Showtime!

John Van Leer, an iconic teacher at Hackley School, would greet colleagues on the first day of school every year with a devilish smile and the announcement, “Okay, it’s Showtime!”

That proverbial first day of school had arrived at KA, but not just any first day, of course. The first day for me at a new school, and the first first day ever in the history of the school! (I know you know this—no one is rushing from the computer to scream, “honey, it’s the first day ever at that school in Jordan!” But can I not bask in this momentousness a little longer??!”) As I was thinking/dreading/preparing/thrilling to what this day would be like, I realized that this is just the fourth time in my entire life where I have had a true “first day” of teaching at a prep school, and of all the “first days,” I thought to myself, “Hmmm…I might be the most relaxed I have ever been! Go figure!” At Gaston Day School, Charlotte Latin School and Hackley School, I entered that first day with scant knowledge and no contact of the students, so it was always a bit terrifying. Here I had spent four days of orientation and knew maybe 35% of my students a little bit. There was a comfort I had not expected.

I had been thinking of this first day since I accepted the job here at KA exactly 6 months ago today. So many emotions leading up to this day, and indeed, if I were filming my life (and be honest—you know you have imagined your life as a screenplay from time to time as well) I would thoroughly enjoying the musical scoring of this morning. There are five soundtracks I think I would go to for some background music, ranging from Chariots of Fire to Henry V to October Sky to Fargo to the grand-daddy of musical scores, Shawshank Redemption. If any of these films is unknown to you for its musical score, go to the library and check them out. You will want to create moments in life through which to react to these musical wonders.

I have found that on the annual first day of school, it is very crowded in my head! There are so many people that pop in to offer a pep talk, or inspire me. First of all is my grandmother, a woman who taught in her church for a total of 62 years, besides a quarter century of public school as well, and she never ceased to marvel at the curiosity and the potential of any child. I think of my mother, and hope to steal some of her charisma and power as she greeted people, genuinely interested in what each human might teach her. I remind myself of the “pentarchy” of genius of teachers who inspired me: Nina Wilson in 5th grade, Mary Schneider and her sister Jean Michaels at Western Hills High School, Ken Bork and Amy Gordon at Denison. When it came time to choose a career, I always returned to those five in my mind—who wouldn’t want a life of excitement and learning as they projected to me? I also think of Chuck Edwards, a former student who went on to be my colleague at Hackley for 5 years. Each year when I start anew, I remind myself of the privilege of knowing students like Chuck. So, with that many people in my head—you can understand why there isn’t much room for knowledge about science and car repairs.

Pick-the-movie-score: it is time for classes! It is a little underwhelming seeing the students this morning since only 80% of the school uniforms arrived, and everyone is allowed to wear casual clothes. But no matter. And the students received their maps of the academic building just seconds ago, so there is much chaos. Oh, and no one can find the bell sound they wanted to use over the PA system. (Oh. My. The meetings about how the bell should sound were a little silly. No—more than silly. Let me put it this way. Someone had forgotten to get printers and copiers for the faculty—they are for administrators in that building—so we keep asking, “ummm, where shall we print and copy our syllabi??????? Yet, we are debating the tone quality of a passing bell. “It shouldn’t be too harsh,” one offered, while another agreed: “oh no, it should be a gentle sound.” Okay. At one point we entertain, and have not yet dismissed, playing music for the passing time. Anyone like to apply be the DJ at KA??

I’m jealous of all the teachers in the early morning—I have to wait until 4th period to greet my first class. By the way, I am wearing the same outfit I have worn every first day of school since 1992. One might see that as sweet and nostalgic, and one could see it that I simply should go out and buy some new clothes! But according to the headmaster’s wife, I look “dapper” in my olive ensemble.

It’s time. It is showtime. They walk in. I decide not to do the names aloud the way one always does. I figured I would butcher the Arabic sounds and they do not need to twitter at my linguistic deficiencies. As each student comes in, I check the roll with him/her.

I get going, and it feels right. But there is a girl in the corner who is chatting with a neighbor, and after about 7 minutes of class, raises her hand and asks, “Can I drop this class?” My rejection of that plea brings forth an eye-rolling the likes of which I would have to really think about when I last saw such virtuosity. I tell the class that they do not need to bring the textbook every day—it does weigh 7 pounds. The sullen scholar then says it will break her back to take the book home. I patiently explain that she can take the book home today and keep it there—so after today, that news should indeed help save her back. She responds with a, I can’t call it a belch exactly, but I guess an expectoration of “whatever.” Oh, how wonderful that the American Valley Girl-speak has stood the test of time and crossed such distances.

It does not get better! My smile/charm/whatever does not win her over. The rest of the class is nice, maybe even enthusiastic, but the SS (sullen scholar) announces quite loudly that she hates history. I said, “that is a great way to get to my point today—why do so many people dislike history?” I had learned that when the admissions team polled incoming KA students, they did indeed rank history at the bottom of their favorite courses. I told them about “Family Feud,” the game show, and I asked them for reasons, a la the show, why people disliked history. This was her chance!!! And, no, not a chance she would participate.

I then told the class we would do the hardest assignment, perhaps, of the year: each person free draw a map of the world on a big, very blank piece of paper. I wanted them to think immediately about what they know, don’t know, and to try and imagine the whole world at one time. I encouraged them that if they didn’t know the world well today, we had all year in world history to understand the world! While the other students are trying to remember the shapes of continents, my new best friend draws a circle and stops.

Her mother would be so proud! That map is a keeper—maybe it even belongs on the fridge!

I go to lunch, and my new colleagues are excited about how well their classes had gone.
I smiled, and said, “Well, it’s good to know that Americans do not have a monopoly on rudeness!” I hoped the afternoon would be a little better.

It was. Interestingly enough, as I look back on the last couple of days, there was such a symmetry in my first teaching experiences here. On Friday, that first drama class was a joy, and the group skit preparation in the afternoon was maddening. On Sunday, that inspiring adolescent proved to be the undoing of a nice class, followed by exuberant, memorable classes. Ahhh—symmetry. When I did the “Family Feud” exercise in one afternoon class, a young man named Jaber kept saying, “But Mr. John, history is sooo important!” I assured him that I agreed, but we needed to try and understand why the other team thinks the way they do. As that class left, a class of 12 boys and 4 girls, I think I got about 7 or 8 high-fives, and one “you’re the man” comment. The nettles of inconsistency in this biz are amazing!

After class I bumped into the head of the World Languages Department, a Spaniard who has lived in some exciting places like Morocco and Ireland and Greece. He looked a little glum, and I asked him how the day went. He sighed. “There was this girl in my last class…” and recounted a tale of ruination. A few sentences later I said, “Let me see if I could guess her name.” Yes. Indeed. She the SS had wreaked havoc in more than one first class!

The rest of the day I was busy with my crowded brain—I had a pretend reception in my head with friends Anne and Mary and Cristina and Doris and Debbie and Adam and Sean—and dozens more as I processed the day, and looked forward to seeing where we might go in this course.

At dinner—the chef decided to skip the more formal meal like roasted lamb for a more teen-ager friendly chicken patty and French fry meal—I stood waiting for more fries and saw a girl’s nametag, “Zaha” as her first name. To make small talk I said, “I have heard of that name. There’s a famous architect with the great name of Zaha Hadid.” She gushed and said, “My family knows her. She’s Iraqi too. She designs such cool buildings!” I asked her what “Zaha” meant and she said, “Well, I love my name. It means ‘pride.’ My mom always says to remember the meaning of my name and take pride in my work.” The fries came, so thus ended the pick-up conversation, but that is just another moment that is unusual and didactic.

That evening, after the study hall, I enjoyed some interesting talks with the boarders about their homework. They had had to find an adult and interview the adult as to what the adult believed to be the 10 Most Important Issues or Events of the time the students have been alive (if you want to feel old—that is since 1993). They liked talking to their teachers or parents about it, and several revealed some great insights about what they thought the interview had shown them. “My dad picked 7 political events in the Middle East and 3 soccer victories,” said one. Another said, “My teacher must be a very kind man, he was so interested in stories about people.” “My mom only said negative things. Why is history always just negative things?”

And thus begins the real year…the work, and the beauty.

There was another day deep into August, August 28 to be exact, in 1982, 25 years ago when for six months I had been thinking/dreading/preparing/thrilling to what that day would be like once it came. That was the day my family moved me to Denison, and the day that my mother said I “broke up the family.” I had no idea what lay ahead, but leaned on my friends and family for support—much like now, and with much amazement to follow.

Oh, by the way, did I tell you that on Tuesday, His Majesty King Abdullah II of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, comes for the opening convocation? Hmm, another showtime!