I return to this blog, a graveyard now for three years, to write up my thoughts upon reading Mr. Thompson's memoir: Dancing Through Graveyards with Ninth Graders. It seems apropos to post them here, on the blog I started and maintained while in his honors English class.
When I sat down to open this book for the very first time, it had been 10 years, almost to the day, since I sat in Thompson’s classroom for the first time. As I started reading, it was as if no time had passed at all. I was 14 again and sitting in that hot classroom, though memories fade and I don’t remember it being so hot. I do, however, remember the massive fan that occupied a full corner of the classroom. Even in 2010, they hadn’t figured out how to properly air condition that junior high. Even in the “new hall” where Thompson’s room resided, built after the rest of the school, and not long, I thought, before I sat in his classroom (reading his book I realize I was wrong.)
This book is so perfectly Thompson. The rebellious tone. The strong, determined voice. The Greatest of Expectations alongside the most empathetic of listening ears. You always knew where you stood with Thompson.
10 years later, I’ve just completed a Master’s thesis and throughout that process, and all of the years preceding it, I had ringing through my head a variation on Thompson's words: Just write. You only become better at writing if you write constantly. He’s right. You have to get words on the page in order for them to somehow become better. And there’s a Master’s thesis in existence now because of Thompson.
Is it any wonder that he is one of only four teachers from my secondary education experience (excluding my own dad) I still thought about as I finished my Master’s? One of only four to receive a graduation announcement this spring. One of only two from junior high.
Thompson taught my three younger siblings as well. We were one of those “whole family” groups. Within seven years he taught me, my two brothers, and my sister. I shared his philosophy on ninth graders with my family because it so resembles the thoughts I’ve heard from my own dad so many times. In response, my sister “loved” the comment (she’s on a mission and can only react to messages from us when it’s not her day off) and my brothers both responded with unexpected enthusiasm.
One brother, now a junior in his undergrad, said “Ah, I wanna read that book.” I sent him a copy immediately (not mine, are you crazy?!)
The other, currently a senior in high school, wrote: “He’s the best English teacher I’ve ever had full stop.” He added, “of course, I’ve only had four total.”
Between the four of us, we have lasting memories and lessons from Thompson that trickle through our current lives. He taught us things we probably already learned elsewhere but they were emphasized using unique methods in his classroom.
In this book, you can feel the kind of teacher Thompson was. A rebel. An advocate. He really cared about us students, he did. And you can feel it in these pages. Thompson thrived in the chaos of junior high and through his influence we came out better people. We became better scholars, and we became better at believing in ourselves, because he believed in us. You can feel that in every anecdote, in every snarky line. You can feel it in the stories of Athena, Nathan, and Lincoln. He was, and is, just like that.
This book is perfectly Thompson’s essence. I laughed, I thought, I stopped in the middle to write thoughts in my journal—yes my journal, I still keep a journal with all my thoughts about whatever I’m reading, while unlike the one I kept in his class, it’s a very useful thing to have around—I teared up, and I remembered sitting in one of those desks facing the other half of the classroom.
I remembered the people of Spoon River, and the epitaphs we wrote—mine, by the way, still live on the blog I kept during the honors English course I did in my spare time, for it was still online in my day. I remember bits and pieces of the Mercutio monologue I recited, scared out of my wits, during the Romeo and Juliet sequence. I went on to compete in debate, so what gave me the right to be that afraid? I remember the KISS posters, and our sentinel, Gene Simmons.
I remember being incensed by Fahrenheit 451 because they were burning books! An outrage! A travesty! I was the student carrying around at least one and maybe two new books each week, so you know where I stand. Years later, when Ray Bradbury died, I thought “Good” and then I had to retract that terrible thought because honestly he did a great job in showing us what the future looks like. It’s a terrifying place to live, this version of reality so close to what he wrote.
I don’t remember everything, most things I’ve forgotten, to be honest with you, but I remember a lot, because Thompson’s classroom was memorable.
Ten years on, Thompson is still one of my all-time favorite teachers. When I emailed him to secure his address for the announcement, Thompson sent me a picture of the Stargirl rocks he has, one of which I made. It’s still painfully obvious which mine is. I’ve grown beyond the person she was, but not by much. And, because I am fundamentally who I was then—the A student who loved to learn and would ask if we were turning in the assignment if he forgot—I have to tell you that I caught Thompson with a grammatical error. On page 262, at the end of the page, Thompson used the phrase “his curiosity was peaked.” That is the wrong homophone, it should be “piqued.”
No comments:
Post a Comment