I will post a new entry every week or two. Some will be new writing and some will be past work that has relevance today. The writing will deal in some way with the themes that have been part of my teaching and writing life for decades:
•teaching and learning; •educational opportunity; •the importance of public education in a democracy; •definitions of intelligence and the many manifestations of intelligence in school, work, and everyday life; and •the creation of a robust and humane philosophy of education.
If I had to sum up the philosophical thread that runs through my work, it would be this: A deep belief in the ability of the common person, a commitment to educational, occupational, and cultural opportunity to develop that ability, and an affirmation of public institutions and the public sphere as vehicles for nurturing and expressing that ability.
My hope is that this blog will foster an online community that brings people together to continue the discussion.
my last post, I wrote about the current Teacher of the Year, Rebecca
Mieliwocki. Ms. Mieliwocki is in the midst of her career, affecting the lives
of students here and now. This week I’m writing about the influence of a
teacher long past the time when that teacher’s work is done. It’s the kind of
influence teachers hope to have.
post is a bit of a shaggy dog story, but I promise it has a punch line, maybe
high school class hasn’t been big on reunions, but it did just have one, the
only one in decades. I wasn’t able to go, but if I could have, I might not have
attended anyway. High school was not such a great time for me, and though by
the time I graduated I had a close circle of buddies and, as well, had a few pals
who were in the cool crowd, I felt pretty adrift until my senior year when I
had the unbelievable luck of landing in Jack McFarland’s English class, the
class that turned my life around. I remained close to those friends – though
several have died – and I am still in touch with Mr. McFarland. Those
connections aside, I have no desire to relive my high school days, all those
feelings of anchorless yearning.
had heard through the grapevine about the reunion before I got the form letter
announcing it. The letter was from Denny Grace, a guy who lettered in three
sports and dated the homecoming queen. I knew Denny in high school –we were
both in Mr. McFarland’s English class – but I doubt that we ever exchanged more
than a few words in passing. Denny was a big deal, and I was, well, not on the
fringes by my senior year, but certainly not in the high school groove. Once we
graduated, I don’t believe I saw Denny again.
the bottom of that form letter, right under Denny’s signature, he wrote a
sentence saying he had read one of my books and really liked it. I stood there in my kitchen, looking at
that eleven word sentence, surprised, touched, a little disoriented. I could
picture Denny clearly. He sat three or four rows over from me in McFarland’s
class, and the image I had was of the beginning of class, Denny in his long
letterman’s sweater, laughing as he curled into his seat, big as life. And here
he is now writing to me about
something I wrote?! I felt like I was
in a John Hughes movie.
remembered that Denny’s father owned a small construction company and was
pretty sure that Denny worked for him. So a few days after receiving the
letter, I wrote a letter back, explaining that I couldn’t come to the reunion
and telling him how pleased I was that he liked the book. I mentioned the
construction work and included with the letter a copy of my book on the
cognition involved in a blue- collar and service work, The Mind at Work.
A short time later I got a hand written letter from Denny in return commenting
on the book:
was in construction my entire life, and if you ever watched a tile setter tile
a kitchen or see a finish carpenter hang a door or watch a carpenter cut roof
joists, you would have a whole new outlook on what talent and smarts it takes to
do those jobs.
After a billion years, Denny Grace
and I, two people who led such different lives in high school, were forming a
connection around reading. And here is where this digressive tale begins to set
up its punch line.
Before Mr. McFarland’s class, Denny
was not much of a reader, and though he certainly was an able student, he was,
by his own admission, more emotionally invested in sports rather than
academics. But McFarland caught his attention. The class, Denny wrote, “was the
best class with the best teacher I ever had.” And the readings got him
wondering about other books and authors, so, for the first time in his young
life, he went to the public library and checked out a book – Tortilla Flat.
The library “was a strange, new world,” and he was hooked.” I’ve have never
been without a book since then. Roaming through bookstores is like being on a
I set up a phone call so that Denny
could tell all this to his former teacher. They had a long and, from what I
heard later, engaging conversation. As I write this, Mr. McFarland is compiling
a reading list for Denny, based on the books they discussed.
I spoke with Mr. McFarland
afterward, reflecting on the way a teacher’s influence plays out. For some in
his class, his influence was evident in the moment – for example with the
fellow who edited the student newspaper he supervised, or with someone like me,
an aimless student who he pulled into his orbit. Teachers can point to such
cases. But what about other varieties of influence? “When you teach so many
classes,” McFarland mused, “there’s an awful lot of anonymity in the
interaction. There’s people you don’t know you’re reaching – and sometimes
they’re not aware at the time that something is being set in motion.”
He certainly set something in
motion with me and with Denny Grace as well – and further set in motion a
wonderful ongoing conversation between two former classmates who, thanks to
Jack McFarland, now have a lot in common.
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