Ave Atque Vale

One developmental theory holds that people grow in great leaps and bounds. Measuring your life in years, so the theory goes, is a pleasant and convenient fiction. In reality, we spend many years at the same age and then jump five, seven or twelve at a stretch. You could think of it as growth surfing. You catch one wave when you are 8 and you ride it for as long as you can, then you paddle back out, and ride the next one when you are 12.

For example, I stayed nineteen for all four years of college. My boat was steered by the compass of money, fun, books and beer. When I graduated, and found myself teaching on Nantucket, I took another developmental jump up to about age 26. I took a few years to grow into that age. I kept the fun, but filtered it through the rent, credit cards, and electric bills. I stayed awake hours planning lesson that would fail, then tried mightily to resurrect the failure the next day, with grace and good will. Then, when I got the bills and the classroom under control, I settled into my age with grace, bourbon, and the top down. I stayed 26 for at least eight years.

Then, with a spectacular show of egotism, I ripped away from my island home and came down to the plains, then paddled out to the next wave. And what a wave. In the past year, I have got the Socratic method down, lost weight (in spite of the barbecue), swam ungodly yards with Lone Star Masters, created a successful web page, and coached swimming. More than that, I have grown in a thousand small steps, in ways that I can only guess at. I see all the stop lights now and know enough to race through the yellow. I have learned to look beyond Taco Bueno, Taco Bell, Grandy's, Burger Street, Subway, and Marshall's. I stop waking up when jets pass overhead. I can sing Protestant hymns. I have gotten used to seeing people once, and never seeing them again. I can drive on highways. I know that "Friends" is on at seven.

But I will soon be back in that far away island, where there no lights, highways, or jets. I will soon readjust to ferry schedules, ocean storms, tourists, and the far away sounds of waves breaking. It will be the same and it won't. I will know it again, for the first time. While I will not miss the traffic, the advertising, or the heat of Dallas, I will miss something else.

More than anything, I will miss the students. There is something to being a Marksman that is hard to gauge exactly. I could point to the parking lot, or the uniforms, or the SAT scores, but that wouldn't be it, exactly. Being a Marksman requires a certain healthy intellectual arrogance. I have seen more students swallow hard and accept a challenge this year than I had in all of my previous ones. I think of Chris Perri and Gabor Orban, heaving and wallowing up and down a pool in the middle of winter, trying to get better and not quitting. I will remember those students who looked at a "Rewrite" on a paper as if it was a personal insult, and then worked until it got to be an "Honors." There is an accepted level of performance here that is very unusual. It may be a mix of fear, peer pressure, parental pressure, and arrogance, but you cannot deny its effects. You can drop Moby Dick on a junior class, not a bat an eyelash, and they will read it.

That pride comes from parents. For 95% of my students, the grades and the comments carry a huge weight, because the parents care so much. When one of my juniors received a low grade on an essay, I saw him and heard from his father. The rewrites of that essay, naturally, were a lot better. On Nantucket, I would only get that same sort of expectation from pockets of parents. Far too often, the parents were content to let junior slide on through with C's. Both the students and their parents expected a lot of me, so much so that I feel as if I am betraying them now.

So much of teaching is based on the rapport you build with students. If you are open, honest and personable, the students trust you more. They want you to come to their plays, see their concerts, cheer them on in games, and be there. In return, they think more, read more carefully, and stretch that last inch in class. They are willing to embarrass themselves reaching far out on the limb because they know you will be there if they fall. So, if you do all those things, then you leave, they can't help feeling betrayed. And you can't help feeling the traitor for leaving them. I have left two schools now. It didn't get easier.

I have enjoyed my own professional freedom here. For years, on Nantucket, I battled for a phone line to my classroom. I argued with curriculum directors, technology committees and sub-committees, principals and department heads, and all for naught. At St. Mark's, I asked for one and it was installed. The "Tower of Babel" came, and got parked in my classroom. The only instruction I got were "use it well" and I did.

Further, St. Mark's has a curious, open minded look at teaching styles. I did my small group, large group, socratic, portfolio, and exhibition styles over and over, without the questioning eyebrows or the whispered "unprofessional" comments that haunted my years on Nantucket. While some teachers didn't like my unironed shirts, bow ties, or frayed belts, none of those critics thought my teaching was "Mickey Mouse." While computers were a hard sell, everyone was willing to listen. Too much of my career has been spent arguing with bishops who refuse to look into telescopes.

I go back into that fray, of course. I go back to less proud and less driven students, more apathetic parents, a doubtful faculty, and a harried and dubious administration. There will be more than a few times when I will look out over Nantucket Harbor, into that far off horizon of water and wish myself among the franchises, heat, and pavement of Preston Road.
Bob Barsanti