It was the beginning of the sixth year of my teaching career. It was two Mondays before Thanksgiving vacation. And it was the first semester I taught at Burris Laboratory School at Ball State University. I loved teaching at Burris.
In fact, if I'd worn a cap I might've been tempted to stick a feather in it. There's something nice about being recognized, being called back to work among the very faculty where I'd been trained. They apparently thought I was good enough to teach among the Big Boys. I was not so sure.
Truth is: I doubted I was good enough. But I was smart enough to keep my doubts a secret. Taking that job seemed like an opportunity to live-UP-to the hopeful expectations of the very teachers who'd trained me.
There was no set curriculum at the school. Laboratory schools are supposed to be experimental. No established curriculum guides existed. When I asked M. C. Howd, the Director of Burris Lab, what sort of English classes he wanted me to teach, he seemed puzzled. His reply was curt: "I'm not sure? Whatta-ya know? Whattaya know how to do?"
He riffled through some papers on his desk and found my schedule, then glanced up at me over his half-specs: "Two upper-division English courses for juniors and seniors. Here's the schedule. You're the expert. Write the syllabus for each class and teach what you think's important. Oh! Here's the key to your classroom." But that wasn't the key I'd been looking for.
HOLY EXCREMENTA!
Fortunately -- or not -- I was dumb enough to think I could rise to the occasion. One nice thing about being sufficiently inexperienced and dumb is that the little you may know fits neatly into a a brief syllabus -- what little knowledge you have works well in at least three ways:
The syllabus you write will be concise.
It will not severely limit your options.
You can learn as you go!
It will not severely limit your options.
You can learn as you go!
You focus on your students as you build your curriculum. As a result, as weeks pass and you get to know your students, you'll have less and less difficulty adjusting your plans to fit their needs and interests. Of course I had a lot of ideas of my own about what was worth teaching and learning. Plus I had little experience that was apt to discourage my creative enthusiasm.
The immense book-room behind my classroom was a treasure-house of fine reading material: full collections of old literature textbooks, sets of fine novels, theater scripts, and poetry anthologies. There were enough sets of such materials that if I worked with groups of five or six students, I knew I could generate all sorts of study frameworks and modes of evaluation.
I'd been assigned two Reading Appreciation Classes and two Creative Writing classes. It seemed to me that all four of my classes would look the same. We'd read the best literature I could find, raise and discuss issues, and use various forms of creative writing to determine grading. Students might write essays. They might write scripts and act them out. They might make slide sequences and picture boards. Whatever they came up with, I felt I could help them shape their responses into something good to share in class. I just had to generate enthusiasm and get students responding in creative ways to good literature.
I had lots of good literature and loads of infectious enthusiasm. That combination worked well enough the first semester. Perhaps it's true that the best laid plans of mice and men most often go awry. Perhaps, though, it might be just as true that many accidents are often fortunate. Serendipity! That's the word.
Enough to say that a very fortunate accident occurred during my first semester as an English teacher at Burris Laboratory School. It not only changed my teaching methods -- into the bargain, it changed even the subject matter I taught.
One bright morning in mid-November of that first semester, the redoubtable Director M. C. Howd greeted me with a huge smile when I picked up my mail in the main office.
Before I could return his greeting and melt away to the relative safety of my classroom, he reached out and shook my hand. I thought he was complimenting me on my performance as a teacher that first semester. And maybe he was.
After his cheery greeting, he held onto my hand tightly. He winked, all bright teeth: "Bob! I've completely forgotten to tell you that the winter stage production is scheduled almost four weeks from today." He plunked the school calendar down in front of me, meanwhile encircling the second and third long weekends in December.
A big friendly smile: "Oh! Fine, Dr. Howd: I'll buy some tickets. . . ."
He smiled serenely and harrumphed authoritatively: "No! NoNo, Bob! I want you to produce and direct it!"
That disclosure got my attention. Could he be kidding? I searched his face. He looked serious.
Here's the thing: in those days, a teacher signed one largely non-specific contract. Mine said "English Teacher." But except for athletic coaching, which required a second contract, other services were largely understood and fulfilled without question. English teachers frequently got pressed into secondary duties in those days: like sponsoring an "English Club" or the "School Paper." OR, Oooops: sponsoring catch-as-catch-can theater productions. This pattern was typical of elementary schools.
Such on-the-fly, extra-curricular assignments in secondary schools were so rare I had never known of any in my short career. There was usually a theater class and a theater teacher who might teach speech and debate as well as produce seasonal shows. Or there was a journalism teacher who sponsored the newspaper or yearbook. English teachers taught English -- which usually means combinations of composition and literature.
Burris Laboratory School was at that time a K-12 school. But it had no theater classes when I joined the high school faculty.
Dr. Howd had been an elementary teacher, then an elementary principal, and finally Director of the Laboratory School. He was also a Full Professor of Education. It was easy for me to discern that he was teaching me, challenging me. He had studied my resume` well enough to know I had performed in plays as a college student and dabbled some in community theater. He knew also I had worked with the theater person at the school where I had taught for five years before I joined the faculty at Burris.
So he knew I liked theater and had a little experience. He thought I could certainly rise to the challenge he was giving me. He was pretty certain I would honor his request. Dr. Howd was a commanding figure. There was a warmth and discernible softness to the man -- like moss on a rock.
SO! Surprise! I had 26 days to produce a play. I had to select the script, audition and cast the show, develop a sensible rehearsal schedule, stage the performance, train and work with student teams to produce the set, dress the show, and engineer the lighting and additional tech resources.
I confess I was a little worried. It didn't seem possible I could accomplish something on such short notice that'd make my students proud of themselves. Still, I was intrigued. Nor could I escape the assignment. I had a one-year contract. I wanted to come back the following September. Do the job! Do it as well as you can! I shrugged my shoulders: Okay! Let'er RIP!
Two questions remained:
Copyright? We didn't charge admission. I was such a novice I didn't know that technicality didn't make a difference. Dr. Howd and I kept our secret down to this very day. (You are sworn to secrecy!)
you can believe him!
I'd been assigned two Reading Appreciation Classes and two Creative Writing classes. It seemed to me that all four of my classes would look the same. We'd read the best literature I could find, raise and discuss issues, and use various forms of creative writing to determine grading. Students might write essays. They might write scripts and act them out. They might make slide sequences and picture boards. Whatever they came up with, I felt I could help them shape their responses into something good to share in class. I just had to generate enthusiasm and get students responding in creative ways to good literature.
I had lots of good literature and loads of infectious enthusiasm. That combination worked well enough the first semester. Perhaps it's true that the best laid plans of mice and men most often go awry. Perhaps, though, it might be just as true that many accidents are often fortunate. Serendipity! That's the word.
Enough to say that a very fortunate accident occurred during my first semester as an English teacher at Burris Laboratory School. It not only changed my teaching methods -- into the bargain, it changed even the subject matter I taught.
One bright morning in mid-November of that first semester, the redoubtable Director M. C. Howd greeted me with a huge smile when I picked up my mail in the main office.
Before I could return his greeting and melt away to the relative safety of my classroom, he reached out and shook my hand. I thought he was complimenting me on my performance as a teacher that first semester. And maybe he was.
After his cheery greeting, he held onto my hand tightly. He winked, all bright teeth: "Bob! I've completely forgotten to tell you that the winter stage production is scheduled almost four weeks from today." He plunked the school calendar down in front of me, meanwhile encircling the second and third long weekends in December.
A big friendly smile: "Oh! Fine, Dr. Howd: I'll buy some tickets. . . ."
He smiled serenely and harrumphed authoritatively: "No! NoNo, Bob! I want you to produce and direct it!"
That disclosure got my attention. Could he be kidding? I searched his face. He looked serious.
Here's the thing: in those days, a teacher signed one largely non-specific contract. Mine said "English Teacher." But except for athletic coaching, which required a second contract, other services were largely understood and fulfilled without question. English teachers frequently got pressed into secondary duties in those days: like sponsoring an "English Club" or the "School Paper." OR, Oooops: sponsoring catch-as-catch-can theater productions. This pattern was typical of elementary schools.
Such on-the-fly, extra-curricular assignments in secondary schools were so rare I had never known of any in my short career. There was usually a theater class and a theater teacher who might teach speech and debate as well as produce seasonal shows. Or there was a journalism teacher who sponsored the newspaper or yearbook. English teachers taught English -- which usually means combinations of composition and literature.
Burris Laboratory School was at that time a K-12 school. But it had no theater classes when I joined the high school faculty.
Dr. Howd had been an elementary teacher, then an elementary principal, and finally Director of the Laboratory School. He was also a Full Professor of Education. It was easy for me to discern that he was teaching me, challenging me. He had studied my resume` well enough to know I had performed in plays as a college student and dabbled some in community theater. He knew also I had worked with the theater person at the school where I had taught for five years before I joined the faculty at Burris.
So he knew I liked theater and had a little experience. He thought I could certainly rise to the challenge he was giving me. He was pretty certain I would honor his request. Dr. Howd was a commanding figure. There was a warmth and discernible softness to the man -- like moss on a rock.
SO! Surprise! I had 26 days to produce a play. I had to select the script, audition and cast the show, develop a sensible rehearsal schedule, stage the performance, train and work with student teams to produce the set, dress the show, and engineer the lighting and additional tech resources.
I confess I was a little worried. It didn't seem possible I could accomplish something on such short notice that'd make my students proud of themselves. Still, I was intrigued. Nor could I escape the assignment. I had a one-year contract. I wanted to come back the following September. Do the job! Do it as well as you can! I shrugged my shoulders: Okay! Let'er RIP!
Two questions remained:
What show should we do?
How could we get our hands on scripts quickly enough?
How could we get our hands on scripts quickly enough?
Necessity is the Mother of Invention -- to say nothing of quick decision-making. Before class that morning I rummaged through my bookroom and found 36 copies of an old literature textbook that featured a script of Thornton Wilder's Our Town.
I knew the play well. In fact, I had produced portions of it in one of my undergraduate theater classes. The play had won the Pulitzer Prize in 1938. Wilder's approach in that play is different. He uses little scenery and few props. With artful pantomime and typical human exchanges the actors create significant happenings any audience will recognize and identify as being similar to the happenings in their own lives. A stage manager and two of the town's prominent citizens introduce and tell about the typical human happenings of their small town of Grover's Corners, New Hampshire. We watch life as it unfolds there. In fact, Grover's Corners becomes our town. The touchingly human story unfolds in three acts: Daily Life, Love and Marriage, and Death. The power of the play grows out of Wilder's unerring sense of what happens to most of us as we move through the days of our lives. As I write this paragraph I'm astonished how thoroughly Thornton Wilder captured and portrayed my own life -- right down to the present moment, the final act.
ANYWAY! During my first reading class that morning, I cornered six of my best students and told them my predicament with the Winter Production. They quickly got excited and agreed we should become a production team. Casting? They knew dozens of their classmates who'd be interested in performing? With a little prodding, my students came up with quick solutions to every production problem. Make-Up? We could count on their mothers. Lighting? One of them had an older brother who was a tech-guy from the university theater. Costumes? They claimed their parents ran around in square stuff just perfect for the show. And of course we had the textbook scripts.
ANYWAY! During my first reading class that morning, I cornered six of my best students and told them my predicament with the Winter Production. They quickly got excited and agreed we should become a production team. Casting? They knew dozens of their classmates who'd be interested in performing? With a little prodding, my students came up with quick solutions to every production problem. Make-Up? We could count on their mothers. Lighting? One of them had an older brother who was a tech-guy from the university theater. Costumes? They claimed their parents ran around in square stuff just perfect for the show. And of course we had the textbook scripts.
Copyright? We didn't charge admission. I was such a novice I didn't know that technicality didn't make a difference. Dr. Howd and I kept our secret down to this very day. (You are sworn to secrecy!)
Still, the show was an immense success. Or at least, as I soon learned, audiences made up of my students' families were wonderfully appreciative. So were the college students who poured in for the performances.
Thornton Wilder and that first show changed my entire high-school teaching career. The following semester, I taught two reading-writing classes and two theater classes, and produced two seasonal shows. The following year my teaching load was all theater, including the seasonal shows. What can I say? I had a knack for it. (Well?! I had a love for it!)
But most important: next time you overhear a teacher claim he learns more from his students than they do from him,
Thornton Wilder and that first show changed my entire high-school teaching career. The following semester, I taught two reading-writing classes and two theater classes, and produced two seasonal shows. The following year my teaching load was all theater, including the seasonal shows. What can I say? I had a knack for it. (Well?! I had a love for it!)
But most important: next time you overhear a teacher claim he learns more from his students than they do from him,
you can believe him!
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