Forest Lessons: The Course of Class

Looking back on the past semester.

We start this week’s Forest Lessons with a reading from Issac Asimov’s short story The Last Question.

"You ask Multivac. I dare you. Five dollars says it can't be done."

Adell was just drunk enough to try, just sober enough to be able to phrase the necessary symbols and operations into a question which, in words, might have corresponded to this: Will mankind one day without the net expenditure of energy be able to restore the sun to its full youthfulness even after it had died of old age?

Or maybe it could be put more simply like this: How can the net amount of entropy of the universe be massively decreased?

Multivac fell dead and silent. The slow flashing of lights ceased, the distant sounds of clicking relays ended.

Then, just as the frightened technicians felt they could hold their breath no longer, there was a sudden springing to life of the teletype attached to that portion of Multivac. Five words were printed: INSUFFICIENT DATA FOR MEANINGFUL ANSWER.

That last sentence transports me back through time and space to the first day of class. Fresh from the previous grade, my students learn many things all at once. New school. New teachers. New students. New world. What will they learn? Like the great computer magnificently states, I don’t know. I know what I’ll teach: a modern day version of Mr. Dubois History and Moral Philosophy. What students learn is a very different question.

Come with me as I explore the semester as I remember it. My own myth.

The first week I talk about how my class functions. The arrangement of the room and seating. My expectations. I’m old school, you see. No cell phones allowed. Rarely we’ll use our computers. There’s no Google Classroom to join. Pens or pencils required every day along with old fashioned notebooks. Those are kept in the room, organized by class period, subject to my review at any time. Surprised? Welcome to boot camp, maggots! You’re gonna write and write and write until you fall down then write some more. Cross me on anything, and I’ll bust your ass so hard you’ll wish your Daddy’s contribution had dripped down your Mama’s leg.

Of course, this is the version in my head. The attitude in my heart. I’m a partisan inside the public school system therefore tithes to reality must be paid. Perfection being a prime enemy, I do what must be done in settling for good enough. One must remember the world is a mountain, in all its depravity and sin, but thanks to God my mind is a pickaxe. And as the kids will see, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch.

They key to my ruthless relentlessness is knowing that someday I’ll die. I’ll end and along with it my journey. In the class’s case it’ll be the fall of Constantinople and the immortal words of Constantine XI: “The city has fallen, but I am still alive!” We start with creation. The birth of our star, our system, our planet. Following this is the emergence of humanity, it’s spread across Earth, and the beginning of agriculture and written history. I take the opportunity to lay further ground rules. Students, I don’t care what you conclude about anything ever. It only matters that you think and do so as thoroughly as possible.

To help them do this, I wield myth. Throughout the semester, the following exchange is like morning calisthenics:

Are myths always true?

No!

Do they usually contain truth?

Yes!

Before my students passed through the portal of my doorway into class, I know only one thing for sure: they’ve met very few, if any, people like me. Their worlds are small. Tiny black squares dominate their vision with dopamine loops and silly videos and chats with their friends. Which of their meaningless nothings will they tell me first? ENOUGH. Today begins their enchantment. Today begins the expansion of their vision. Through me, a man who tasted as much and seen as much before he repents, a man who knows the heights of love and the depths of suffering, a man who grew to embrace pain with a joyous heart, they will pay their own tithe to reality. They will see a sliver of the glory that awaits them all. They will only need reach. If needed, I’ll drag their hand out myself.

At least, this is the version in my head. The reality shifts back to good old fashioned grind. Reading, writing, and talking. Putting the social in social studies. More reading, more writing, more talking. The topics unfold. The first civilizations, ancient Greece, the glory of Rome, the spread of Christianity, the Crisis of the Third Century, the fall of the Western Empire, the rise of the enigmatic Byzantines. Islam’s challenge. The Crusades. The sack and eventual fall of Constantinople. The first stirrings of a rising phoenix reaching to the New World and beyond.

There’s simply no easy way to enchantment. And even then, it isn’t guaranteed. One must dig and dig and dig. Forever, if required. But in the end it can be seen, it can be glimpsed, the light of the cave’s exit can be perceived. And that’s all I want. See, for the first time in your lives. Hear, if you can. There is so much for you. So much to do. So much to accomplish before you die.

As I work, cracks appear in the mountain in the form of questions and improvised lectures. The best join me on tangents far above anything “state standards” or so-called “professional developments” can dream. We mount the dragon of imagination and fly. The others watch. Some see. One by one, more and more saddle up.

But I have to know for sure. Are they really taking those first flaps of the wings? Or am I purely imagining it in some horrible waking fever dream of delusion? My salvation comes in the form of vision: the refugees of poor Constantinople, fleeing the Muslim hordes carrying what they could into the arms of the treacherous Venetians. Months later, the visions fulfills itself in the midterm test. Here’s what we’ll do.

On Monday we plan. On the table at the front of the class I present large poster paper, crayons, markers, and piles of modeling clay. They would think back across the semester and memorialize one thing from that time. It could be anything they wanted: a particularly interesting subject, memorable moment, funny joke, or new friendship. Be human, create some culture. That’s it.

On Tuesday we make art. Across all six classes and 120+ students artifacts of every subject appear. Images of our shared past unfurl about my classroom. But beyond that, something surprising emerges. Our own identity peeks through the veil. Friendships immortalized in sculpture, art, and letters. Poetry, in a few cases. The cheeky ones joke about my receding hair line, hatred of technology, and love of stories. Truth reaches out to touch mankind. We reach back.

Tuesday after school a dozen students answer my call for help. Together we arrange the classroom desks into a museum of sorts. Five stations host my own lesson plans for that period of time. Accompanying them are the student’s creations, the artifacts of our culture, each assigned according to subject. A sixth table has no lesson plan. Not unlike life. It emerges from the Spirit. The memorable, the funny, and the true adorn the station like jewels in a crown.

Please note: students really enjoy learning how to fight elephants!

Wednesday and Thursday we work. Students walk the gallery, interrogating a people that had not yet been seriously studied: themselves. It’s a great time, with very few not seizing the opportunity. For each class, the two hours pass quickly. There’s a sense of satisfaction among the pupils, the happiness of a challenge matching their abilities. It’s easy, but not easy. I’m thankful for this. The balance of difficulty with ability is a unique menace perhaps only teachers can really comprehend.

On Friday, judgement. I must confess a modest sense of dread. Did I see my vision through? Did I do it justice? Did it work? I’ll let the best speak for them all:

The Myth of This Semester

Slowly, in the beginning, the class had a peaceful mind. The class, this place, it was plain. Boring. Until little be little you could see the students drop one by one into madness, into things far more extreme than boring. This has gone chaotic. And with the chaos came ideas, creations, and vibrant… thoughts.

Reader, what do you think? Did I do it? I certainly did something. Crack their minds open, perhaps? If the above and all the rest is any indication, I can safely say a step forward was taken. A step forward into the enchanted forest where some true knowledge can be found. It might be cliche to say in this day and age, especially in a public school, but I don’t care:

The hour is late, but hope remains.

Hope remains.

I’ll end this week’s missive by simply saying be sure to read Asimov’s story linked at the top. In class, all of my assignments end with a Last Question. I won’t spoil the ending, but if you read it, you’ll understand.

Maybe everything, in time.

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Once again thanks for reading this week’s edition of Forest Lessons! Whether you’ve been with me from the start or are a new reader to The Partisan simply know I’m glad you’re here. Writing is a honor bestowed by God. To have others read it? Even think about it? Blessing beyond measure. These past five months have been a real trip. I may have learned more than my students! In any case, I can’t wait to get back to work in January. We’ll be starting a unit on the Age of Exploration and I’m happy to say I’ve got no idea where we’ll end up. Should be fun!

Finally, I wish you a happy Christmas and New Year. Should you be moved by what I do, kindly consider supporting my work. I’ll do my best to live up to it.