He sat at his desk, bored and staring at the white wall before him. His eyes started to sting from the lack of blinking. They shifted to the tabletop where papers were little reminders that he had a job to do. He sighed. Why was he here? Why should he stay? Why did he ever want this?
He knew why. The chair. Every little kid loves the wheeled chair that can swirl and swivel all over the floor. That’s why any kid wants to be a teacher. He leaned back in his chair. He rocked it a little and then took a spin. From the hall he heard a voice and stopped his circular motion with his feet against the desk. His face grew red with embarrassment- what if someone had seen him? He turned to his computer. Skimming through his e-mails, he noticed none meant anything. Pointless junk sent to him by those who worked above him. There were a few from fellow teachers, but most were administrators…. that, or parents. They never understand that their precious baby could get a failing grade. Yes, he thought, your kid can decide not to listen; he can fail to turn in an assignment.
His mind fell blank once more; at least it was his planning period. He didn’t hate all day, every day. He just despised most of it. The kids never listen, they don’t care. What’s it to them? There are a thousand things they could be doing right now besides attending school. And no matter what they told the students, they knew as well as the faculty that there were still some professions that didn’t need a high school diploma. Was he wasting his time? He needed some change and he needed it quick.
What really attracted him to the job, teaching, was clear. He liked children, always had. And he was good at something, at least to the point that he could teach others the art form. He liked the feeling that he was helping youth. Now, he realized, they didn’t care to be helped. Not most of them. Some were aware of their goals and took to him, letting him guide them. He thought of those former students, and the few present ones, and felt he had done something good in life.
Then he looked back to the stack of papers on his desk. The top paper was a recent essay. There were more red marks on the page than there was ink from the printer. The kids lacked talent, sure, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t put in more effort. At least make me think you’re trying, he thought. He shifted through another collection of graded work. They just didn’t get it. Should he dumb down the assignments? Were they the problem? Surely sixty kids weren’t wrong. Maybe he was just a bad teacher. Perhaps he had lost his touch throughout the years. He was gaining in age, nearing his retirement. Maybe he should go ahead and retire. Or switch professions. He didn’t know. He couldn’t concentrate.
The bell rang and the first students started to appear at the doorway. A couple walked in; apparently they had gotten into a disagreement. The blonde, who normally sat next to the brunette, now took her seat across the room. Meanwhile, at their regular table, the brunette huffed and puffed, as if begging someone to ask what was wrong. Kids could be so petty. Tired of his sitting position and knowing he would have to get up momentarily anyway, he stood and walked to the doorway. He saw a couple of students he had had the previous year. They waved and smiled. They were such good students. He missed that class.
He continued to fake enthusiasm until another teacher approached. There were always other teachers to talk to, whether you felt like it or not. “Hey,” he said as his colleague got closer.
“Sup, man?” said the younger, quicker teacher- a man in his early thirties and not yet jaded by their profession.
“Not much. How’s your day been?” he asked, more out of habit than anything else. He knew how his day had been- like everyone else’s- dull. It was school!
The younger teacher sighed. “Good. Well, good enough.” He paused and looked up and down the hall. “I guess I need to get up to my room before the class gets in. See ya after school?”
“Yeah. Yeah, sure thing.” He smiled and waved as his co-worker walked away.
The man liked his young associate, but he always felt a little old when he was around. He remembered when he, too, was a young, bouncy, energetic man ready to take on the day and entertain the students. He turned and walked into his class. The bell rang once more. The door closed behind him.
He walked in front of the class, still contemplating if he really wanted to have a class discussion or give handouts to the kids. He scanned the room. Three paper airplanes, one bottle of water spilled, and a lot of loud kids not ready to start work. Every day the same thing. Every day he hated the clock- it never read 2:20 when he wanted it to.
A student walked over to his desk and shuffled through papers until she found the stapler. He didn’t care, just so long as she didn’t shuffle too much up. He studied her for a minute. He liked her; he thought she was funny. She wasn’t much for class discussions, but she always had a hilarious comment or a good story to tell. As she placed the stapler back on the desk, some papers fell. Her face looked worried and frantic, clearly an overreaction to the situation.
She gathered the mess quickly and tried to put everything back. He walked over, knowing she would just make things worse.
“What is this?” she asked, holding a bundle of papers held together by paper clips.
“Oh, just something I’ve been working on. It’s nothing really. Here,” he said as he reached for his things.
Her eyes skimmed the front page. “This is a story. Did you write this?” Her eyes were wide and fixed on him. She waited patiently for an answer.
“It’s just something small I’ve been working on. I’m not as good as I used to be, but…” he stopped. “Why am I talking to you?” he quizzed with a hint of sarcasm.
“Sorry,” the girl hadn’t sensed his humor, “I didn’t mean to pry.” She handed him the papers and scurried off to her seat. He didn’t mean to offend her.
He tapped the bottoms of the stack against the top of his desk to make them neat. As he sat them back down, he looked down at the title page. He had only gotten about seventy pages or so and quit. His eyes darted up at the class; the girl was in the corner telling her friends about what she had managed to see. They seemed impressed.
He laid the work down and walked back to the front of the room. “Today, we’re going to…” he started, only to be interrupted by the girl.
“Tell us about your story,” she called out.
“Well, it’s not really a story as much as it’s…. well, I don’t know what it is yet. It’s not important.”
“But how can you expect us to be willing to show you our work if you won’t even talk about yours?” she challenged.
“Because I control your grade.” He sighed. At least they were listening to him. “Okay, I’ll tell you a little about it, but after that, you have to take notes.”
The moan that came from the room could be heard down the hall. But after a moment the kids agreed. They couldn’t honestly expect the man to give them a free day entirely. At least they got to waste some time.
“It’s not really a story, as much as it’s an observational piece. I’ve been teaching for some years now and from what I’ve learned and what I’ve seen, I thought I might attempt making something of a book… but funny. And it’s fictional, I guess, in a sense, but it’s all based in reality. Everything in the book has happened to me or in my classroom. So, it’s real….in a fake way.” He laughed at himself and looked at the students. They seemed genuinely interested. “So, I started writing not too long ago. I got to page….” He trotted over to his desk and looked at the back page. “Seventy-four. Then I stopped. Not because I ran out of ideas…. I just stopped. Sometimes even I can get lazy. I should have pushed myself more to finish it.”
The girl who had discovered his hidden work looked confused. “You say that as if you’re dead. You can still write it. You can still push yourself. Why give up?”
“I have to grade and teach and there’s just not enough time for me now that school’s back in,” he said, though not even able to convince himself.
“No,” she said. “Work. When we do in-class essays- you write. Do it!” she cried. “I’d love to be able to say I’ve read a book written by my teacher. That’s so cool.” The girl felt the need to push him. No one had ever bothered to encourage her, except for her teacher who was always trying to get her to improve her grade and write better. She felt like she owed him.
The teacher stood staring at the girl. She was right. She was failing the class, but she was right. He could find some time every day to do a little on it. He should force himself to. At least it would be a fun hobby. “You know what? I will,” he told the girl. She beamed with accomplishment.
“But now you’re all taking notes,” he laughed. “Get out a sheet of paper and get to writing.” He wrote on the whiteboard the pieces of information the kids would need. They all sighed heavily, knowing they had made a deal and did as they were told.
?????
Years after graduation, the girl was in a store. She walked through the book aisle, though she used to hate books, with anticipation. She had heard that Mr. Clark had finally completed his book from her junior year of high school. It had just been released the week prior, and she knew by now the store had it in. She searched and searched, up and down the shelves. Then she saw it. Red and black covered the face of the book. She read the title aloud, “In All My Years…” He had changed it. She flipped open the cover and looked at the pages that followed. Unexpectedly, she found herself reading the page where authors liked to honor those who had helped them.
Her jaw dropped. There, on the page of her teacher’s book, were three names: that of his wife, that of his son, and then her name. He had thanked her for telling him to keep up the work. She had affected the outcome of the book. She walked to the check-out and bought it.
She didn’t even wait to get home to start reading it. She sat alone in her car, from five that afternoon to close to ten that night reading the story. It was funny and smart and one of the best things she had ever read. It made her think about him so much. She wished she had paid him more attention, more respect. In the back of the book was the author’s bio. She read it, trying to find out if he still taught and where.
The girl learned that he had gained some wealth from the book when it was released in Europe. There was even talk of a movie deal. The book had gained recognition for being something of a teacher’s guide; mixing wit with intelligence and giving an in-depth view of what it really was to be a teacher in America. Critics and journalists ate it up. Upon further research, she learned he had moved further south in the state. She was determined to find him. She needed to apologize for not caring enough then. She needed to tell him she loved his book.
The next morning, she called into work sick and took off to the small town where Mr. Clark now resided. It was a three-hour drive, but she didn’t have anything else to do. She was close to getting fired anyway.
She finally arrived in the small town; reporters were everywhere and from all over the country. He was holding a book signing that day. Perfect for her; he’d be easy to find.
She rushed to the store where he would be and found him sitting quietly behind a desk, much like the one she remembered from his classroom. He saw her and studied her face. She hadn’t changed that much, she thought.
“Cassie?” he asked, standing up.
“Hey,” she smiled. “I read your book, I had to find you.”
“Was it so bad you had to tell me in person?” he smirked. “But really, did you like it?”
“Yeah. It was great. It feels weird giving you a review,” she laughed.
He laughed with her. “So, how’s life?”
“Oh. Well about that.” She smiled.
“That bad?”
“I want to thank you,” she said.
“For your terrible life? You’re welcome.” He grinned. Such a witty old man.
“No,” she started. “After your class, I had better writing. I actually went on to college studying English.” She laughed. “Isn’t that how it always goes? You grow up hating something only to make it your job when you’re older?” She paused and her smile faded. “But things haven’t worked out the way I had planned. But it’s okay.”
“What does that mean?”
“I have a job I hate. I’m going back to school now.” She laughed a little. “I’m going to be an English teacher.”
“Figures. All the bad ones are.” The two enjoyed the joke for a few moments. Slowly, more people started coming in. “I guess I gotta sign all these books.”
“Me first,” she said, passing him her copy.
“But of course,” he said, finally feeling like his time had paid off. As he started signing, lights flashed all over. “Reporters like me for some reason,” he handed her the book back.
“Well, how many people get rich and famous after the age of fifty?”
“Not enough.”
She waved as she left just minutes later. After getting outside the store, she leaned against the brick wall, reading what he had written. It read:
‘Cassie, have fun taking over my old job. You deserve every bad kid you get. One day, maybe they, too, will come back to let you know just how much you meant to them. Thank you.
The best English teacher in the world, George Clark.
(P.S. if you were a good teacher, you would have recognized this book as nothing more than a C+ paper.)’