Dogs in Space, Chain-Smoking, and Democratic Principles
Bobby Ann Starnes
ONCE I attended a very important meeting. I knew it was important
because there were more black suits in the audience than I'd ever
seen in one place. One speaker explained that the Fifties were
the Golden Age of Education. Back then, in the good ole days,
teachers taught and students learned. Homes were not broken, and
children were well behaved, nonviolent, and sober. I'd like to
see the statistical evidence supporting that claim.
It actually may have been golden where he went to school. Others of us had different experiences. Our schools were segregated. And Brown v. Board of Education did little to change anything. Native American children were routinely taken from their families and sent to boarding schools. At my own school, twice weekly we walked in nice straight lines to the Baptist church across the street, where the minister taught us religion.
Back at school, we practiced crouching under our desks to save ourselves from the atomic bomb. We knew the Reds were just waiting to catch us unprepared. If we weren't vigilant, they would surely drop the big one. After all, they had put a dog into space. If they could do that, they could do anything.
Many people said American students were not as smart as our Russian counterparts. Though some thought Elvis was to blame, most blamed the schools. Schools, they claimed, had failed to educate scientists who could propel anything into space, let alone something with a dog inside. (Maybe that was because in the good ole days girls were enrolled in home economics and typing classes instead of calculus and physics.)
I don't remember learning much in the Golden Age. But I did have a terrific civics class. The teacher, Mr. Slone (or "Blinky"), was a big man, well over six feet tall with the broad shoulders and muscular arms of a man who had grown up digging coal deep under the Eastern Kentucky mountains. That was before he answered the call to fight the Super Race. I imagined he had been a brave soldier who would have proudly died for America.
Everyone knew about his war injury. A hand grenade exploded near him. Shrapnel flew everywhere, killing some and badly wounding others. Mr. Slone's face and neck were covered with what seemed to be hundreds of small scars, and his eyes had been badly damaged. He wore thick glasses and blinked constantly. Thus the nickname I have come to regret so deeply.
After the war, he went to school on the GI bill, moved to Ohio, and became my sixth-period civics teacher. My classmates and I loved civics class. Not because Mr. Slone was a good teacher. Precisely because he wasn't. His style was perfectly matched to our purposes. Each day he took attendance and gave a five-minute, desert-dry lecture. Then he pointed to the chalkboard, where he had written our daily reading assignment along with several questions. He also reminded us that we lagged far behind the second-period class. He said they always did their work and studied for tests, too. Why would they do that? we wondered. There was no reward, unless you counted grades, which we didn't.
Having thus motivated us, he headed to the boiler room, where he and other male teachers chain-smoked and swapped stories. He returned five minutes before the end of class, just in time to admonish us once more before the bell rang and we escaped out the door.
It is true. Our class was made up of rascals, scalawags, and ne'er-do-wells. Not studious, but quite creative, we devised endless ways to use the 40 minutes he spent smoking. Everyone participated in our mischief and mayhem. Even the jocks and hoods, normally mortal enemies, worked together in a democratic fashion appropriate to a civics class.
It was the early Sixties and "The Sixties" would soon arrive. British music had invaded and brought with it a serious cultural and moral challenge -- boys began to grow their hair long. Some teachers wrung their hands and predicted the end of civilization. Others took direct action. "Brady, you look like one of those girly boys," they said. About that time, Mr. Slone began to lecture about the Bill of Rights and civil liberties.
School officials, from board members to the cafeteria lady, were not going to stand by and watch America go to hell in a handbasket. They planned and executed a full frontal assault, and, as war erupted, they took the first victory: boys with long hair were suspended. But their victory had a cost. The suspended boys became martyrs who propelled us to mobilize our forces. First, we organized a walkout. The press showed up. The school responded with more rules and tighter controls. Not exactly the outcome we had hoped for. Still, we knew our rights. We continued our fight, devising clever rhyming slogans, organizing "no-lunch day" protests, writing letters to the school paper, and collecting petitions.
Mr. Slone coached football, and the boys liked to talk sports with him. Mark, a halfback on our team, commented that civil rights protesters could foil the championship hopes of Old Miss. A man of action if not good sense (he had a crew cut, by the way), Mark proposed a plan to deal with the protesters. Vividly detailing his strategies, he said he would "teach them a lesson they'd never forget."
Mr. Slone was far from a champion of liberal causes. In fact, his anti-Kennedy politics were public knowledge.
"Mark," he said slowly, "just stop talking." I believe the exact phrasing of his next words was, "It is the responsibility of the majority to protect the rights of the minority. And it is the responsibility of the minority to challenge the majority." That was civic responsibility in a democracy. He told Mark he should be grateful to live in a country where people are free to say things the government and other citizens don't want to hear. "Men sacrificed and died so those people could protest," he said. I remember his eyes blinking rapidly as he spoke.
Whether Mr. Slone planned to teach a civics lesson, or even knew he did, remains a mystery. I don't know what my classmates learned from the experience. Certainly nothing about Mark's approach to conflict resolution changed. But something changed in me. Now don't get me wrong. I didn't transfer to the second-period class or change my sixth-period behavior. But to everyone's surprise, I started reading during study hall, and I actually checked books out of the library. This whole Constitution, Bill of Rights, separation-of-powers deal was pretty cool, maybe even groovy. And the Founders' words fueled the crusade for a boy's right to wear his hair long.
About a month later Mr. Slone returned to class 15 minutes ahead of schedule. A book thrown a second earlier sailed past his head as he entered. I was overcome with visions of never-ending detention. Without looking at us or even commenting on the appropriate use of textbooks, he walked to his desk and sat in silence. We were silent too. My brain worked feverishly to construct a believable scenario in which books flew without any prompting from us. I knew it would be a hard sell. The principal's voice broke the silence. "President Kennedy was shot and killed today in Dallas."
School was immediately dismissed. As I headed for the hall, I glanced at Mr. Slone. He was crying. I knew he hated Kennedy's policies and liberalism, yet he was crying. I didn't get it. The next week, Mr. Slone explained the importance of peaceful transfer of power. "We don't kill presidents in America," he said. "We vote."
Mr. Slone wasn't golden, but he taught me a lot of civics. Not by assigning chapters but by his actions during difficult times. And through his actions, he challenged me to live what I believe.
I also learned something about teaching from Mr. Slone. No, I don't chain-smoke or hang out in the boiler room. What I learned is that children are always watching. And they take their civics lessons from our actions, whether we want them to or not. They have a remarkable ability to see double standards, to be suspicious of saccharine words, and to find gaps between what we say and what we do.
Many teachers work hard to create learning environments in which democratic principles are lived. Being human, we often fail to meet our own standards. And it hurts every time. Still we continue, tripping, falling, regrouping, trying not to make the same mistake twice, knowing there are pitfalls everywhere, hoping for the strength to live our beliefs in even our most weary and impatient moments, and knowing all the while that our frustration could be alleviated -- for a short time, at least -- if we used a phrase like "because I say so." But we have to continue to try. The children are watching. And if they are only told about democratic principles, how will they come to live them?
