It's The Little Things

I was recently asked to solicit “testimonials” from former students about the impact of teachers on their lives. That generated some warm fuzzies from formers on Facebook about their years at Hancock, but it also got me thinking.

It also generated some memories, and because it’s been a while since I’ve posted on my HP-HP blog, I thought I would share a few, plus a lesson it took me a while to learn.

When I started at the Place in the early 70s (okay, very early 70s) I resisted the notion of being a “role model.” I parroted some professional athletes of the time who were rejecting that job. “My job is to teach, not preach. It’s not my place to set an example, that job belongs to their parents, not me, etc., etc., etc.”

I was wrong on a couple counts. What it took me years (too long) to realize was that I was a role model whether I wanted the job or not. We are all role models, not just for our own children (and I think I became a better teacher when I became a father because my perspective expanded) but for all the children with whom we come in contact. I immodestly also think that in spite of not wanting the role model job, I managed to do it decently anyway, just because I truly did care about the kids in the Hancock community.

When people asked me what I taught, my semi-flippant answer was always, “Kids.” I instinctively realized that who I was teaching was far more important than what I was teaching. But it took me a longer while to realize that as teachers there is a huge difference between what we think we’re teaching and what we’re actually teaching. What the students in our care remember is not some random fact or skill so much as an attitude, an approach to life. 

Conversations with formers frequently reveal that what they remember best is a random thought, a throwaway line, a kind word, a compliment; it’s not some specific part of the curriculum, it’s not whether you put the day’s objectives on the white board (or smart board, or, in a retro reference, blackboard – and if you have to ask what a blackboard is, just “Shut up!”), or whether you got all the boxes checked on some administrator’s walk through checklist.

I’m guessing that’s what will be revealed in the brief videos that will alleviate what is the usual tedium of those interminable in-service days. For those who submitted them, know they were appreciated. And for those who just thought about that teacher or organization that helped during your adolescent school years, those thoughts, too, are appreciated – because I believe that energy makes the universe a better place.

And if you get a chance, pay it forward with your own kind words, thoughts, and deeds and be a role model for good.

Women's Sports

I am posting this on both my blogs, because it has obvious Hancock roots and memories as well as the more obvious general application. (Slight) apologies to the Hancock Place Hancock Place followers if this has more political overtones than you are generally accustomed to seeing (t)here.

I noticed a FaceBook meme last week, pointing out that amidst all the celebration over American Olympic achievements and medals, there was little if any credit given to Title IX.

Talking to my softball girls the other day after practice, I noted that when I started teaching, there was only the GAA, a club for the “sporty girls,” but no interscholastic sports. The same was true when Carolyn attended Centralia HS – no Orphan Annies, had she wished to play. Girls were limited to May Fete, a kind of dancing thing in white dresses around a May Pole. 

When forced indoors, my Tigers practiced in the “Girls Gym” (the one with the warped floor and no locker rooms and bleachers right next to the sidelines). One year I got permission to order new uniforms for the girls; the local sporting goods store ordered men’s slow pitch sleeveless uniforms. The huge (really huge, gigantic, biggest ever) arm slots were embarrassing. We rejected them and reordered from a company that specialized in women’s sports and equipment. 

In 1994 when it came time to select the St. Louis Post-Dispatch Scholar Athlete, there were two eminently worthy, 3-sport choices, ranked one and two in the class (only a B in one class separated them). Originally the coaching staff and administration picked the male candidate. “Obviously it’s --------------.” I dissented (not an uncommon position for me), despite the respect I had for the male candidate. “Ummm, [the female candidate] has a D-I scholarship offer and also played three sports, all at an exceptional level. This award is for an exceptional athlete who is also a (and in this case, also exceptional) scholar. If the male had that resume, then it would be obvious. To my view, the choice is clear.” To the credit of the Athletic Director and others on the coaching staff, we rethought our choice and Hancock nominated the (IMO) most worthy candidate (of two almost equally worthy students).

Note, we had had previous female scholar athletes, so this is not intended as any kind of criticism of the coaching staff, administration, or process. In this case, however, the seeming tie at first went to the male, “obviously.”

My real point is this. Women’s sports did not progress because of the generosity by their male counterparts or because those in power recognized the long-standing inequality or sexism. Women’s sports and athletes progressed because people, mostly women, recognized their importance and worked and fought to create tools to elevate that status. When you were cheering the incredible accomplishments of the female athletes in Rio, you were also, like it or not, cheering for Title IX. Yes, that same Title IX that was decried, derided and disrespected by conservatives.

Those same conservatives also opposed (in their time, of course) declaring independence in 1775-76, the ratification of the Constitution in 1789, abolition in the mid 1800s, women’s suffrage in the 19^th and early 20^th centuries, integration of the armed forces in the 1940s and 50s, civil rights for African-Americans in the 1950s and 1960s, women’s rights (including Title IX) in the 70s and 80s, gay rights at the end of the 20^th century and beginning of the 21^st.... 

I understand that change is scary, that people want to keep things the way they were. And conservatives play a vital role, forcing those who would rush, without sufficient thought, into change, because, The.Law.Of.Unintended.Consequences. But (and I’ve never had anyone offer any kind of counterpoint, coherent or otherwise) conservatives have been on the wrong side of history for centuries. [Addendum: to be fair – I hate that – conservatives probably DO get credit for the Bill of Rights, but that was before compromise was a dirty word.] I’ve noted my disinclination and skepticism about labels, so I’m not claiming any particular one for myself, but I could never call myself a conservative (unless we’re talking about the environment; that is something I definitely want to conserve, and, ironically, some so-called conservatives seem to discount).

The Way We Were -- Random 70's Notes

Men were required to wear ties. Not a big fan of the tie, but since I had to wear one, I chose, uh, shall we say, quite colorful options. (Ed Kurmann made his own, mostly out of frugality, but was quite proud of his efforts.) I’m thankful that there is limited photographic evidence of my fashion choices, because my ties were designed to complement the rest of my wardrobe.

This was the start of the Peacock Fashion Phase for men, and while I’m going to share the blame with Carolyn who happily encouraged me, I confess to being a willing participant. In retrospect, perhaps I should be thankful for the tie rule; it eliminated the possibility of my ever wearing one of my two “leisure suits” (hey, only one of them was powder blue, paired with white patent shoes on a half-inch heel) to school. Still, I remember the plum double-knit flared pants, the orange brushed corduroys, the chunky-heeled brown shoes, still enough hair to wear at least to my jaw.... Maybe a good memory isn’t always a good thing.

Women could not wear pant suits (not pants) until November 1. That enforced-modesty rule was made prior to the popularity of short skirts, and with a huge influx of young female teachers to the district in the 70’s, the Law of Unintended Consequences played a role. Only the students wore "hot pants," however.

Those rules only lasted a few years. The collection of ties I retained made infrequent appearances until I landed at Schechter, which required ties on Fridays for Shabbat.

1971 was the year that the high school eliminated separate faculty lounges for the men and women. The small room on the third floor of the West Wing became the co-ed smoking lounge and housed the only official faculty bathroom. Poor Jay Zimmerman was never comfortable sharing that space. (There was an unofficial bathroom on the lower floor of the West Wing, next to Jack Hemm’s choir room [part of the former cafeteria prior to the Dome], if you could score a key, which I eventually did some years later. The women started using the one in the nurse’s office.) Despite its smaller space and less than wonderful ventilation (second-hand smoke not having been invented yet), that became the more popular hangout for most of the staff. It was there that Francis Pratt and Don Steckhan passed on their experience to us newbies.

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.