This is not about one of my students.  This is about one of my teachers.

Nick did rigor ( see “Rigor?” 12/24/15) before rigor was cool.

I was reminded of this the other day in a discussion with another teacher about how high school classes used to be.  In the old days, when the “Old World of School” had no challengers, students would receive information, do some work in class, do some homework related to the information learned later that evening, and then take a test at some point in the future.  The process pretty much repeated itself over and over without a ton of variation in most classes, year after year.  These methods have  proven to be less than effective for the new world of the global economy, as evidence and recently published literature on the subject have clearly shown.

Is it possible, though  – we wondered jokingly at first and then seriously as examples came to the forefront – that some of those “Old World of School” teachers managed to do it right using traditional methods?

Nick was my British Literature teacher in high school.  He was well known at the time as the journalism teacher, and coordinated some of the most intelligent, crazy, energetic, subversive kids I have ever known into producing a successful, award-winning school newspaper.  I did not think I was of the caliber to be in his journalism class, or to dare try and write for the school paper (which we all read cover to cover, religiously), but really wanted to have him as a teacher.  Up until taking his class I had no clue what British Literature might entail, or why it would in any way be different from, say, The Sword of Shannara.  I mean, isn’t Terry Brooks British? I had read all the Tolkien stuff in fifth grade, so I felt I was pretty much good to go in the Books-By-English-Dudes-Department.

Up until taking Nick’s class I had never heard of symbolism – that perhaps what takes place in a work of fiction might not actually be what the author is intending to say, that perhaps there are things about life the author is attempting to highlight, point out, or comment upon – that perhaps there is an intent beyond what is merely stated.  It seems preposterous given today’s curricular demands that a student wouldn’t be exposed to such ideas until midway through his or her high school career, but that’s what happened with me.

One of the novels we had to read was Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.  We began our assigned reading and I was immediately, thoroughly,  and completely bored.  It seemed like a nice little story about taking a trip someplace on an African river, but there was little there that grabbed me at first.  No elves, no mythical beasts, no wizards.  No magic.

Nick started to discuss the book.  By discuss, I mean that he posed a series of questions and asked us merely to comment.  Nobody was singled out, nobody was cold-called, nobody needed to participate necessarily.  His questions, however, somehow drew it out of us.  He would read and line or two of text, or ask one of us to, and then we would talk about it.  His questions, and his enthusiasm for the subject matter, drove us forward.  Some of us even asked our own questions.  Others, like me, were more timid.  I wanted to hear what others were saying and build off that.  Never did he make me or anyone else feel that we didn’t have voice when it came to analyzing a piece of literature.  We…I…got excited by the discussions and wanted to read more. I started to take notes in my little paperback copy, and started to raise my hand more and more in class.  I became completely immersed in the novel, and often didn’t stop past a certain page limit each night.  One could argue that Nick’s class was conducted in a traditional manner, but he allowed us to formulate our own ideas about the theme of the book, and questioned us until we could write something convincing regarding those themes.  We were able to listen, discuss, problem-solve, formulate ideas, test theories, pose our own questions, and communicate our ideas through writing.  Aren’t those skills the very ones the New World of School and the Global Economy require?  Aren’t these the skills American students lack?

What happened, then?  Did some of us get so traditional that we just simply started to suck?  Why didn’t more of us stick relentlessly to the pure joy of discussion – especially when it comes to literature, instead of shying away from it?  Today, there is so much emphasis on formulating an argument and defending it in writing.  How are you supposed to do that when you don’t have the time to create an informed opinion? Discussion and thought is one way.  Is Sparknotes the alternative?

Another discussion we had recently at my school centered around creating a Climate of Care (read Denise Pope for more information on the subject).  All good stuff.  All stuff I heartily believe in.  All stuff teachers need to do.  Yet somehow the discussion veered off into the direction of traditional teachers, who, using traditional methods traditionally left us feeling like they didn’t give a crap about us or what our lives were like.  Nick again was a model of the movement before the movement became a thing.

He may have questioned our assumptions about what we were reading.  He may have ranted and raved at us, spittle flying all over the classroom from the energy and enthusiasm he put into every lesson (and I suspect also due to the genetic architecture of his lips), and he may have even told us we needed to read more carefully in mildly angry tones – but we knew he cared.  He took the time to get to know us.  He asked about our lives and knew who our friends were.  He laughed at our jokes, and was ok if we called him by his first name.  He kept in touch with us and remembered us years and years later.  I knew he cared, and it made all the difference in the world to me.

I came across Nick again as a public school teacher nearly 20 years later.  He had retired from the day-to-day and was working as a mentor to new teachers.  We talked at school and had lunch a few times.  It was great to see him again and reminisce about our friends and other teachers from that period in time.  As expected, he remembered everyone, and had a ton of stories to tell.  He was always very encouraging to me as a teacher, and treated me like an equal.  All that was wonderful, and for me would have been the best to be expected from our relationship.  The most amazing thing came later.

At some point during my first or second year, Nick told me that I should join a book club that he and other English and History teachers in the school were part of.  He told me about the current book they were reading, told me what page to get up to, when and where the next meeting was, and that I should definitely attend.  I was a little blindsided by the offer, and quire intimidated by the company, but decided to give it a try. I read the pages I was supposed to read, and thought about what the author’s purpose was.  I thought about what he or she was telling me about life.  I made notes in the margins and wrote down questions I had.  I underlined sections that I wanted to point out to the others in the group, and was excited to hear what they had to say.  I was excited for the ensuing discussion, and for the debate of ideas.  It was, for me, just like high school.

The best part came a month or two into the book club.  We had read a particular passage together, and I had a few questions to ask.  Nick was looking at me, and for a moment I forgot completely where I was.  Here I am, I thought, discussing literature with the man who had taught me what it was to read and discuss literature, and he was looking at me.  Waiting for my question, just like he had taught me so many years before.