Eric Part II
Reginald Rochester II was about to explode. There were rapid puffs of gray smoke from Leadbeater’s pipe emulating Native American smoke signals messaging an imminent attack by the cavalry. Apparently my awarding of “A’s” to level three students was threatening to collapse the academic structure of Henry Bouquet High School.
Eric Part II
“Mr. Maltese…you fail to understand that you are undermining honors students’ attempts to be selected to the AAS [American Academic Society—Reginald Rochester II was chairman of the committee that selected students to place the glory of AAS memberships on their college applications.) because of your A’s to your undeserving students.”
I stood up. “If they were undeserving they would not have received A’s.”
“Mr. Maltese, please sit down.” Leadbeater pointed to the chair.
I sat down.
“So, what I hear both of you say is that level three students, no matter how hard they work, cannot receive A’s.”
“That is correct.”
Reginald Rochester II stood next to my chair in a feeble attempt at intimidation. Reginald Rochester I must have been a real tightass.
Reginald Rochester II raised both eyebrows. “If they are doing such good work, they should be moved up to a level two.”
“They can barely read what they have now.”
“Mr. Maltese, I taught Shakespeare to level threes.” Leadbeater puffed some more and settled smugly and snugly back into his leather chair.
Years later, at a social function, I learned from one of Leadbeater’s former students that his idea of “teaching” Shakespeare was to read all the parts of the play aloud to the class, ninety percent of whom were catching up on their sleep the whole period.
“If a student earns an “A” I will award him or her an ‘A.’”
“Your colleagues in the English department adhere to policy.”
“I can’t speak for them.”
I learned later he was lying. Other teachers of level threes gave out ‘A’s. Not many, but some. This, I learned, became an administrative tactic, telling teachers individually that they, alone, were not towing the line. Divide and conquer.
Leadbeater shuffled the printouts on his desk. “What about college admissions?”
“What about college admissions?”
Reginald Rochester II’s face was the color of cheap Chianti. “Do you think it is fair that an honors student who masters challenging material and gets an “A” is ranked the same as one of your students who also gets an “A” for less challenging subject matter? Suppose they apply to the same college?”
This was getting ridiculous. “First of all, the material I teach is challenging for my students. Otherwise all of them would receive A’s. Secondly, your argument involving college admissions is specious. Most of my students, if not all, would never apply to the same colleges as your precious ones.” I don’t think Reginald Rochester II’s comments had ever been described as specious before. His eyes opened wide, his muscles tensed, his lips quivered and I was ready to hear “Code Blue” come over the school’s loud speaker system any second.
Leadbeater tapped his pipe on an ash tray.
“I see, Mr. Maltese, that with more experience you will learn.”
With that I left. For the next fifteen years I was allowed to teach only level threes, and the administration tried to “teach” me the penalty for disrupting the grade distribution. Instead of assigning a classroom to me, I “floated” from one class to another—five classes—-five rooms scattered throughout Bouquet High. Six rooms including advisor room.
Somewhere in early June we were finishing the curriculum requirements for Eric’s class. It was an early summer, and the heat seemed to find its way up to the second floor of Bouquet High and grow there. We finished reading and discussing T.S. Eliot’s Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock. Well, I read and discussed the poem. I looked around the classroom and watched the drowsiness that comes with stifling heat and clothes sticking to skin and beads of sweat dripping from foreheads and onto desks and Eliot’s poetry envelop my students. We had already suffered a week of sultry summer.
“Hey. Up here.” Most heads looked up at me. They were down. Really down. The school was a marathon.
“Look, I will give everyone in class two points on the final exam if you all sing Jingle Bells.”
Smiles and even some laughter.
“Seriously, Mr. M?”
“Seriously. I’ll start.”
And so, slowly at first, we sang Jingle Bells. Within less than a minute they were into it, singing loudly. We heard the class next door pick it up and then the next class and then the next as Jingle Bells rolled down the second floor of Bouquet High. When it finally ended, I took in all the smiles. “Now, don’t you all feel cooler?”
“Hell no, Mr. M. But that was fun.”
“Okay. Last poem we have to cover. Poe’s Annabel Lee.” The singing brought us a little energy, even if it only lasted to the end of the class period.
The bell rang, and Eric seemed to hang around my desk. I gathered my roll book and papers and anthology. I had to run because my next class was at the other end of the building. Floating would get worse, but I did not know that then.
Eric rubbed his neck against his denim collar. “Mr. M, can I show you somethin’?”
I looked at the clock on the wall. We only had four minutes of passing time to get to the next class, and my next class was a rowdy bunch.
“Sure, Eric. What is it?”
He produced a neatly folded piece of paper from an inside denim pocket and handed it to me.
Eric looked down at shoes, sniffed hard to dry his nose, and waited.
I unfolded the paper and looked at the very official-looking document. The letterhead read “Harley Davidson.”
“Dear Mr. ______ We examined your design for a new carburetor valve for the Series XE-150 motorcycle with great interest. We would like to discuss this with you at your earliest convenience. Please call the number below to set up the appointment.”
It was signed by some poo-bah at the company headquarters.
My mouth dropped. “Eric. This is fantastic. Amazing. Did you call them?”
Eric smiled. “Yeah. I’m seeing them next Wednesday. They got an office in Philly.”
“Eric, you must be very talented and smart to design something like this. I couldn’t design a carburetor for a motorcycle….not in a million years.” I handed back the paper.
“Well, it’s just a valve for the carburetor. I just like to fool around with mechanical stuff…ya know…especially motorcyles.” His smile grew larger. “But the guy I talked to said they might hire me on when I graduate high school.”
The bell rang. I was late. “Eric, I have to get to class. That is terrific! I am so proud of you. Thanks for sharing with me.”
“Yeah. Well. Ya know. I can’t read well, but, ya know.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Look at me.” He raised his eyes.
“Eric. I know.”
Lesson I learned as a teacher: there are a number of intelligences as Howard Gardner suggests, and schools only reward two of them: language and math skills.
I got up from the log I was sitting on and once more gazed at the painted mountainside. I made a few more casts upstream with the Parachute Adams. I thought I saw a trout rise just alongside another log on the opposite bank, and I began to work myself into position for a cast. I crept slowly into the sandy bank and saw something that increased my heartbeat tenfold…a hundredfold: a bear track filling slowly with water. Suddenly I lost interest in the rising trout, my silent footsteps, the pastel mountainside. Suddenly everything looked different. Suddenly everything looked ominous. Suddenly I remembered that out here in the Montana wilderness I was not at the top of the food chain.
And, suddenly, I was back at the car, out of breath. Mike was surely downstream fishing wets, Jim could be upstream or downstream but I would wait for them by the car…..in the car, lock buttons down.
Another motorcycle hummed up route 191 to Bozeman, a youngish male sporting a yellow helmet with a black stripe being held onto by a youngish female also wearing a yellow helmet with a black stripe.
The cyclist raised a hand as he zoomed by. I wondered if Eric designed the valve for his Harley.