The iCandidate (3 page)

“
Besides, it's a little payback for the bill's sponsor.” The congressman moves his face close to my own, to the point where I can smell his acrid odor of coffee on his breath. “But you haven’t earned the right to challenge my votes, Blake. Don’t ever question me again.”

He
slaps the newspaper against my chest and leaves the room, Roger following after an ‘I told you so’ look. I am left alone in his shrine to himself and can feel the eyes of the rest of his staff boring into me from the outer office. Yeah, he dressed me down, as I am sure they all heard. They will think I have fallen out of favor with him, or that somehow my standing in the internal office pecking order is in peril.

I
took something more profound from this conversation. I now know a seat at the table is reserved for me when I earn it. And, trust me when I say, earn it I will because nothing and nobody else in this world matters more to me.

MICHAEL

I have some great kids this year, but my B Period honors American History class is my absolute favorite. In fact, it would be hard to argue against it being the best group of students I have ever had. Any teacher will tell you that there are always good groups of students and bad ones. Some classes are simply more fun to teach than others, and this is one of them.

The
twenty-five students mill around the classroom until the bell rings and then promptly take their seats. I arranged the desks in a horseshoe facing the white board hung in the front of the room. Since I am an ardent believer in teaching being part performance, this set-up gives me a stage onto which to work.

In
fact, that area is even called the stage. Every year on the first day of school, while I am espousing my teaching philosophy to my new charges, I explain the etymology of the ‘stage.’ Yes, it’s partly because that’s where theater performances are conducted, but has a dual military meaning. When I was in basic training, the area between the first set of bunks and the drill sergeants’ office was also called ‘the stage.’ Perpetually waxed and buffed to a high gloss shine, we lowly privates were forbidden to ever walk on those tiles. The stage was reserved for the men tasked with training us, and only them.

This
being high school, and not military school, my rules are not quite so authoritarian. However, each class understands the purpose of the stage and all adopt the word. So the area in front of the white board and into the space ringed by the horseshoe is my stage, and being on it is the greatest feeling in the world.

“Good
Morning, all,” I sound in my booming voice. “I trust everyone enjoyed their weekend, so we'll skip the pleasantries and get down to business.” I walk to the center of the room as students shuffle items around their desks to get organized. The routine has been the same since day one, and they respond more favorably than you’d expect out of teenagers in their junior year.

“
Essays on the Great Depression are due by fifteen hundred hours today. Homework is on the board. Please note that the reading portion is due tomorrow.” Without looking back, I point to the spot on the white board where the homework is posted.

I
am not sure how we managed to get the Great Depression, let alone find the time to talk about the interwar period. Most of my colleagues are still struggling to get through Civil War reconstruction. As a history teacher, if you reach WWI it’s been a good year. I should be able to cover the Korean War at this pace.

“
The final exam is eight weeks from today, and it’s cumulative. If you are not reviewing your notes and preparing now, I promise you, you will fail. What are your questions?” I look around and see there are none. “Excellent. Clear your desks. It’s show time.”

I
hand out the quizzes and everyone gets to work. I usually provide ten to twenty minutes to finish and, believe me, that’s not a lot of time even for the easier ones. The questions are straightforward multiple choice, true or false, and a fill in the blank section my students would characterize as sadistic. More than fodder to fill a grade book with, I use quizzes as a tool to measure both learning and my effectiveness teaching. If the kids all bomb a quiz, I did something wrong and need to reinforce learning before the exam. At least, I choose to think that way.

Students
take it in stride – they are not in this class because of any rumor about me being an easy teacher. My colleagues think that I am too hard on them - challenging students to rise to a high standard seems to be a foreign concept in America’s public schools. Strange, since my real world experience was much different. I had standards set for me with the expectation to meet them from the day I enlisted and went to basic training.

Those standards
had been enforced by ruthless sergeants every day since, from my time at Airborne School at Fort Benning, to Special Forces Selection, the Qualification Course, Language School, and even on the ground in Iraq and Afghanistan. I was charged with carrying on that tradition when I became a sergeant myself. Now a thirty-six year old civilian, my dedication to that principle gets exercised in a classroom instead of a battlefield. I believe reachable, yet demanding standards are a good thing, despite not all teachers thinking so.

A fellow
social studies teacher handed a copy of my quiz on the American Revolution to the principal because he was so upset. Since there is no love-loss between myself and Principal Howell, he smugly pronounced the short test too advanced for the high school level. He even added his own doubts about being able to pass the quiz. I didn’t have the heart to tell him the average grade was an eighty-seven and not a single student failed. Okay, I actually had more than enough heart to tell him, with plenty left over to remind him a half-dozen times since.

I
roll my desk chair over to the middle of the stage, coffee and attendance book in hand as students begin poring over their quizzes. Fifteen minutes later, it’s apparent by the smiles on their faces that they aced this one. As I collect them, a Barbie doll-looking blonde with bright red fingernails and trendy clothes raises her hand.

“
Yes, Miss Rasner?

“
What'd ya do this weekend, Mister B?” Apparently Peyton thinks my social life is pretty active, because she asks the same question every Monday. It’s challenging to come up with new answers.

“
The same thing I do every weekend Peyton, try to take over the world.” Since the students actually chuckle, my confidence on their quiz performance is confirmed.

“
How'd that work for you?” queries Amanda, a girl born to be an accountant. I am pretty sure she could do my taxes in ten minutes and get me a better refund than any tax service can manage. Ten years from now, she will enchant guys in bars, only to send them fleeing for their lives when they find out she’s an auditor for the IRS or something.

“Well,
I am not sitting on a throne, not carrying a scepter, and most importantly, I’m still here, right?”

“
So, not so good?” Peyton asks, persistent in trying to pry some details out of me.

“Don’t
fret Peyton, there are plenty of weekends left for me to try.” Everyone smiles, but I am sure they are thinking they would rue the day I was ever dictator of anything. Running this class is bad enough for them. “Where did we leave off on Friday?” I add, changing the subject.

“
We were talking about the European power's failing to restrain Hitler's ambitions in Europe,” Chelsea is quick to explain. Many teachers will pretend they don’t have favorite students. They fear the admission can be perceived as granting special treatment, even if it’s not the case. I harbor no such sensitivity. I am honest with myself about having favorites, and Chelsea Stanton is one of them.

“
And what did you learn?”

“
That some things never change.” Not hard to figure out why I like her. She’s sharp.

The
students nod their heads in agreement. I scan their faces for a moment, looking for my next target. I settle on Xavier, the only African-American student in the class. Millfield High is not a bastion of diversity. Tall and athletic, Xavier likes to play the role of uncaring teenager. Truth is, this kid will not only go to college on a scholarship in any one of three sports, he’ll undoubtedly be an academic All-American.

“
What does she mean, Xavier?”

“
Talk is cheap. And all anyone ever seems to do is run their mouths,” he says.

“
Then or now, X?” Yeah, I call him X. With the only possible exception being Q, it is the coolest letter to start your name with.

“
Both!”

I
spent all year focusing on causality, because it makes history interesting to students who would otherwise have no interest in learning. Knowing the American Revolution started in 1775 and the Union won the Civil War is important, but convincing young minds it’s actually relevant for more than just an exam is the hardest part of teaching. Getting them to relate the past to the present not only keeps their interest, it exercises the critical thinking skills they will need someday.

“
You all know what question is coming next. Why? Vanessa?”

It
is game day for Vanessa and the team she captains, so she is dressed in her jersey. A three-sport athlete that includes field hockey and basketball, she is the school’s female version of Xavier. Softball is her best sport, and if X is Millfield’s king of the hard court, she ranks as queen of the diamond. Baseball is a passion of hers, and I learned early on never to get into an argument about it with her without researching ESPN first. At least she is a Yankee fan.

She
finishes tying her hair in a ponytail before answering. “Because talk is easier than action,” she says after a moment of reflection.

“
Okay, tell me what you would have done?”

“Something
to stop him.” Vanessa is sincere, but she clearly doesn’t have a clue what she would do. Taking a look at the rest of the class from the center of the stage, it’s clear most of them don’t either.

“
Do something to stop him. Sounds like a plan, but remember European powers like France and England lost the better part of a generation in World War One. Their economies were still fragile and populations war-weary. The Germans had nothing left to lose after the Treaty of Versailles. Isn't stopping Hitler a little easier said than done, Brian?”

Brian
exemplifies the nerd who always got bullied in school when I was growing up. You know, the one who was the least cool, never had a girlfriend, but was one of the smartest kids in class. Brian is a dorky computer geek with no sense of style, which means he will probably found the next Facebook or Microsoft, make billions of dollars, and be dating a supermodel in ten years.

“
Sure, but if you can take action, you should take action,” he says, tapping his pen nervously on his notebook while he speaks.

“
Bold words, but doesn't everyone have the ability to take action? Not just nation-states heading down a path to inevitable war. In a broader scope, doesn’t everyone have the responsibility to act when a situation arises that calls for it?”

“Not
us. We're only in high school,” Emilee says. She is your average teenager, although more reticent during class discussions than her peers. Like many her age, she is just trying to find her voice and develop the confidence to use it. “We can't even vote,” she finishes.

“
Emilee, do you think age is a prerequisite to making a difference?” The question yields unintended consequence of driving her back into her shell. The challenge fails to deter some of my other students, and one in particular.

“
It is if you want to be taken seriously,” Chelsea says.

I
have been pacing around the room until this point to keep everyone’s focus on me. I decide to sit in my chair, right in the middle of the stage. I turn toward Chelsea and lean forward. “Chelsea, in the military there is the fine line between what’s considered a reason and an excuse. I am not sure which yours is.”

Chelsea
leans forward in her own chair, not for a second backing down to my challenge. “We may never know,” she says, smiling. Again, that’s why she’s a favorite of mine.

The
class ends and the rest of the day’s classes blur by. My academic level students are behind my honors class in the chronology of American history, so I must develop and execute several sets of lessons. Most planning happens on weekends, simply because I am exhausted at the end of a school day.

That’s
another way you can tell the good teachers from the bad. Bad teachers always want to engage in useless conversation at the end of the day because they didn’t expend much energy teaching. Good teachers are mentally and emotionally spent. Great teachers look like they were playing chess against Garry Kasparov all day.

With
quizzes in each of my five classes to grade, I have a pile to plough through. School dismisses a little after two, but teachers are not released until three o’clock. With an hour to kill before leaving, and two before the forced date with my future in-laws, I get right to work grading the quizzes. As I suspected, the honors class did really well on this one. I was about to pat myself on the back when the voice of my arch-nemesis shattered the revelry.

“The
Great Depression and the lead up to World War II, huh? I am amazed, Michael, that you’re the only history teacher in the entire school to get this far,” I hear Principal Howell say.

I
turn in my seat to find him gawking at the assignments for each class detailed out on the whiteboard. I never heard him come in. Well, slink in might be more descriptive.

Robinson
Howell has been principal of the school for the last three years. He was still easing into the job when I interviewed with him, and he has regretted the decision to hire me ever since. If I am Ferris Bueller, he’s my Edward Rooney. I wonder if he likes warm gummy bears.