An Ode to Teacher, Part I

I'm tired from an hour-long aerobics class, but I had a great day at school. Great mostly because nothing huge happened. I spent lunch with Vithya talking about books, strong women and a common adoration of Eleanor of Aquitaine.

Stress, however, is never far behind. I've lost my wallet somehow (containing debit card, driver's permit, gymn card...), have to find my friend's headband before her birthday this weekend, have one article due to one editor, a short story (as yet unwritten) due by this weekend to a second, and a major writing contest deadline (that requires between thirty and fifty pages) in two weeks. I have practiced harp already, though, which means I'm started.

I don't have time to do all at once, but I thought I'd do a little series of posts on teachers that have influenced me. Names changed, of course, but they remain the same.

Mr. McDouglass

My history teacher, sophomore year. He knew my dad before he met me, which added layers to the student-teacher relationship. Basically, he made every class fun without any intention of doing so. I remember his class as a time to talk about important stuff (like racism, women's rights) without it being stuffy or annoying. He's black, in a school of mostly whites, which made for good conversation and a better understanding of Black History Month.

I was impressed by his dedication to social activism, his cool-headedness, his never-ending male chauvinism (faked, in order to get some kind of male academic ambition out of the guys in our class) and the fact that he argued with me. He constantly took our small school and asked us all to look beyond our puny walls and see the world, past and present and future. Here's to Mr. McDouglass.

I sip my symbolic sparkling cider.