I was blessed to have the same English teacher for both my sophomore and senior years of high school, back in '64 and '66. Miss Campbell was a walking grammar force. A compact lady, she always wore a suit, a matching three-strand set of beads, and thick heels. Her class was ruled with her iron-clad-pursed lips. She stalked the aisles between the desks, beads rattling in her fingers and looking down her nose at us as she barked grammar rules.
Heaven help you if you slouched in your chair or came to her class with a pencil that needed sharpening or didn't have neatly written homework ready to turn in. She suffered no fools.
Back then, we diagramed sentences and learned the structure and meaning of every word contained within one.
Miss Campbell with a fuzzy head of red hair owned an ugly faded brown suit she wore only on days she planned to spring a surprise quiz on us. Word quickly spread through the halls. "Quick! Study! Campbell's wearing that nasty brown suit." We were all trembling with nerves when we walked into her room. The map was pulled down to cover the precisely written quiz on the blackboard. And when she zipped that map up, you had ten minutes of brain-wracking hell ahead of you. While I remember all she taught me--and it was a lot--I never saw her smile.
My son, a language arts teacher, operates by a rule: Never let your students see you smile until after Christmas. His students call him Professor Shubert. He puts on a demonstration the first day of school. A 5th degree black belt, he sets up a concrete block display to break with his hand. Then he glares at his students and tells them there will be no disciplinary problems in his class. He tells them his room is a safe zone. No one gets to them unless they go through him. Some days he plays his guitar with raps he's made up with grammar rules. He has them place their chairs in a circle and he teaches by the Socrates method to encourage them to think on a deeper level. Every year he's voted the best teacher at the school.
Oh, he can be cranky. His room is his domain. He teaches his way. His students score high. And he expects to be left alone. He's happy his classes have not been audited or evaluated in three years, although he did ask the principal to sit in on one of his Socrates sessions to show him how this ancient method could work with 7th and 8th graders.
To Steve's delight, the students asked the principal questions, too, forcing him to join in the discussion. The administrator found Steve's students quiet, respectful, engrossed in the subject matter, and doing well. This included the lower-ranked classes Steve had emotionally built up by telling them no one thought they could learn this way. But he had faith in them. They snatched onto his faith and excelled. Steve believes in teaching up, not teaching down.
Steve and my high school junior granddaughter. She attends the Maryland School of the Arts for vocal music and theory.
EXCERPT FROM NIKO: LICENSED TO KILL ...
While
the young man wasn’t blatantly tall, he was
excessively male. Sex appeal oozed from every pore on his skin. Alyson’s body
responded, which surprised her. She’d thought that part of her body long dead
after a near sexless marriage.
With
the firm and muscled, yet slender build of many European men, she judged him to
be around thirty. He had an olive complexion and short, wavy black hair styled
like that of a GQ model. His eyes were dark and angry.
What’s his problem? I’m the one held
here against my will, hungry and thirsty. And, dammit, I have to pee.
The
older man sat while Macho Male prowled the room like a tightly-reigned panther.
“Ms.
Moore, I’m Field Supervisor Henri Moreau. I head the French task force on counterterrorism.
The irritated man behind me is my second in command, Niko Reynard.”
The
young man deigned to spare her a nod in greeting. Oh, she knew the type.
She nodded
once in return with a dose of her own attitude. After all, she hadn’t been a
teacher all these years without perfecting a piercing glare. One of his dark eyebrows
quirked in response and a corner of his mouth quivered for an instant as if he
were a heartbeat away from laughing at her. She hiked her chin and held eye
contact with him for a few seconds.
Touché.
Okay,
so she was being bitchy, but after all she’d been through today, frankly she
didn’t give a crap.
“We’ve
reviewed the Louvre’s security tapes and completed a thorough background check
on you.” Moreau flipped open a manila file. “You’re a high school art teacher from
Asheville, North Carolina. Went to university at Duke. Additional studies in
New York City. Worked for two years at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
His head nodded as he cited her life’s history, almost as if it were nothing
more than another series of boring facts—which unfortunately it was.
“You’ve
been teaching art for thirteen years. Married for twelve. No children.” His
gaze rose to hers. “You’re recently divorced. Your husband…”
“Ex-husband.” She crossed her arms and sat
back in her chair. She may have to put up with this interrogation, but she
didn’t have to like it. Nor did she appreciate having strangers inventory her
personal life, no matter how damn boring
it was.
He
spared her the briefest of smiles. She closed her eyes, sensing what was coming
next. “Your ex-husband is now living
an openly gay lifestyle--"
A wounded sound escaped from her chest, her broken heart giving one last whimper of pain, perhaps. Robert had hurt her so badly.
A wounded sound escaped from her chest, her broken heart giving one last whimper of pain, perhaps. Robert had hurt her so badly.
Macho
Male stopped pacing behind his partner and nudged him with his elbow. “Gentillesse, Henri.”
"Of course, one must always be gentle." The older man glared at her. "If it is appropriate."
"Of course, one must always be gentle." The older man glared at her. "If it is appropriate."
BUY LINK: http://a.co/4H8W7Xn
BOOK TWO... JEAN-LUC: Once is Never Enough releases June 13th.
