Margins - Part 3

Margins © [i]

Donovan A. Landers
Educator
E-mail: landersdon@hotmail.com

Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, people, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to a real event, place, or person, alive or dead, is a coincidence. [ii]

8

A dandelion,
Yellow in the wind,
Shivers.

      During the cross-town ride to Morgenstern High, in Geronimo's 4-by-4 pick up Chevrolet, he told me about a young lady he'd interviewed.
      "I felt like wind was going to take off what hair I have left--she talked so fast," he said as we passed the near-endless drive-through line at the downtown McDonald's restaurant. "For thirty minutes she told me her life story, non-stop. She certainly had experienced a lot of woe and pain, but then she said she was going to go home and slit her wrists. She said she couldn't stand her life any longer."
      I turned down the sun visor to remove the glare. "And?"
      "I told her that that certainly was an option. If she wanted to go home and kill herself that I guessed nobody could really stop her. But I told her that that was not her only option, and that I thought it was an irresponsible option."
      "I suppose you spoke about choices, Geronimo."
      "Every breath is a choice."
      Geronimo's position as Principal of Secondary Alternate Programs included District Counselor. He met many kids. Sometimes he counseled students in my program. I remembered his trying to help Labhrainn, who later killed himself. The boy had deeply sunken eyes. His manners were weirdly smooth. He graduated from my grade ten program, and then, one month after he had started our "new" grade 11 and 12 courses, he used his dad's shotgun to shoot himself. I remembered him often enthusiastically speaking about driving his dad's turbo-charged Audi that, he'd said, "Whirred like a monstrous dragonfly."
      We passed "Crooked," sauntering along the sidewalk of Befferson Avenue. Two years later, I wrote a poem about him:

WE CALLED HIM CROOKED

That's what the four girls and I called him--
"There's crooked!"--
Each time we drove--window-caged,
Through our green valley town
And by him, raccoon-eyed, gray-skinned--
In our 8-passenger Olds.

Always his brush cut, faded jeans,
Long-sleeved shirt with cuffs turned up,
Neck bent at the base, to his right,
As if he were looking for something
He'd never find.
Always his ear almost on his shoulder.

Walking, walking, walking crooked.

I taught the girls to chuckle sadly
As we drove by in that rusty, horribly large wagon
That embarrassed them to no end.

One day, I read in the paper,
He'd jumped off the wooden bridge
Into the spring rapids.
I wondered whether he were still crooked
When they found him 100 miles
Downriver.

      Sometimes Geronimo called client meetings. Once, in the former Board Office Building (the original B.O.B.), a pre-World War II structure with floors that sagged unnervingly, we (a social worker, Geronimo and I) had met in his moldy-smelling office to discuss how to help a pregnant 13-year-old girl. Her step father had impregnated her on Halloween. I recalled the frizzy-haired social worker at one point saying, "Sometimes when I get home after work, I feel like slitting my wrists."
      In the dusty, side-passenger mirror, Crooked receded beneath the "OBJECTS MAY APPEAR CLOSER THAN THEY ARE," turning into a speck.
      "Every breath is a choice," I muttered. Geronimo was a Choice Guru, a Medicine Man of all and's and or's.
      "What's that?" he said.
      "Nothing, Geronimo. I'm just muttering to myself."
      "Bad sign, Don. Don't let those kids get to you."
      "I don't think they are."
      "Good. Because somebody's gotta teach them."
      "Yeah."
      "Yeah, is right. I don't see anybody lining up to teach secondary alternate."
      "Twenty years ago, I guess there weren't any alternate classes around here. Kids that dropped out went to work."
      "Twenty years ago there were so many little family saw mills in these parts that a fellow could quit his job in the morning and find another before the end of the day."
      Changing gears, he let out the clutch too quickly, jerking my head.
      "Sorry a bout that," he said. "But I'm just an Indian."

      We arrived about thirty minutes into the meeting, held in the chemistry lab. There were two available stools for us, at a chemical-scarred table. We sat before an ancient-looking, black-charred Bunsen burner.
      The staff meeting chugged through too many minutes of "how are we supposed to teach these kids when their parents don't teach them respect and society doesn't keep criminals in jail." At four o'clock, Geronimo and I were to make our presentation. I sat beside Dennis, an English teacher who drew pictures of Mount Vesuvius and said, "I like women. I'm divorced, and I like women."
      I could see that he was an accomplished artist. The erupting volcano billowed great clouds, one of which contained the angry face of a king, likely Zeus.
      Just as the principal, Gus--he wore short pants belted too high up his full belly, and stood before us all--said, "Let's vote on who the candidates for student citizenship will be for this month," Art, a spindly teacher with a purplish face, who taught mathematics, although I knew that he had never studied mathematics in university, entered the lab, and glared at a "shop" teacher. I think his name was Edward, and I figured he was a shop teacher because he wore a greasy green cloak. "Edward" was sitting on a stool. There were no more available stools.
      Art grabbed hold of two of the stool's steel legs and pulled with his long arms, with violent force. "That's my #%&6@!!! stool!"
      Edward had fallen to the floor, but in an instant leapt to his feet, and with his fists up, said, "You #%&6@!!! moron! I should knock your #%&6@!!! teeth out!"
      "That was my stool!" Art said. "You took my stool!"
      "Both of you," Gus said, pulling his pants higher, "out! If you're going to behave that way--out!" Then an afterthought: "What kind of example is that to set for teenagers?""
      The two warriors had the attention of 83 eyes. I had counted how many staff were there. An art teacher, Shawn, had only one eye. Art and Edward left, each in a large huff. Then, once the shaking of heads and whispering had dissipated, the meeting returned to order.
      Gus introduced Geronimo and me to his staff. Geronimo spoke about the two other secondary alternate programs in the district, for grades eight, nine, and ten students. I spoke about mine, but I avoided explaining that I now offered grades 11 and 12. I didn't want to advertise our "new" program. I hoped that Patrick would believe that it had been running above board--ha!--for years. I certainly didn't want it to become the district's big new topic, and have some board member say, "We never gave this program our approval. Call that teacher and Geronimo to our next board meeting. They have a lot of explaining to do."
      John, a heavy, bushy-haired social studies teacher, asked, "How can you stand to teach those kids. They're nightmares!"
      I said, "Nightmares? No, actually--"
      "The programs are individualized," Geronimo said sharply. "They meet the kids' academic needs."
      Shawn said, "They're a lot of little buggers." He swallowed. He lowered his head, aiming his single eye at Geronimo. "That program Don runs should be moved out of town. Those students shouldn't be around ours. They set a bad example."
      "Is that right?" Geronimo said. "Maybe if you teachers did your jobs properly, I wouldn't get so many bloody referrals for so-called problem students. Maybe if you did your jobs properly there wouldn't even be such a thing as secondary alternate education."
      Gus, his pants quite high enough, reminded everybody that our good manners set an example for our students.
      Geronimo and I were done. After an awkward "thank you for coming" from Gus, we left.
      "I know I shouldn't have said that," he told me on the way to his pickup in the parking lot, "but they needed to hear that, and besides, I might retire next year." After a pause, he said, "Maybe I'll have to!" Then he grinned at me, his eyes impish. "By the way, you made a few waves with that article you wrote, the one about how to teach--poorly."
      "Badly."
      "Badly. One of the trustees read it in that Third Millenium Education Magazine. When we get back to the Board Office, see if Jeffrey is in."
      "He didn't like it? It's a piece of satire, you know."
      "You can explain that to him. Ha! Satire!" He shook his head and pressed the "unlock" button on his key transmitter. It didn't work. He "pointed" the transmitter at his 4 by 4, as if trying to phaser blast it with one of those Star Trek weapons. "Damn white man's toy." The vehicle "clicked," meaning it had unlocked itself.
      "What did Jeffrey say?"
      "He wants to find out what's wrong with you. Ha!"

9

BEST WESTERN-REUNION

"I've got a twenty-five hundred
Square foot home,"
A man with breasts says as
Jacuzzi-steam fondles
Hand-held
Beer-cans.

Other fat men
Bathe in chlorine
And Visa,
And roll lottery numbers over
In their minds. But
They aren't like walruses
Spinning over an ocean floor,
Searching for fish
To eat raw,

Because they like theirs deep-fried:
Up one comes for air;
CO₂ bubbles still
Fizz in his throat.
Then children arrive,
And laugh;
A girl in a peppermint bikini
Asks, "Can we buy some pop?
We're hot!"

The men climb out;
They're hot too.
The ice-cold beer
Is too warm,
And there must be something else
To do
Anyway.

      Back at B.O.B. I found Jeffrey, chair for the trustees, scribbling ferociously with a red pen on foolscap. His office, unlike every other office in the building, had no computer. He looked up, through little spectacles, and squinted.
      "Hello, Jeffrey," I said.
      "Don? Don Landers the secondary alternate teacher?" He dropped his pen. "I'm glad you're here. I want to speak to you about something." He squinted and leaned forward. "Sit down." He sat between two towers of files on his desk.
      The swivel wheels on the available swivel chair didn't work properly. I had to drag it from the side of the room, piloting between a variety of file towers that "grew" from the floor. I momentarily wondered, as I strained my arm and back muscles, about the lives, meetings, plans, and histories those files defined. I managed to place the chair, incongruously old in the new office, at a good vantage place across from Jeffrey. We looked at each other between the towers on his desk.
      "What do you want to speak to me about?"
      He began to blink a lot. "Yes." He pulled open a drawer of his desk and withdrew a magazine. I recognized it. "You have an article published in this education, ah, magazine. 'How to Teach Badly.'" [Appendix A.] He squinted, then continued to blink rapidly.
      I felt a dread deep inside, but I also felt anger rising. "Did you like it?" I asked, trying to hide my sarcasm. I think I did.
      "This article presents some disturbing ideas, Don."
      "The Third Millennium Education Magazine," I told him, "publishes occasional satire."
      "Satire?" He leaned closer to me, entering the space between the towers. "What do you mean--satire?" He adjusted his little glasses and continued to blink. "There's nothing funny about poor teaching. In this article you say on page 26, '"Schoolmasters, as a race, were...blockheads and imposters."' He looked at me, puckering his mouth into a pout. "That's your opinion of teachers?"
      "I'm quoting Dickens," I said. "Dickens was a satirist, and I'm quoting him from Nicholas Nickleby. Dickens speaks about how terrible some teachers are, and I use his example of how to teach badly. If somebody wanted to be an awful teacher, the essay has many examples of how to be horribly awful."
      He put the magazine down. "Dickens? Dickens who?"
      "Charles Dickens, the writer."
      "Is he Canadian, or is he some avante garde American trying to run down our Canadian education system?"
      "He's--"
      "I have to tell you, Don, I don't like the sound of this. You're teaching children. This article is very negative, pathologically negative. We need positive teachers who understand the Commonwealth."
      "The Commonwealth?" I leaned forward.
      "Yes, the British Empire. We can't infect our children's minds with propaganda." He removed his glasses, exhaled air on the glass and wiped them "clean" with his short, mustard-colored tie.
      I had decided to explain that satire is a literary tool to ridicule foolishness, but then I changed my mind. "You don't understand the essay," I said.
      "I don't understand the essay?" I heard ire in his voice. I was beginning to think I should have had a union representative with me if I were to continue the conversation. "I understand one thing. The end of the British Empire. Do you know the reason for its demise?"
      "What does my essay have to do with the British Empire?"
      "Everything! If the Great Empire had equipped its ships with more cannons and its troops with more bullets, the world wouldn't be in the mess it is in. Radicals everywhere! People opposing the normalcy of order. This sort of writing would have never been published in the Empire."
      "You really are losing me, Jeffrey. Jonathan Swift lived in England and Ireland, and he published plenty of satire that punched holes in the status quo."
      His blinking sped up. "That's the point! It's the Empire that should have been punching holes in the enemy. Cannons and rifles."
      "What enemy?"
      "Hmph!" he said, apparently getting nowhere. "I'm losing you, am I? Well, what about this part in your essay? He showed me by pointing to the words, trying to read it out loud, but he kept sputtering:

[1. Never] communicate[ ] a genuine prizing and valuing of the student. (p. 178.)

[2.] The student [should always] have to be concerned about defending himself against ridicule, belittlement or rejection. There is [absolutely no need for] respect for the dignity of the learner--for his individuality, for his capacity, for his gifts, for his right to make choices--and there is also [absolutely no need for] sensitivity to the needs, problems and feelings of the student. (p. 178)

[3.] The student experiences this teacher [ ] as an "all-knowing sage" [and] as a resource person who has [zero] faith and trust in the learner's ability. While in almost every sense the [teacher here defined] is a model to the learner, the message communicated to the learner is that he is [certainly not] free to develop his own unique style. (p. 178)

[4. The teacher positively should not] provide[ ] for the development of knowledge and skill, [and] he does this in such a way that discourages the learner to move to higher positions on the continuum of personal autonomy. (p. 178)

      I laughed. "I'm quoting Selma Wassermann, but I reversed her direction for good teaching. Don't you think it's funny?"
      "Funny? It's monstrous!" His glasses fell off. He immediately put them back on. "I don't know where to continue from. Look, here! 'Many children come to school without eating breakfast and without taking a lunch to school. The thing to do about this problem is ignore it. In general, unless the odds defy logic, as they, regrettably, sometimes do, these children will do terrible in school even if given an excellent teacher. Think of your success with them if you are a truly rotten teacher. Think of it. These children are potential, maybe even inevitable, drop outs. Therefore, do not implement breakfast or lunch programs for the needy; the results will be most undesirable.'" After his reading and frequent sputtering, he leaned back in his swivel chair, with his arms outstretched, perhaps trying to embrace the British Empire, but he leaned back too far. Over backwards went his chair. His knees crashed against his desk. Then he bounced in the weirdest oscillations, and finally backwards he crashed, his head hitting the shelf of a bookstand behind him. Clearly, he had knocked himself out. His glasses sat crooked on his face.
      I jumped up. "Jeffrey!" I scurried around his oak desk and grabbed him by his shoulders. I shook him. His head flopped around, and his glasses fell off. "This is great!" I said to myself. I left him to enter the secretarial area, a jumble of desks and dividers that filled up the "central command station," as Geronimo called it. "They run this place," he'd once told me. "Without the secretaries this bloody bureaucracy would break up like glass with a stone through it."
      "Does anyone know first aid!" I yelled.
      Four secretaries in my field of vision turned from their Pentium-powered word processors or spread sheets. Secretaries come in a great variety of sizes and hair dos, and these were no exception.
      "Jeffrey has knocked himself out!"
      Mary, the secretary with flaming red hair and fish net stockings, rolled her eyes: "Not again!"

10

Poet in a lawn chair,
Sleeping, pen in hand,
Mouth open.

      At supper I told my wife, Jacobina, about my day. But she still looked distracted and angry.
      "Isn't your mother beautiful?" I told the girls, trying to lighten Jacobina's spirits.
      "Dad!" Karen, our 8-year-old, complained.
      "Your mother could have been a model."
      "Dad!"
      "I made a cake for desert," Jacobina said matter-of-factly, which wasn't her usual manner.
      I knew why Jacobina hadn't taken much notice of my story about the two fisty teachers and Jeffrey the unconscious chair. She was still burning mad about what Jane, a teacher we both knew, had said to her yesterday. The event had left her unsettled now for over 32 hours. In fact, I had already (the night before) written a fictionalized poem about the incident:

STILL DOING NOTHING

Halfway through homemade chicken
Caesar, she began to cry,
Right after I'd sprinkled on
Parmesan and said I thought my client
Was guilty!

She spoke through the
Spaces between her white teeth
And between four strangely quiet girls
About how one of the pinstripe
Women at my firm
Saw her on Robson Street
And asked,
"Are you still doing nothing?"

Her bitterness surprised me;
So did mine.

The next day at work,
When that woman said,
"Good morning,"
I knew I hated her.

      Relief at supper came when I asked Karen, "How is that Family Life Program at school going?"
      "We're learning about private parts," she said. Then she and Clarissa, our 5-year-old, giggled profusely.
      "So, tell us what you've learned today," Jacobina said, suddenly more light-hearted. She wore a purple-flowered blouse and a pair of faded blue jeans. As usual, she looked wonderful.
      Karen, looking serious, said: "I think I've got a weenis."
      "Yeah," followed Clarissa. "But a boy has a peanut."
      My wife and I had stopped chewing and were trying to contain our laughter. It felt good to watch her cheer up.
      But our 3-year-old, Machteld, who was often disgruntled about not being old enough to go to school, glared at us all. She blurted, "When I get older, I'm going to have private parts too!"
      We all laughed, but I leaned over to kiss her on the cheek, thinking, "Sometimes you just don't think you're a part of anything, do you?"
      She smiled for a moment, but then she seemed to remember why she was angry.
      Frowning, she asked, "What are private parts?"

Appendix A
How to Teach Badly

In the spirit of "The Great French Duel," written by that serious man that many refer to as Mark Twain, I write this essay for all who once and for all want to know how to teach badly. He tells us straight out,

Much as the modern French duel is ridiculed by certain smart people, it is in reality one of the most dangerous institutions of our day. Since it is always fought in the open air, the combatants are nearly sure to catch cold. (?/1982, p.67)

In the breath of such sage reflection, I remind or simply tell the reader: As people who watch Star Trek know beyond reasonable doubts, alternate universes exist everywhere that they don't think them to be, filled with their physical, yet altered-ego counterparts. This essay, written for those counterparts, will fill them with appreciation of astronomical filling. In terms of this essay being an elevator, it goes all the way to the top! Let me begin with a great example.

The Great Example of Mr. Wackford Squeers

I want to begin with examples of masters. They, the great meat of success, define what others could only dream of becoming. I'll set the stage with words from that even-more-serious-than-Twain Dickens:

Of the monstrous neglect of education in England,...private schools long afforded a notable example....Any man who had proved his unfitness for any other occupation in life, was free, without examination or qualification, to open a school anywhere. (1838, 1839/1983, p. xxi)
Happily, for the sake of addressing this essay's important title, I note that Schoolmasters, as a race, were...blockheads and imposters...Yorkshire schoolmasters were the lowest and most rotten round in the whole ladder[:] ignorant, sordid, brutal men, to whom few considerate persons would have entrusted the board and lodging of a horse or a dog; they formed the worthy cornerstone of a structure...rarely... exceeded in the world. (p. xxi)
Dickens the great dairy farmer of all time gives us cream of all creamy things: Mr. Wackford Squeers. Disregard the rhyme with tears. This man of stature pristine had but one eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favor of two. The eye he had was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental: being of a greenish grey, and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his expression bordered closely on the villainous. His hair was very flat and shiny, save at the ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low protruding forehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarse manner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic black; but his coat sleeves being a great deal too long, and his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease in his clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at finding himself so respectable. (1838, 1839/1983, p. 31)

Doubtless you're itchy to see this master of his craft in action. Perhaps you're excited to read the words penned by such a great explainer of bad examples as Charles Dickens. How he wrote about fathers who neglected their children and wives, polygamy not therein! How he neglected his own wife and children, writing, writing, reciting, and acting in and directing plays! He knew a bad example and all it stood for as largely as Mr. Pickwick's belly stood for largeness.

Mr. Squeers looked at the little boy to see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for. As he happened not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxed his ears, and told him not to do it again. (p. 32)

Later, after further abuse,

The little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry, wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other. (p. 32)

What an extraordinary example! But just as Nicholas Nickleby has its Wackford, Hard Times has its Thomas.

The Wonderful Mr. Thomas Gradgrind (Another Great Example)

Wackford may take the prize for passion, but Thomas, Mr. Thomas Gradgrind, deserves the prize for mathematical exactitude. A man after rulers and intersecting lines, he reminded all who needed reminding--and so many do!--about the fundamentals of education:

What I want is Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which I bring up these children. Stick to the Facts, sir! (Dickens, 1854/1981, p. 1)

Unencumbered by nuisance rhetoric, complaint, and unlettered mouths of argument, Mr. Gradgrind speaks with that grand sort of authority that swayed the French, swayed the Germans, and swayed the Babylonians too.

Thomas Gradgrind, sir. A man of realities. A man of facts and calculations. A man who proceeds upon the principle that two and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked into allowing for anything over....Thomas Gradgrind. With a rule and a pair of scales and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of figures, a case of simple arithmetic. (Dickens, 1854/1981, p. 2)

He taught without the ooze of nonsense, without the insensible mutterings of brains bouncing about in confounded imaginings. He taught, and by that I mean that he truly taught the "little pitchers before him, who were to be filled so full of facts" (p. 2). How that reminds me of the formalistic system that choked, I mean nourished, me! That system glorified the "full pitcher-empty cup" (Barman & Sutherland, 1995, p. 412) method of teaching. The child was the "empty" cup, the curriculum the water, and the teacher the one that poured--often through "the lecture method" (Patrick, 2000, p. 13; also see Lukiv, 2001).
Does Gradgrind's philosophical premise truly warrant our attention? Who could answer but yes when confronted with such outstanding examples as this?:

"Bitzer," said Thomas Gradgrind. "Your definition of a horse."
"Quadruped. Graminivorous. Forty teeth, namely, twenty-four grinders, four eye-teeth, and twelve incisive. Sheds coat in the spring; in marshy countries, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in mouth." (Dickens, 1854/1981, p. 4)

Need I say more? A protegŽ for a mentor. Herein this wonderful 1854 example lays a model for us to apply all these years later in 2005. And here is another model.

The Fiery, but Effective, Mr. Creakle (yet Another Great Example)

In my exquisite quest to locate the teacher extraordinaire, I discover Salem House, the residential school of David Copperfield, who in first person expertly describes the schoolroom

as the most forlorn and desolate place I had ever seen. I see it now. A long room with three long rows of desks, and six of forms, and bristling all round with pegs for hats and slates. Scraps of old copy-books and exercises litter the dirty floor. Some silkworms' houses, made of the same materials, are scattered over the desks. Two miserable little white mice, left behind by their owner, are running up and down a fusty castle made of pasteboard and wire, looking in all the corners with their red eyes for anything to eat. A bird, in a cage very little bigger than himself, makes a mournful rattle now and then in hopping on his perch, two inches high, or dropping from it; but neither sings nor chirps. There is a strange unwholesome smell upon the room, like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books. There could not well be more ink splashed about it, if it had been roofless from its first construction, and the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the varying seasons of the year. (Dickens, 1850/1985, pp. 129-130)

What a glorious setting for Mr. Creakle, a former hop-dealer turned proprietor of Salem House, to train his mind and heart for educating all the young and stupid.

Mr. Creakle's face was fiery, and his eyes were small, and deep in his head; he had thick veins in his forehead, a little nose, and a large chin. He was bald on the top of his head; and had some thin wet-looking hair that was just turning grey, brushed across each temple, so that the two sides interlaced on his forehead. But the circumstance about him which impressed me most, was, that he had no voice, but spoke in a whisper. The exertion this cost him, or the consciousness of talking in that feeble way, made his angry face so much more angry, and his thick veins so much thicker, when he spoke, that I am not surprised, on looking back, at this peculiarity striking me as his chief one. (Dickens, 1850/1985, p. 134)

This genius of single-minded thinking and prudent discipline entered as a man of quality should enter any room:

A profound impression was made upon me, I remember, by the roar of voices in the schoolroom suddenly becoming hushed as death when Mr. Creakle entered after breakfast, and stood in the doorway looking round upon us like a giant in a story-book surveying his captives. (p. 140)

He wasted no time informing the students about the proper, efficient road to a valuable education:

"Now, boys, this is a new half [semester]. Take care what you're about, in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I advise you, for I come fresh up to the punishment. I won't flinch. It will be of no use your rubbing yourselves; you won't rub the marks out that I shall give you. Now get to work, every boy!"...
Half the establishment was writhing and crying, before the day's work began; and how much of it had writhed and cried before the day's work was over, I am really afraid to recollect, lest I should seem to exaggerate.
I should think there never can have been a man who enjoyed his profession more than Mr. Creakle did. He had a delight in cutting at the boys, which was like the satisfaction of a craving appetite. (p. 141)

Exceptional. Notice the lack of neuro-space for creative thought? I applaud Mr. Creakle.

But disregard for creativity in students could reach new heights of achievement through direction from one of the last century's greatest minds, although his brain contained about the same mass of gray things as other men's brains. Isaac Asimov, scientist, Nobel Prize recipient, and author of too many books worth reading, presents the value of mechanical teachers--robots, I think--like no other flesh and blood has.

Mechanical Teachers--What a Splendid Idea

In the year 2155, Eleven-year-old Margie always hated school, but now she hated it more than ever. The mechanical teacher had been giving her test after test in geography and she had been doing worse and worse until her mother had shaken her head sorrowfully and sent for the County Inspector....
The Inspector had smiled after he was finished and patted her head. He said to her mother, "It's not the little girl's fault, Mrs. Jones. I think the geography sector was geared a little too quick. Those things happen sometimes. I've slowed it up to an average ten-year level. Actually, the over-all pattern of her progress is quite satisfactory." And he patted Margie's head again.
Margie was disappointed. She had been hoping they would take the teacher away altogether. (Asimov, 1975, p. 123).

The beauty of robots, of course, is in their placement. Put them where you like.

Margie went into the schoolroom. It was right next to her bedroom, and the mechanical teacher was on and waiting for her. It was always on at the same time every day except Saturday and Sunday, because her mother said little girls learned better if they learned at regular hours.
The screen was lit up, and it said: "Today's arithmetic lesson is on the addition of proper fractions. Please insert yesterday's homework in the proper slot.
Margie did so with a sigh. (p. 125)

I cannot fully describe the excitement I feel from these accounts. I feel a breath of fresh air in my lungs, enriched hemoglobin in my blood, neurotransmission off the scale. I cannot stop the momentum of my learning how to teach badly. Consider, too, the goal of completely misunderstanding children. Consider the private nurse of five-year-old Tommy, who is playing in his nursery.

The Value of Misunderstanding Children

Tommy had invited little Jenny over to play. Nurse brought her in. Tommy and Jenny gazed at each other for some minutes with sparkling eyes. Neither smiled, but it seemed that both were about to smile.
      Tom...ran round the table, sat down on the floor and began to play with a clockwork engine on a circular track. The little girl climbed on a tricycle and pedaled round the floor. "I can ride your bike," she said.
      Tom paid no attention. He was trying how fast the engine could go without falling off the track.
      The little girl took a picture book, sat down under the table with her back to Tom, and slowly, carefully, examined each page. (Cary, 1951/1966, p. 129)

My joy for this example can now fully come to life: The nurse comes in and misinterprets the situation in a gloriously complete sense; she chastises Tommy for not playing with Jenny (although they certainly have been playing, as far as they are concerned) and embarrasses him beyond his self control. He then cries out, "I hate her--I never wanted her" which successfully creates further problems.
Now consider the damage a single teacher of a class of, um, 25 could do by simply misunderstanding the whole lot. But I must add that as noble a cause misunderstanding students remains, helping them feel pushed aside has its merit too.

Help Them Feel Pushed Aside

This, in an egg shell, can work wonders. Wilfred Pelletier explains:

I remember going to a PTA meeting together with some Indian friends in a large white community. They were serving a big lunch and we were fairly close to the beginning of the line-up because we happened to be talking near the table where the food was served. What happened was that we ended up at the end of the line. I don't know how we got there, but people just moved right in and we found ourselves going back, back, back, until finally we were right out of the hall, at the far end of the auditorium and we were standing there talking. Now we got pushed there, we didn't move back there. People got in front of us, so we backed up....
This happens to Indian kids all the time.... (1982, p. 162)

With a bit of creative extrapolation, we could take this event into the classroom to help not just First Nations students feel pushed out, but to help everybody feel that way. I want to thank Pelletier for his experience. He has been a big asset.

Teaching Styles, Learning Styles, and Collateral Damage

      The point, really, resides in our teaching styles' affecting as many children as possible. To adversely affect a sizable chunk of our students--that is fine; but the teacher trying to make good use of this essay to mess us the learning experience for all his students may feel discouraged. Reasonableness, however, needs a voice here. No teacher can be perfect. Sometimes teaching styles and learning styles, unfortunately, complement each other, just as some men and women stubbornly complement each other in marriage, blatantly refusing to get divorced.
      A mathematical construct of this teaching style/learning style conflict will enlighten the reader. Wilson and Fleming (2002) speak about More's learning styles that range from global to analytic, from impulsive to reflective, from trial-and-error to watch-then-do, and from concrete to abstract. Let me put that in another egg shell: If each continuum, say, ranges from -5 to +5, and if I assemble a four-dimensional model, with the x-axis for global to analytic, with the y-axis for impulsive to reflective, with the z-axis for trial-and-error to watch-then-do, and with the w-axis (which doesn't actually exist in view of our only-three-dimensional universe of space) for concrete to abstract, then a learner with a learning style of, say, x = 3, y = -2, z = 4, and w = -5, mathematically described as a (3, -2, 4, -5), who is coupled with a poor bloke of a teacher whose teaching style actually amounts to a (3, -2, 4, -5), will inevitably enjoy a mix that works well for the student (Lukiv, 2001). Too bad--aye?
      In war, military wise-men establish acceptable limits for collateral damage. In all fairness, if collateral damage may exist in war, then acceptable limits for teacher failure must exist in education. What I mean to say is if a (3, -2, 4, -5)-teacher reaches a (3, -2, 4, -5)-student, but manages to frustrate and even exasperate all the rest of his or her students, then we should call that teacher successful. That (3, -2, 4, -5)-student is collateral damage, as inevitable in education as blowing up the wrong building is in war.
      I hope this relaxes any teacher devoted to one particular teaching style, unless, of course, that style appeals to many of his or her students. In that case, the teacher has serious problems that may require a special workshop. For example, if that teacher has many First Nations students in his or her class, then he or she would want to employ an impulsive, rather than reflective, teaching style that encourages impulsive thinking, because First Nations students tend to prefer reflection to impulsion (Wilson & Fleming, 2002).

The Power and Beauty of Irrelevancy

Another workshop that could help teachers in general should imprint the need for irrelevancy. Relevancy in education only serves to encourage students to remain in school (Raptis & Fleming, 2002). Preparing students for the world of work and further education will only serve to increase that sense of relevancy (Fleming & Post, 2002). I propose an end to such foolishness. Jonathan Swift, who wrote pretty good although I disagree with the odd apple of satire that he sneakily inserted into that pie he called Gulliver's Travels, finally got serious when he took Gulliver on a trip to "the grand Academy of Lagado" (1726/1985, p. 223). As the following excerpt shows, who needs relevancy when we have cucumbers and sunshine?:

The first man I saw was of a meager aspect, with sooty hands and face, his hair and beard long, ragged and singed in several places. His clothes, shirt, and skin were all of the same color. He had been eight years upon a project for extracting sunbeams out of cucumbers, which were to be put into vials hermetically sealed, and let out to warm the air in raw inclement summers. He told me, he did not doubt in eight years more, that he should be able to supply the Governor's gardens with sunshine at a reasonable rate. (pp. 223-224)

In short, teachers, preferably of strange looks and demeanor, who fill their classes with boxes of cucumbers and visions of sunbeams, and lessons thereof, will do their profession justice. I predict, not too impulsively I hope, that students of such teachers will find such ample irrelevancy that long before the cucumbers rot and the classrooms fill up with hungry flies, the groans of those students will fill the halls of academia with such song that would rival the efforts of John, Paul, Ringo, and George.
Now I want to speak about

The Gratifying Effects of Insulting Children

Insulting students, too, has its place in school. The effects are so gratifying that no teacher worth his salt as a Grecian slave should overlook its power. Consider Hooper Quirk, a boy turned orange from eating too many carrots. This was his first day at school:

Hooper quietly settled into a cold, empty desk. He sniffed the air. It smelled like sweat. He noted sagging shelves of books that towered up dark walls. A paper air plane soared across the room, landing in his ear.
Miss Snapdragon entered. She used the same red door that Hooper had used, but she slammed it shut.
The students, including a boy munching a daddy-long-legs, swung around in their desks, facing her.
"My word," Hooper thought. "She's as skinny as a Zulu warrior, and she has a lump of brown hair like an upside-down hornet's nest."
      "Good morning!" she exclaimed.
      "Good morning, Miss Snapdragon," many droned.
      "Where's my new student?" She spied the rows. "Aha! There you are. You look awfully old to be in grade one, Hooper Quirk."
He tried to swallow; he couldn't.
      "You're as orange as a carrot," she said. "And you have cauliflower ears."
Hooper felt them. How hot they'd become!
      "I'll bet they call you Hooper the Pooper," said a boy with a square face.
Many giggled.
      "What's that?" Miss Snapdragon said, scanning the children, like a Roman general scanning slaves. "Children who get out-of-hand write LINES." And she glared at Hooper as if he were the cause of all her problems.
      "Hooper the Pooper," the square-faced boy said again, but quietly.
Many stifled giggles.
      "People and vegetables should be separate!" announced Miss Snapdragon. "Why are you here?"
      "I--I want to be a martian," Hooper replied.
The class roared with laughter.
      "Quiet!" Miss Snapdragon stepped forward. "That's BETTER.
Now--why do you want to be a martian?"
      "I want to be green."
The next rock-slide of laughter was too much. Out of the school Hooper ran.
      "Come back here!" she ordered.
But he kept on running.
Miss Snapdragon demanded quiet; the children laughed harder.
      "One hundred LINES for EVERYBODY!" she yelled. "You BRATS!" (Lukiv, 1997, 1998, 1999, Chapters 5 & 6).

Miss Snapdragon, I'm happy to say, completely appreciated that scene, as the following excerpt shows:

Miss Snapdragon, in her living-room, poured a glass of pepper juice, and grumbled:
      "I hate children!" She placed the crystal juice decanter back in her dusty china cabinet. "I hate the way they cough and burp."
      "Brats!" She settled down between lumpy cushions on a love seat. "That rotten child," she said. "Hooper the Pooper! Ha! He has ears like a cauliflower. Ha!" She swatted a horsefly in midair. It crashed on the wood-stove, twitched on its back, and began to smoke. And she remembered telling Hooper that people and vegetables should be separate. "Haaaaaa!"
      A splash of pepper juice tumbled into her windpipe. Her chest burned. Awkwardly, she placed the glass on a rosewood table, trying to compose herself. But coughs shot up her windpipe, like Roman candle-fireballs. (Lukiv, 1997, 1998, 1999, Chapter 31)

My hat's off to Miss Snapdragon. She understands the importance of more than insulting students. She has nurtured an exemplary attitude deep within her core--an attitude that keeps her coming back day after day to those students that cringe and gulp and shudder. Notably, she has avoided what some call the bla, bla, bla.

Beware of the Bla, Bla, Bla

All in all, then, this essay sets the record straight when people like Selma Wassermann say

[1. The Master Teacher] communicates a genuine prizing and valuing of the student. (1987, p. 178)

[2.] The student does not have to be concerned about defending himself against ridicule, belittlement or rejection. There is a deep respect for the dignity of the learner--for his individuality, for his capacity, for his gifts, for his right to make choices--and there is also a sensitivity to the needs, problems and feelings of the student. (p. 178)

[3.] The student experiences this teacher not as an "all-knowing sage" but as a resource person who has faith and trust in the learner's ability. While in almost every sense the [Master Teacher] is a model to the learner, the message communicated to the learner is that he is free to develop his own unique style. (p. 178)

[4. The Master Teacher] not only provides for the development of knowledge and skill, but he does this in such a way that enables the learner to move to higher positions on the continuum of personal autonomy. (p. 178)

She goes on and on with this stuff. Bla, bla, bla, bla. Bla. But a little flick of the wrist, a little slight of hand, a little rabbit from a top hat, and we have some truly useful tenets:

[1. Never] communicate[ ] a genuine prizing and valuing of the student. (p. 178.)

[2.] The student [should always] have to be concerned about defending himself against ridicule, belittlement or rejection. There is [absolutely no need for] respect for the dignity of the learner--for his individuality, for his capacity, for his gifts, for his right to make choices--and there is also [absolutely no need for] sensitivity to the needs, problems and feelings of the student. (p. 178)

[3.] The student experiences this teacher [ ] as an "all-knowing sage" [and] as a resource person who has [zero] faith and trust in the learner's ability. While in almost every sense the [teacher here defined] is a model to the learner, the message communicated to the learner is that he is [certainly not] free to develop his own unique style. (p. 178)

[4. The teacher positively should not] provide[ ] for the development of knowledge and skill, [and] he does this in such a way that discourages the learner to move to higher positions on the continuum of personal autonomy. (p. 178)

Now we're getting somewhere. My altered-ego in that alternate universe would leap for joy reading such magnificent direction.

More Bla, Bla, Bla

To please this altered-ego, this professional, even further, I must present Lukiv's (2001) Principles of Instruction as follows

1. I choose methods that my experience says will work on an individual basis according to what I perceive as the educational and socio-emotional needs of each student.

2. I choose methods that show respect and concern for, and that value, the student, reinforcing for the student that his or her individuality and learning style, providing they don't encroach of the rights of others, are important.

3. I choose methods that adequately prepare a student for his or her career path. If that means providing a rigorous learning experience that enables a student to score high on government exams, so that he or she may enter a prestigious university, then I provide such.

4. I choose methods that allow for negotiation between myself and the student and that keep the dignity of both intact.

5. I choose methods that enable the student to acquire skills as a lifelong learner. (p. 36)

in a much more useful form:

1. [The teacher should not] choose methods that [could] work on an individual basis according to what [the teacher] perceive[s] as the educational and socio-emotional needs of each student.

2. [The teacher should not] choose methods that show respect and concern for, and that value, the student. [The teacher should not] reinforc[e] for the student that his or her individuality and learning style...are important. [But if the student's individuality or learning style does encroach on the rights of others, that is fine.]

3. [The teacher should not] choose methods that adequately prepare a student for his or her career path. [That means: Do not] provid[e] a rigorous learning experience that enables a student to score high on government exams, [or on any exam. The point: Why bother?]

4. [The teacher should not] choose methods that allow for negotiation between [him/herself] and the student, [and should not bother about the student's dignity.]

5. [The teacher should not] choose methods that enable the student to acquire skills as a lifelong learner.

That written, I'm getting hungry.

Malnutrition, an Ally

Writing down such important thoughts for the benefit of those this essay will greatly benefit has worn me down a bit. But that is fine because the rumblings in my tummy remind me of another area of concern in education:

It is a sad truth that we cannot hope to accomplish the goals we want for our children in their brave new world of the future if we ignore their very real, present physical needs. A modern, well-planned educational facility filled with the best human and technological resources cannot stimulate the intellectual development of children who constantly live a marginal or semimarginal existence in terms of nutrition. (Widmer, 1974, p. 18)

Poverty creates a multitude of stresses for families and their school-aged children (Fleming & Yesman, 2001), and one of the problems these children can face is malnutrition. Many children at school have not eaten breakfast and have no lunch to look forward to. The thing to do about this problem is ignore it. In general, unless the odds defy logic, as they, regrettably, sometimes do, these children will do terrible in school even if given an excellent teacher. Think of your success with them if you are a truly rotten teacher. Think of it. These children are potential, maybe even inevitable, drop outs. Therefore, do not implement breakfast or lunch programs for the needy; the results will be most undesirable.
Note: I mentioned even if given an excellent teacher. That may have caused the reader some alarm. I'll silence the alarm quickly.

Remove 90% and Down Crashes the Tower

An experienced teacher once said, "Good teaching is not a matter of specific techniques or styles, plans or actions....Teaching is primarily a matter of love" (as quoted in Set the Pattern for You, 2002, p. 10). In fact, I firmly believe good teaching is about 90% love and 10% skill. Now, think about this: Remove 90% of the tower, and down it crashes. By simply removing the 90% love, even an excellent teacher with a great repertoire of skills and methods will quickly deflate into a terrible teacher. I had to say that, and now I feel much better. I hope the alarms are mute now.
Another problem, besides good teaching, is savvy.

Savvy is for Foxes

A teacher who models savvy to students teaches them, in effect, how to survive adverse conditions, how to sum up people and situations, and how to cut losses and make do with what's left. Savvy is fine for foxes, but as far as this essay is concerned, savvy is a dangerous commodity.

Successful people in all walks of life seem to have a characteristic that can be labeled "savvy" or "street smarts." They are not only intelligent, they are shrewd, canny, sharp, cunning, and perceptive. They have learned to read the environment and to manipulate it in order to achieve their legitimate academic ends. They use facts but are not constrained by them and they refuse to view factual data as immutable [horrors for Mr. Gradgrind!], tending instead to challenge existing dogma. As thinkers, they recognize the cadence of their own "drummer" when they hear it but are realistic enough to know when it isn't expedient to march to its beat! Finally, street smart people have the self-knowledge to capitalize on their strengths and compensate for their weaknesses and seem to have a knack for finding the right people to help them along their way. (Hawley, 1993, p. 12)

Don't be one of those right people and don't allow students to gather "street smarts." They are liable to end up on honor or principal's rolls. The best plan is to keep students disoriented, confused, even jumpy. That is why block systems of classes in which students have up to eight different teachers, each with rules often uniquely different from other teachers, is superior to the community setting of few teachers with a unified set of rules that promote a family sense and feelings of well-being (Kohn, 1996).
Yes, don't be one of those right people, and--don't apply all the information of this essay only to have your efforts swept away by fire.

Remember That Cement, Stones, and Bricks Don't Burn

What I mean to say is teachers can benefit their students only if they have a place--a classroom--to teach in. Schools built with combustible materials present problems. In the last 26 years in one Canadian northern city, four schools have burned to the ground. What a colossal frustration for a teacher to learn the principles of this essay only find him/herself with no place to apply his/her art and craft. The waste, the waste, the waste:

The air above the slanted shingle roof was dancing as if it were summer [instead of -25 in December]. Before the [fire] hoses were working the bell tower tipped and disappeared into the fire below. The flames stood straight in the air, and the water the firemen aimed at them fell back, cascaded down the slant of the hot roof, slid across the windows and froze....The brown-stained shingled building became an ice palace....
[Soon] flames rose thick into the black air....Timbers cracked fast down a bass scale and then there was a sound like a giant drum being hit hard by something wet. The roof collapsed inward. Then the windows along the near side [near the crowd] exploded: glass and ice floated for a long moment in the air....The firemen and their helpers ran backwards across the ice they had made with the spray from their hoses. (Harlow, 1988, pp. 8-9)

Schools should stand non-combustible in their cement or stone or brick shells, and should be walled, floored, and roofed with at least fire resistant materials. Then the studious teacher zealous to apply this essay will rejoice over the daily opportunities to make the lives of his or her students truly miserable.

Conclusion

If you can't be a Squeers, a Gradgrind, or a Creakle, then don't give up hope. Your altered-ego existence can nourish itself on the many thoughts of this essay about: the great uses of mechanical teachers that wonderfully de-humanize learning; the value of misunderstanding children; the deliciously awful effect on learning when teaching styles and learning styles don't match; the gold mine of irrelevancy; the artful trick of insulting children; the ease of turning sound direction into its complete opposite; the role of hunger as friend; the foolishness of love; the danger of savvy; and the importance of schools not burning down. Armed with this information, an alternate universe teacher could live a life satisfied and productive.

References

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Barman, J., & Sutherland, N. (1995).: Royal Commission retrospective. In J. Barman, N. Sutherland, & J. D. Wilson (Eds.), Children, teachers, & schools: In the history of British Columbia (pp. 411-426). Calgary, Alberta, Canada: Detselig.

Cary, J. (1966).: In L. Perrine (Ed.), Story and structure (2nd ed.). New York: Harcourt, Brace and World. (Original story published in 1951)

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Fleming, T., & Yesman, P. (2001).: Who drops out of school and why? Literature review. The Journal of Secondary Alternate Education, 1(1), 10-17.

Fleming, T., & Post, Y. (2002).: Vocational and technical training in alternative education: Literature review. The Journal of Secondary Alternate Education, 1(3), 3-11.

Harlow, R. (1988).: The saxaphone winter. Vancouver, BC: Douglas & McIntyre.

Hawley, P. (1993).: Being bright is not enough. Springfield, IL: Charles C. Thomas.

Kohn, A. (1996).: Beyond discipline: From compliance to community. Alexandria, VA: Association for Supervision and Curriculum Development.

Lukiv, D. (1997, 1998, 1999).: Quibils and Quirks. The Cariboo Observer, serialized over 108 issues from March 1, 1997 to August 31, 1999.

Lukiv, D. (2001).: The master teacher: A collection. Vancouver, BC: y press and BCTF Lesson Aids.

Patrick, J. (2000).: Grade two: 1952-1953. Unpublished manuscript.

Pelletier, W. (1982).: For every North American Indian who begins to disappear, I also begin to disappear. In E. R. Procunier et al. (different articles edited by different Eds.), Searchlights: Selected essays (pp. 158-165). Toronto, ON: Irwin.

Raptis, H., & Fleming, T. (2002).: Prescriptions for teaching youth at risk: Literature review. The Journal of Secondary Alternate Education, 1(2), 3-15.

Set the pattern for you. (2002, August 15).: The Watchtower Announcing Jehovah's Kingdom, 10-14.

Swift, J. (1985).: Gulliver's travels. London, England: Penguin Books. (Original work published 1726)

Twain, M. (1982).: The great French duel. In T. H. Cassidy & H. D. McKellar et al. (different articles edited by different Eds.), Searchlights: Selected essays (pp. 67-73) Toronto, ON: Irwin.

Wassermann, S. (1987).: How I taught myself to teach. Teaching and the case method (pp. 175-183). Boston, MA: Harvard Business School.

Widmer, E. L. (1974).: The critical years: Early childhood education at the crossroads. Toronto, ON: Copp Clark.

Wilson, T., & Fleming, T. (2002, Summer).: Teaching Aboriginal youth: Literature review. The Journal of Secondary Alternate Education, 1(4), 3-16.

Copyright © 2005. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without written permission from the author. You may contact the author at landersdon@hotmail.com. <Back>

Footnotes:

i For Jacobina, Darlene, Karen, Clarissa, and Machteld, of course <Back>

ii This book--every part of it--is utterly true.<Back>

Academic Exchange Extra invites reader response to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.

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