Halls of Hancock, Year 1: The LA Gang

That year, 1971, saw a brand new English department at Hancock High School. Bill Blake, with his single year at Hancock, was the lone holdover. I was joined by Debbie Strouth (Weissflug), Cheryl Berry, and Joyce Pfaff (who, I think, had done some subbing in Hancock the year previous). If I recall correctly, none of us had done our student teaching in English.  Debbie was a speech/drama person, Cheryl, Spanish, and Joyce (maybe German?). I had student taught world history at McCluer (to sophomores on the evening shift, noon-6:30 p.m., as Ferg-Flor was building McCluer North), where the social studies building was larger than Hancock High School).

During our NKOTB Orientation (arcane boy-band reference for my daughter), Principal Eichhorst took us upstairs to the well-heated book room. Pointing to a wall of literature and grammar books, he said, “Here are your books,” and quickly retreated to his office. Thanks to the different colored stripes and covers it was obvious that there were various levels, but none of the books were labeled as to which grade they were intended to serve. Working as a team, not for the last time, we finally figured out which books went with which grades. Well, at least I think we got it right.

Curriculum? Hey, we had books, both literature and grammar. Anything else, well, for better and worse, we were on our own. I don’t remember any Teachers’ Guides or even Teacher’s Editions.

My schedule for the 6-period day was 3 freshmen English classes, 1 French II class, and one sophomore English class. The latter turned out to be the “Make it or break it class.” My theory is that every new high school (and probably middle school) teacher gets one class that determines whether or not (s)he can succeed as a teacher. This crew and I reached an accommodation (they were apparently amused by inspiring me to start a countdown to the end of the year on the blackboard [yes, black, yes, chalk] with something like 120 days to go) and it was determined I could give teaching a go.

There are things they don’t teach you in Teacher School (even if you go to class, which I was pretty lax about). Classes at Hancock were tracked, labeled from A-1 to C-8. So the first class I ever taught at Hancock was the freshmen C-8s. Their first question to me: “We’re the dumb class, aren’t we?” It really wasn’t a question, more them letting me know that they knew the score. Dumb indeed. I remember only stammering and giving what seemed a terrible answer, but we got along just fine. They told me later what a great job I did, but, hell, what did they know? They were the dumb class.

Second hour followed with the A-1s. They may have been Delmonico Steak to the C-8 ground beef, but both had value and I truly enjoyed them all, as well as the B-4 freshmen who came later in the day. The sophomores were B-4, as well. What the kids in French II had learned in French I remains something of a mystery to me to this day, but I pretty quickly determined that Hancock kids didn’t really need French. I hope they may have picked up that all languages have grammar, but other than providing me with three very bright young women for a French III class the next year, there really wasn’t much value in the class (plenty of value in the kids, though).

I have to believe that I learned way more than my students that year (I am guessing, but I think I also may have worked harder than many of them), and I appreciate their patience. Through them I took my first steps in learning how to teach. Not that I was anything close to approaching mastery. Iconic math teacher Don Steckhan once noted, “You ought to pay the school district during your first five years and last five years. But the 20 or so in the middle you ought to be paid triple.” Incidentally, my salary that year was $7405 (the highest starting salary in the state of Missouri; of course, that figure didn’t budge for the next two years and our lofty position plummeted quickly). Actually, because it took me so many classes to get my certifications, I was on the wrong column, but I was so grateful for the job I declined to mention that detail until the next year.

The Class of ’75 would have been a memorable group even if they hadn’t been my first, and I still feel lucky to have shared their journey through high school. Watching them grow and graduate as seniors was a special joy, one that was repeated throughout my next 36 years at Hancock. One of the best things about a small school like Hancock was the chance to watch my students grow, from freshmen to seniors. I knew, at least superficially, almost every senior who graduated every year, and, in many cases was privileged to see the changes, something that kept me going on the tough days.