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.

Treading Water the First Year

The first year of teaching is, almost literally, sink or swim. Sometimes it feels like you’re doing both at the same time. At least I had yet to start coaching. I really think first year teachers should not have any extra duties (and should, and, in fact, should have a reduced workload), but I get that in some ways it would more of a punishment than a protection. I had never taught English before, although, lucky for me, Professor Bernetta Jackson, in one of the summer classes I took in 1971 to gain certification, ditched her curriculum and worked with me on the teaching of English.

So I’m going to blame/credit her when, in the 82-83 school year, I took a very gifted group of sophomores (Class of '85) and, with their consent, turned French II into the school newspaper. (Try getting away with that today! I contend they benefitted far more than slogging through French grammar that none would ever use again.) In any case, that group eventually won what I consider to be Hancock’s first state championship, an All-Missouri rating for The Growler from MIPA*. The only other St. Louis area school to earn that award in 1985 was the Kirkwood Call, a program which even today represents the gold standard of high school journalism. Kind of like the New England Patriots, except they don’t cheat.

Although in theory I had three sections of freshman English that first year, they were three different preps (differentiation hadn’t been invented yet, but while the jargon didn’t exist, even a rookie knew the kids had different needs). So I was trying to prepare for, and grade papers from, five different classes in a subject area foreign to me. Yes, one of them was French.

You quickly invent coping tactics. My wife helped grade the spelling on vocabulary, but I still felt like I was treading water, trying to stay afloat. I now admit that (at least) one tactic I employed (just once) that year was kind of underhanded. In my defense, I’m reading stories and other content for the first time, just like the kids. One morning I hadn’t had time to read the assigned short story (or essay, or whatever) before class started. I did have time to quickly grab a couple obscure details on which I could quiz the class. Of course no one could answer my questions.

Apparently, according to several formers at class reunions throughout the years, I was a lot more, uh, intense in my first couple decades than I was at the end. I went into Tony Award mode (it was a live performance, after all). I slammed the book on the desk and thundered, “If you people won’t do your homework, this is just a waste of time. Now get your books out and read this story right now!” I always remembered that lesson, and tried to also remember that there are all sorts of (legitimate) reasons kids don’t get their homework done.

Karma is a funny thing. A few years later I was teaching a class in Business Law that I inherited from the late Jim (father of Cardinal broadcaster Dan) McLaughlin. I knew nothing about business or law, but this time was at least staying a chapter ahead of the kids. Unfortunately, in my class was possibly the smartest student I had the privilege to teach (at least in the Top 10). I won’t name him, but his mother, one of the sweetest women ever, worked in the superintendent’s office and was in a walking club that I often saw in my neighborhood. He knew exactly what I was doing, and, almost daily, with a sly grin and twinkling eyes, asked me a question that I couldn’t answer, from 2-3 chapters ahead. After the first time or two, I just smiled back to let him know that I knew that he knew. He took pity on me after a couple weeks.

I did crawl ashore that June of '72, gasping for breath, completely exhausted. I turned down a request to get involved in the teachers association. I spent the next couple months lying in the sun at the apartment complex pool, trying to recharge my batteries, although solar power was still a few years away. I stayed out of the water.

*Missouri Interscholastic Press Association

The Building on Ripa

I am (finally?) stirred to action by a Facebook picture-post from inside the old building at 229 West Ripa (a crossword puzzle word meaning related to or situated by the banks of a river) and I thought I’d jump start this blog in the new year with some memories of a place where I spent so many happy years.

The memories are kind of random and will focus mostly on the building itself.

My first room, 200 (bottom left in the picture above), around the corner from Bill Moody’s Library office, from which he would frequently emerge to offer either “advice” (of dubious value, IMO) or a ribald story, was a revelation to me. Now, my high school was hardly a palace*, but Hancock High School, built in 1934 (I hope someone salvaged the cornerstone and dedication plaque before it was demolished) took me somewhat by surprise. First were the Venetian blinds on the windows in my room. Anyone who’s been challenged by those from the past knows they’re not sturdy in the best of circumstances, that cumbersome and size are absolutely correlated, and these were well-worn when I arrived. They didn't last long. There was also a built-in wood cabinet/closet for my coat and whatever other stuff I needed to keep out of the way.

I remember hardwood floors, but would not swear those were in my room; I’m pretty sure they were common on the third floor for quite a while. The windows were big, heavy wooden things that either stayed up or didn’t; it was kind of a guess which ones would stay open on any given day. And they needed opening, even during the winter, thanks to the radiators that did what radiators do, get scalding hot and spit steam and water. Fluorescent lighting was still in the future.

Bel Kaufman’s Up the Down Staircase was a ‘60s classic. Despite its satirical title, Hancock actually had “Up” and “Down” staircases for its two wings, connected only by a hallway on the second floor (not visible in the picture above). To go from Room 315 to 305, for example, you had to go down to the second floor and then back up to the third. Incidentally, a marginally known “secret” was that, unlike so many other buildings, school and otherwise, that I’ve been in, room numbers at Hancock actually followed a system that made sense. Room numbers beginning with a 3 were, of course, on the third floor, even if it seemed like the second floor because the primary building entrances were located on that middle level. Rooms with a 0 as the second digit were in the West Wing (not to be confused with the White House); those featuring a 1 were in the East Wing. Odd numbers for the final digit were closest to the (Mississippi) river on the east side of each wing, even numbers to the west. Rooms starting with a 1 were in the basement.

There were two gyms by the time I arrived, designated as the Boys Gym (Dome) and Girls Gym (smaller space including a warped floor, the stage and non-functional locker rooms underneath that eventually morphed into drama dressing rooms and random storage). Yes, Girls PE was in the Girls Gym and Boys PE in the Dome. (Eventually the name was at least changed to Gym-B in a nominal nod to equality.) Underneath the Girls Gym bleachers was more random storage, a spooky and fascinating area.

The shops were on the bottom floor of the East Wing. Bill Parkhurst’s machine shop did a fine job of prepping boys for good jobs. Bill also provided security for the back faculty parking lot when he took his smoke breaks between classes. We also had a wood shop and even an auto shop that lasted into the 80s. 

It was a cool old building, sometimes downright cold when the boiler went out, as it was wont to do with some regularity. Or hot; air conditioned rooms? Please. More than one box fan plummeted from a third floor room as it toppled out a window after failing in a vain attempt to circulate some air during the hot humid months for which St. Louis is famous. I will confess it’s tough to try to be professional with sweat trickling down the trough below your beltline.

One final anecdote about the windows. In the Spring of ‘75, if memory serves (and it’s becoming a balky servant more and more frequently, so it might have been ‘74), we had just passed a bond issue to put in new windows to replace the (then) 40-year old originals, when a ferocious hail storm blew out all the east windows in both wings. Because no one was hurt (despite a junior high science teacher, who will remain unnamed, thinking it would be a great idea to send out a kid to fetch some hail using an umbrella to ward off the golf-ball+ sized stones), the hailstorm turned out to be quite providential. Insurance picked up the cost for the about half the building’s windows and we ended up with a free roof out of the deal. And since teachers hadn’t had a raise since the 71-72 school year, most of us just pocketed the checks for hail damage on our cars. And really, in my case, what would have been the point of fixing an orange Chevy Vega? I loved that car (and both its engines).

Feel free to sign in and add your own memories, either here or on Facebook.

*Although my high school did contain a big white “chateau” which housed what passed for a library and some small classrooms in the basement labyrinth and elsewhere, it consisted mostly of three 2-room prefabs (see picture below) with a middle area for lockers and a bathroom. My previous public schools had been relatively new, however (Edgar Road Elementary, which went into service the year before I started there for kindergarten in 1953, Hixson JH, and finally West Ladue Junior (which eventually became Westminster Christian Academy), brand new the year I started (1961).

The Regime

My first administrators were (inordinately?) proud of their German heritage. As I’ve noted elsewhere, stereotypes can cheat both the typer and the typee, but generally do not arise in a vacuum. German culture is not known for its empathetic qualities, and Rich Eichhorst’s and Siegfried Messner’s “all in” embracement of their Germanity (yes, spell-check, I know it’s not a real word) led them to some insensitive, at least, and more likely offensive behaviors. At least one person was offended, for sure.

One or both of these administrators had managed to procure some Nazi memorabilia (Messner’s father had been an unrepentant member of the SS, a fact he related often, without any seeming embarrassment), including some rubber stamps that included the swastika. They got great amusement sending each other notes with those stamps clearly displayed.

I had not yet ventured into the Church of Righteous Indignation, so I mostly thought they were weird and just kind of nodded pleasantly. That I was a new teacher and they were my bosses is the only excuse I can offer. Fortunately, the practice didn’t last that long.

The school secretary* (as they were called then) was Lena Duggan, who had emigrated from England. She put up with their nonsense for a while, then informed them that she had spent too much time unconscious in a London hospital from a Luftwaffe air attack to find their shenanigans one bit amusing, that she was offended, and they needed to knock it off. Thus did the swastika quickly disappear at Hancock. Just as an outgunned Britain held off the more powerful Germany, so did a feisty English ex-pat bring two grown (sort of) men to their senses, if not their knees.

* An aside for current and prospective teachers: the school secretary, or administrative assistant if you need or want more syllables, is, hands down, the most important person in a school. If she (and they have universally been women in my experience) is not your friend, you need to work on that. If you haven’t already discovered, nothing changes when an administrator is out of the building, but everything goes downhill very quickly should the secretary be gone for more than an hour, which is why so many tend to grab lunch at their desks or in a cubby-hole around the corner. Cleaning up the mess created by their absence is just one more task for these school building heroines.

Reality and Humor – A Learning Curve

It started early, my tendency to get myself in trouble by trying to be funny (even before I started teaching). Sometimes what passes for my sense of humor collides head on with reality, occasionally embarrassingly so. Culture shock came into play a lot early, and it took me a while to become culturally sensitive enough to avoid faux pas (already plural, for those of who were wondering; I looked it up).

I am a tease; it’s a way I try to make connections. Unless you were the target of a mean-spirited jibe (and I admit to being capable of those {but usually aimed at administrators and politicians, not students}, although I grew more circumspect as I aged and became less certain of being right), I only teased if I liked you well enough to bother. Or it was random, as described below...

A student asked me for a “pin.” At least that’s what I heard. I kind of rooted around in my desk, but, not finding one, finally said, “Why do you need a pin?” “To write with [dummy]” was the [implied] response. It doesn’t take much to inspire a riff from me, so I launched into an explanation, something like, “Oh, you mean a pen,” I said exaggeratedly. “A pin is something you stick into an object, a fastener. But a pen is the writing utensil, or a pig pen, like where (random student selection, yes, I remember, no, I’m not going to tell you) lives.” Ha, Ha.

Not so much. Apparently the randomly selected student was kind of embarrassed about his abode’s condition. I was called into Rich Eichhorst’s office the next day. I was horrified and, of course, apologized profusely to the student, telling him it was nothing personal because I had no clue where he lived. It was just that I couldn’t  imagine being embarrassed about your house. It was not a mistake I repeated (besides, there were so many new ones just waiting to be made), in part because I quickly came to understand that he wasn’t alone in his feelings. 

Back in the day, it was perfectly okay to give students rides home after a rehearsal or activity. Today it would not only be a policy violation, but, well, dumb. Sad but true. (Even then it probably wasn’t particularly bright of me to loan my car out for a fast-food run when we were working late on the yearbook, but I was driving a Pinto – they couldn’t hurt that rust bucket.) In any case, more than a couple students had me drop them off at a corner because they didn’t want me to see their actual houses.

    Seeing their houses wouldn’t have mattered to me, of course, because these were kids I had come to know and respect, with whom I was working on a play or something. But that respect had to include respecting their feelings and sensitivity to their circumstances, so I never pushed it. What you learn as a first-year teacher is much more (and much more important) than the material you teach.

First Impressions, Part 1

Hoping, perhaps, to lighten the mood and offer a diversion from the disturbing events out of North County (Ferguson), let me share a couple stories from my first year at The Place.

You have to understand that Lemay was something of a culture shock for me. My parents may have been South City kids (Idaho and Osceola Avenues, Cleveland High graduates), I was not quite 5 when we moved from Nottingham to Webster Groves. My school districts had been Webster (8 years), Lah-de-dah-due (Ladue, 2 years) and 3 years of high school in Brussels, Belgium. College post-high school was more than the norm where I grew up, it was the default. Even when I left Hancock 37 years later, almost every graduating class had 5-10% of its graduates as the first in their family to finish high school.

My first Assistant Principal was Siegfried Messner. For some of you, that should be enough to send your mind careening down memory lane with your own stories. My first actual contact with the 5x5 bowling ball who moonlighted as a bar bouncer was one morning as I was headed up the stairs to the third floor of the West Wing. By contact I mean literal contact. A blur blasted past me on the left (I had properly used the “Up” staircase, Up the Down Staircase having been a recent bestseller). A couple seconds later, as I reached the top of the stairs, came a significantly larger blur brushing (fortunately) by me and launching itself in a flying tackle of the offending student. There followed a wrestling match. Lee Warren was otherwise occupied with his Wrestling at the Chase duties, apparently, but the outcome was quickly determined. I’m guessing Siegfried enjoyed a close to 200-pound weight advantage.

Later that year (or perhaps the next) a student offered a rather unflattering opinion of me (standing up to announce, “You're a J-off,” to which I calmly [and for those who knew me later, calmness was something of a gradually acquired attribute] replied, “And you're gone.”). It is a sign of how dramatically times have changed that the student took himself to the office and reported the exchange. Anyhow, the next morning Mr. Messner called me to the office.

“Come in here,” he said. “I want you to see this.” I entered the office to find the offending student (Yes, I do remember his name, no, I’m not going to tell you.) waiting inside, trembling.

“Bend over!” bellowed Siegfried. The student complied, grabbing a chair or desk with both hands. To be fair, students were always offered the choice of swats or a suspension, so I guess he knew what was coming, at least in a general sort of way. Messner then proceeded to take down the leather glove he kept on a nail next to his prominently-displayed paddle. Slowly he flexed his hand into the glove, testing to make sure there were no wrinkles, I assume. 

Messner then took the paddle, rocked back and forth a couple times and, literally, I swear, launched himself at the skinny butt, repeating the force of the 300-plus pound blows twice more. That young man was a lot tougher than me, I’ll tell you that, but, then, he was a Lemay kid.

    Having finished, Messner then ordered the offender out of the office. “Get out of here!” he choked. The poor kid was lucky he didn’t get another blow from the door as Messner couldn’t get it closed fast enough so that he could fall on the floor, rolling in laughter. “Did you see that?” he chortled. I assured him that I had. I also never sent another kid to the office for years. I don’t know if my student was traumatized, but I certainly was.