Torture

Knowing that note taking–a rare activity in my classroom–would elicit groans of whininess, I told my students right up front that it was high time I do my best to make them miserable.

“We’re going to study internal text structures,” I told them, “and external text aids.”

“You have AIDS?”

“Get out a piece of blank paper. These notes will go into the reading section of your binder.”

“Why can’t you just print them out for us?”

“Because I love the agony of doing it this way,” I said. “The more you complain, the better day I have. And this is going to be a good day. Write down everything on the board. Please complain. Louder, please–and put some heart into it.”

For the most part that corked their little moues, except that by the end of the day, they were on to me: “This is really fun, Mr. Jacobs. We should do this more often.”

“Ooooh, ooooh,” I screamed, covering my ears.

“Actually,” I told them, “just last night I was reading a book”–The Centaur by John Updike–“in which a teacher was telling a student things like what I tell you.”

Right then I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d read, but it was good: “That’s my trouble, Deifendorf. That’s the worst thing can happen to a public school teacher. I don’t want you to like me. All I want from you is to sit still under me for fifty-five minutes a day five days a week. When you walk into my room, Deifendorf, I want you to be stiff with fear. Caldwell the Kid-Killer; that’s how I want you to think of me. Brrough!” Maybe I’ll take in the book tomorrow to read the paragraph to them.

“Maybe you should write your own book,” one boy said. “You could.”