In the spirit of alumni competition I’d like to nominate the Class of 1972 as one of the most difficult to teach and eagerly anticipate worthy challengers to the title: “Class Most Likely to End a Teacher’s Career.” For concrete evidence I submit our eighth grade version, a year we lost almost 50 percent of our teachers. I believe all three quit, or were fired, before the end of the year. I’m completely certain Chesty Charlie didn’t make it to the end, not as certain about the other two who most definitely didn’t return for round two, but I don’t think any of the three finished the school term. We were a most talented group of junior insurrectionists, and while I had my moments, I can’t claim topflight status. I’m tempted to formally name my betters, but hope they will soon step up to claim their true rewards independent of my nomination.
And then there’s the much more serious side, the terrifically challenging task of guiding young people to knowledge and better choices while staying safe and sane in the process.
All I know for sure now is that I was an eyewitness to Chesty Charlie’s final meltdown, but only one of many contributors to his downfall. In lots of respects, I still harbor many misgivings. None of us really intended to hurt anyone, but in Chesty Charlie’s case, we reduced the poor guy literally to tears.
I don’t really know, but someone still alive might, how we wound up with so many less than shining examples of pedagogy in a single year, but this was another part of the problem. Even as eighth graders we could be managed and even taught. Bob Cheney and Barbara Sherman did marvelous work with us at this age every day, but these two teachers were exceptional. Many others did very well, too, but folks further down the skill scale suffered. Those at the bottom perished. I guess we just demanded excellence.
As is quite common in education and lots of other things, the first year is often the most challenging and I believe this was Chesty Charlie’s first, and perhaps, last shot at teaching. Statistically, about 50 percent of all teachers entering the profession quit within five years, and many run for the exit after their first year, if they get that far.
While I had no clue at the time, I now know after supervising teachers myself and being one for many years, Chesty Charlie broke a lot of cardinal teaching rules and suffered the consequences. One rule is that you never threaten something you can’t and/or don’t actually intend to deliver. Threats in general are unwise to begin with, but hollow threats are pure poison. The second, just as important, is never, ever negotiate with an out of control classroom of junior high kids. If you do, they will shred you like paper shoved into a high-speed wood chipper.
As for the name “Chesty Charlie” I can’t remember the creator, and only know that’s what we called the poor guy almost from the first week. Poor Charlie would puff up his chest like a rooster, but instead of crowing he squeaked like a mouse, especially when he lost his composure, which for Charlie was at least twice per 50-minute class, and often a lot more than that. In his final weeks he was mostly a moving target that paid off for direct hits with all sorts of sounds we loved to bring about at every opportunity, sort of like the beep of Bozo’s red nose on inflatable punching bags lots of us enjoyed clobbering as little kids. “Beep beep,” Charlie went, and then rocked back for the next blow.
Charlie’s last day began as most of the others with a flurry of shouts, general horseplay, and always all sorts of what’s called in the teaching biz “off task behavior.” The only thing I learned in Charley’s class was how to construct a better paper airplane and use a spit ball like a mortar round, a looping up and down shot from the thumb that could actually hit the target from behind when it faced forward and really confused the opposition. I scored a hundred point shot once that dropped a gooey glob right down the back of Chesty’s shirt collar and set poor Charlie to dancing a two-step jig. Charlie frequently made the job too easy by turning around completely, never mastering the backwards sight good teachers utilize and I won’t describe in detail just in case this is being read by some devilish eighth grader up to no good. I feel a great need to protect my own now, especially after being hit myself with an airplane made from a full poster board the first year I pretended to be a teacher. I thought a spear impaled me. “What goes around, comes around,” right?
As are many things in life, Chesty’s downfall was partially the result of coincidence. I don’t know why Quinten Faulkenbury brought a large tube of BBs to class, but he did. I don’t remember Quinten being a difficult student either and actually a pretty quiet, easy-going guy, but I do very much remember that he provided potent ammunition to an already fully loaded adolescent army. I don’t know how many BBs were in that tube, but it was a bunch.
At first, we used each other as targets, and then someone discovered if you set the venetian blinds at just the right angle, a BB shot to the top rolled down the blind in a great cascading clatter. A handful produced a roar like a hailstorm on a tin roof. Additionally, some of the BBs made it into the cooling fan housing just below the blinds and produced a ping, ping, ping that made great accompanying racket and occasionally shot the BB right up in the air again, sort of like hitting a slot machine jackpot. We kept this action up for a good ten minutes until poor Chesty became hoarse from hollering threats but still unable to tell just who was responsible.
I’m not sure if he could figure out that half the class was pretty easy to eliminate as possible culprits. Because they’re so much more mature at the age, girls never participated and would even call for peace so that they could at least learn something, other than how stupid boys were, information already well known to every girl. But I guess Chesty just wasn’t that aware.
We soon moved to more direct targeting. On an average day, we kept score by counting how many spitballs stuck to the back of Charlie’s suit coat. Straws stolen from the cafeteria served as the rifle of choice, spit-soaked paper the actual projectile. We had another spit ball application I’ll get to in a minute, the act that closed down poor Charlie’s last show, one with a great cameo appearance by Rupe Jennings, who, like the rest of the staff, already knew poor Charlie was not long for the classroom.
Direct BB targeting of Charlie began with single shots, many often missing, but these then bounced off the blackboard and still worked as intended in that they served our general amusement. Finally, about a half dozen of us launched a handful each, and the shotgun approach devastated poor Charlie. This led to his last desperate deal.
“OK.OK, this has got to stop,” he pleaded. “A lot of you are going to get into big trouble very soon, and I don’t want to blame those of you who are innocent. If you give me your BBs right now, I’ll forgive you and know you aren’t responsible if someone refuses to do the right thing later.”
We found this an offer we couldn’t refuse. Each of us marched up to Charlie’s desk and dropped about half of our remaining ammunition into a small box Charlie placed on his desk for this purpose. After the disarmament ceremony, Charlie turned to again write on the board, and every one of us hit him with a final salvo. That did it. Charlie lost all control.
Charlie marched to the intercom phone in place in all CCS classrooms I remember right by each door. He picked up the phone and spoke progressively louder, “Hello, hello, HELLO!” But the phone didn’t work. This was by design.
I don’t remember the inventor but remain familiar with a most convenient means of sabotaging enemy communications. The intercom phone employed a spring loaded lever that, when working properly, went up when the phone was taken off its cradle. When the lever worked correctly, a circuit connected to the main office. However, sticking a spitball inside the lever housing prevented the lever from rising fully and making electrical contact.
Right after Charlie screamed his last “hello” Rupe happened to be passing by, or just as possible, was in the process of investigating the disturbance so that he could call the cavalry to put down an Indian uprising.
“Mr. Jennings,” Charlie barked at Rupe, “how come nothing in this classroom ever works right?”
Now if you want to get on Rupe’s good side quickly, just insult his professional competence in front of a bunch of teenage nincompoops. Chesty enhanced his options by waving the phone about an inch from Rupe’s face.
Rupe didn’t say a word. He simply took the phone from Charlie, resisted the urge to hit him over the head with it, and without even attempting to see if the phone worked, just bent over slightly to blow out the spit wad he knew was stuck in the phone lever. In the same quick motion he handed Chesty the phone receiver and left the classroom.
Charlie took the receiver, put it to his ear, but didn’t say anything. He just placed the phone back in its cradle and stared at us. We could all see he was crying. I think everyone in the room felt badly, but I can’t report others’ thoughts. What I do know is for the first time in months the room was absolutely quiet.
We were all frozen. It was so eerily quiet I heard the whir of the ventilation motor now sans BBs. Charlie looked at us and we at him in total silence. Maybe some of us cried with him.
Charlie just tuned then and walked out of the classroom. We never saw him again.