out a new file folder. With a green marker he wrote THE LANDRY NEWS on the tab in neat block letters. He folded the newspaper sheet exactly in half, put it into the file folder, and tucked it into the drawer.
By this time the noise in room 145 had reached a level that would have stunned, or possibly paralyzed, any other teacher at Denton Elementary School. But Mr. Larson heaved a satisfied sigh, poured himself a cup of hot coffee from his big red thermos, smiled, leaned back in his chair, and opened up his other newspaper to the sports section.
CHAPTER 13
STRONG WINDS IN FORECAST
MR. LARSON WAS on his way out of the building on Tuesday afternoon, briefcase in one hand, red thermos in the other, when he heard the unmistakable sound of Dr. Barnes’s voice.
“Mr. Larson! Mr. Larson!” Dr. Barnes was trotting down the hall toward him, puffing, his face red.
Turning around, Mr. Larson managed to put a neutral expression on his face. He said, “Hi, Phil. How’s it going?”
Dr. Barnes winced. He preferred to be called Dr. Barnes, or Principal Barnes. Mr. Larson always called him Phil.
“What are you doing?” Dr. Barnes asked incredulously.
“It’s three-thirty—thought I’d go home for the night,” said Mr. Larson.
Patting his forehead with a handkerchief, Dr. Barnes said, “Didn’t you get my memo? We have a meeting today, right now, and you’re fifteen minutes late.”
“Hmmm,” said Mr. Larson. “Guess I didn’t get your note.”
“But how could you have missed it? Mrs. Cormier put it in your mailbox on Friday afternoon. Didn’t you get your mail this morning?”
Mr. Larson smiled and shrugged. “Guess not.”
Dr. Barnes turned and motioned, and Mr. Larson began following him down the hall toward the office. Dr. Barnes said, “I’m glad I caught you. You’re supposed to get your mail every morning, you know. Your mailbox is an important channel of faculty communication.”
With a straight face, Mr. Larson said, “You know, I’ve heard that, Phil. But it’s remarkable how many days I get by just fine without going to the office at all.”
Dr. Barnes ignored this comment and opened the door that went directly into his office from the hallway. He held the door, letting Mr. Larson squeeze past him to go in first.
Shutting the door, Dr. Barnes motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Mr. Larson put his thermos and briefcase on the floor beside the chair, sat down, and crossed his long legs. It was not a comfortable chair. Mr. Larson wondered how many other squirming people had sat across from Principal Barnes this way. On the principal’s desk was a prism of wood, engraved, PHILIP K. BARNES, B.A., M.ED., M.B.A., ED.D. On the paneled wall behind his chair, framed diplomas and certificates competed for space with photographs of Dr. Barnes shaking hands with important people, some of whom Mr. Larson could actually recognize. Ambition oozed from every photograph.
Dr. Barnes unfolded his copy of The Landry News, and slid it across the desk toward Mr. Larson. Mr. Larson saw his name there, circled in red ink. The principal said, “Tell me, Mr. Larson, what exactly is your involvement with this newspaper?”
Mr. Larson put on his reading glasses, looked down at the paper, and then up at Dr. Barnes. “I’m teaching a unit on journalism,” said Mr. Larson, “and some of the kids in the class have started a newspaper—sort of as a project. It’s good writing, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” said Dr. Barnes. “The writing is fine. That’s not the problem.”
“Problem?” said Mr. Larson. “I didn’t know there was any sort of a problem. What problem are you talking about, Phil?”
Dr. Barnes leaned back in his chair and began gently swiveling from side to side, with his eyes staying steady on Mr. Larson’s face. “Are you familiar with a Supreme Court decision known as the Hazelwood case?”
Mr. Larson immediately replied, “Hazelwood? Of course. In 1988 the United States Supreme Court ruled that school principals have the legal right to say what does or does not get printed in school newspapers. It was not a unanimous decision, but five justices agreed that a school principal has this authority. Some people think the Court’s decision is a violation of the Constitution’s guarantee of free speech. Others say that if the school is the publisher, the school gets to make the final decisions, just like the owner of a newspaper would.”
Dr. Barnes was impressed. He had underestimated just how well read and well informed Mr. Larson was. Nodding, he said, “You have a clear grasp of the case, I see. And tell me, Mr. Larson, do you agree with the Court’s decision?”
Mr. Larson smiled and said, “That’s kind of like asking if I agree with the law of gravity. Whether I agree with it or not, it’s still the law.”
Dr. Barnes chuckled. “True, quite true. The law is the law, and since it is, then I assume you will not mind if I review each new edition of this paper before it is distributed, correct?”
Mr. Larson kept smiling, but there was no smile in his voice. He said, “If it was a school newspaper, I wouldn’t mind that at all. But you see, Phil, it’s not. The Landry News is a classroom newspaper. It’s made by my students in room 145, and I have every confidence in their ability to decide what ought to be in it.”
Leaning forward so that his stomach pressed against the desk, Dr. Barnes pointed at the newspaper. He said, “If this is a classroom newspaper, all the copies should have stayed in your classroom, Mr. Larson. Mrs. Cormier found this copy on the floor all the way over in the third-grade hallway.”
“You know, it’s a funny thing about paper,” said Mr. Larson. “My wife and I once flew to New York City for a long weekend, and after we flew back to Chicago on Sunday night, we walked to our car, drove home, went inside, and then I sat down and put my feet up. And you know what? There was a piece of paper—an advertisement for a New York restaurant—stuck right onto the bottom of my shoe. Paper has a way of getting around.”
Dr. Barnes did not appreciate the humor in Mr. Larson’s story. Frowning, he patted the paper on his desk. “Do you know how many copies of this newspaper were printed?”
Mr. Larson shook his head, “No, I can honestly say I do not know how many copies the kids made. I left that up to them. They are proud of their work—and they have a right to be. I’m sure they’ve shared some copies with their friends, probably carried them home to show their folks, too.”
“Seventy-five copies,” said Dr. Barnes. “According to Ms. Steinert, your students made seventy-five copies of this newspaper. You have twenty-three students in your afternoon class, so unless you are trying to tell me that each child kept three or more copies, then this is a school newspaper. This newspaper is produced here, in my school, using school computers and school paper and school printers and school electricity and school time.”
Mr. Larson was quiet for a moment. He resisted the urge to start yelling. He wasn’t looking for a big fight with Philip Barnes—never had been. In many ways he admired the principal. Doc Barnes looked out for what he thought were the best interests of the kids. He t
ried to keep everyone happy and working together—the teachers and the parents and the school board and the superintendent—not an easy thing to do. Dr. Barnes was a good principal, a good administrator. But Dr. Barnes was not a good teacher. And Mr. Larson was dead certain that if Dr. Barnes got involved in The Landry News, something important would be lost.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Larson stood up. “Well, it’s happened before, hasn’t it, Dr. Barnes? This is just one more educational matter that you and I disagree about. I say that The Landry News is a classroom project. The paper and printers and computers and time and electricity are being used as a normal part of my work as a teacher in this school, just like any other teacher and any other group of kids doing any other project.”
Dr. Barnes stood up, too, and tapping on the newspaper sheet with his index finger, he asked, “Then you take full responsibility for this newspaper and whatever is printed in it?”
“I sure do,” said Mr. Larson. “Absolutely.”
“Very well then,” said Dr. Barnes mildly. “I guess our meeting is over.”
Mr. Larson bent down to pick up his briefcase and his red thermos, and as he did, Dr. Barnes stepped out from behind his desk and pulled open the door to the hallway. As Mr. Larson stepped into the corridor, Dr. Barnes said, “Mr. Larson, will you please be sure that I get one copy of each new paper as it comes out? I’d like to keep informed about the progress of your . . . classroom project.”
“Next edition comes out this Friday,” said Mr. Larson. “We’ll be sure to get you a copy. Have a good evening, Phil.”
Closing the door that exited to the hall, Dr. Barnes walked over and opened the other door that went into the main office. “Mrs. Cormier—I need you to take a letter for me.”
Mrs. Cormier looked up at the clock. It was three forty-three. “Be right there, Dr. Barnes.” She grabbed her pad and a ballpoint, walked in, and sat where Mr. Larson had been.
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