THE JOY OF LEARNING

THE JOY OF LEARNING

By the age of fourteen, I had basically accomplished nothing, save to vilify myself to the teachers at Mather Junior High School. I had deliberately become every teacher’s worst nightmare. With relish, I disrupted each class I entered, not caring about the consequential detentions or a suspension.
That all changed the minute I walked into Mr. Kaplan’s social studies class. Young and handsome, he was leaning against the chalkboard with his hands stuffed in his jeans, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. But his steely blue eyes, shaded by a swath of sandy blond hair, said otherwise. This cool teacher in his Calvin Klein jeans and tan V-neck sweater had a look that said, Don’t mess with me. Definitely interested and a bit intimidated, I decided there and then to behave myself.
“Good morning,” he greeted us, then pushed away from the board and began to walk the aisles between desks. “My name is Mr. Kaplan, and we are all about to embark on a journey.”
Feeling a flutter in my stomach, I wondered if I might be sick, then realized it was excitement. Smiling to myself, as Mr. Kaplan returned to his desk, I felt a spark of hope that may be this class would be fun.
Suddenly, Mr. Kaplan jumped on his desk.
“Listen to me,” he demanded, as if we could do anything else. “This is not about school. It is about learning and the joy it can give, if you let it.”
“This is about you,” he said, jumping down from his perch with the grace of a panther. “And you,” he said, pointing to various students as he repeated the phrase over and over.
Then, in a hushed voice, barely above a whisper, he said, “History is a mystery, and we are all part of that mystery.”
You could have heard a pin drop in that class.
“We would not be here today if our ancestors had not fought for their beliefs, for their independence. We certainly would not be free,” he declared with such seriousness that I felt duty bound to hear him out.
Balling up his fist passionately and holding it before him, he continued. “Every one of you has a history. We have a responsibility to remember those before us and to learn from them.”
I had to stop myself from screaming, “Hallelujah!”
“Now, I ask all of you to join me on this journey of life. I ask you to dare to enjoy this journey. If you can handle that, stand up and move your desks to the edge of the room.”
It was a challenge. He was asking us to actively participate in his class, not just while away the hour. Within minutes, the room was cleared.
“Now,” he said, “I want you to lie on the floor side by side.”
The previously silent room erupted into giggles as we clustered together on the floor. Elbows and knees touched and a few heads banged, but we managed to fit together in a haphazard shape.
Once we were quiet, he spoke again, rubbing his chin and looking at us as if we were his latest art sculpture. “Good, now move in closer.”
Again, we laughed as we squeezed tighter. Soon, though it was fun, we began to feel uncomfortably cramped and hot.
“Good,” he said, as he paced around us. “Now, imagine being chained to one another in a room so small you can barely stand up in it and with only a tiny slit for a window. The heat is so stifling it makes our New England summers seem mild.
“Imagine being fed slop at the end of the day, if you survived the day’s heat, stench, and beatings. Imagine sleeping sandwiched together on a hard floor, as you are now, practically on top of each other.
“Imagine that nightmare,” he said, his eyes gleaming with righteous indignation.
I wanted to scream.
Then, with the seriousness of a dying man, he said, “That was how the African slaves felt as they were being transported in the bottom of ships to America, only to be sold, after their arrival, like livestock at auction and then worked nearly to death on plantations. You see, the nightmare you are enacting here on this floor, free to get up; and walk out of this class, was only the beginning of the never-ending nightmare of slavery.”
That’s when in hit me: Mr.Kaplan was teaching us. Without boring books and tedious tests. I was learning. And it was only the first day.
So it went, day after day, week after week. One day we were on our desks crossing the high seas on the Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria. On another we were fighting the Civil War with our army contingents and paper rifles. On another we came dressed for the signing of the Declaration of Independence. I was Jon Adams.
I learned a lot in that class. Oh, we read books and took a few tests, but because we had so much fun, I didn’t mind and did well. I looked forward to class, not just because Mr. Kaplan was young and handsome and cool, but more so because he was an outstanding teacher who actively engaged us in the learning process. I respected him, and when he told us that all subjects are important in the journey of life, I made an effort to attend all my classes and looked forward to coming to school.
My parents were ecstatic and wondered at the magic of this teacher who had transformed their wayward daughter into a model student. Parents, students, fellow teachers – everybody loved Mr. Kaplan. Especially me.
So, when rumors started to circulate that Mr. Kaplan was being fired for repeatedly ignoring the school board’s request to stick with the curriculum, no one believed it. Mr. Kaplan was the best teacher in our school. Why would anyone fire a teacher who made history real and memorable to his students, who taught them to love learning?
But we soon learned the rumors were true. Mr. Kaplan was bucking the system, a system that measured a teacher’s performance by adherence to a formula, to a prescribed curriculum, and to students’ successful regurgitation of certain facts, rather than on what students had actually learned and understood and retained. What mattered to the school board was not the quality of the teaching, but the method of teaching, and Mr. Kaplan’s teaching was unorthodox.
When it was announced that he would be leaving, all the students and many of their parents protested, to no avail. Always the optimist, Mr. Kaplan took it in stride. He encouraged us to “embrace change,” because, he told us, those who cannot inevitably hurt others as well cannot hurt themselves. Although we know he was right, we were not about to sit quietly and watch him leave. It was Mr. Kaplan, after all, who had taught us about our ancestors fighting for what they believed in. So, the eighth grade class hatched a plan to walk out on Mr. Kapla’s last day. Everyone was sworn to secrecy, but work leaked out and soon the principal was giving warnings over the intercom that anyone caught walking out of school or planning to walkout would be suspended indefinitely.
The day finally downed, and when the bell rang for lunch, everyone in the eighth grade put down their books and headed arm in arm for the front doors. Soon, the seventh graders joined us, leaving the school virtually empty of students. As we made our way outside and to stand beneath the second floor window of Mr. Kaplan’s room, teachers pleaded with us to stop this nonsense and consider the consequences. But Mr. Kaplan had taught us about consequences and the bravery required to make a stand.
We ignored their warnings and chanted as loudly as our voices could carry:
“Keep Mr. Kaplan! Keep Mr. Kaplan!”
Parents showed up, and instead of reprimanding their children, they linked hands and formed a wide circle around the students, chanting right along with us. Local new stations appeared and interviewed some of the students. Then, Mr. Kaplan appeared at his windows, tears streaming down his face. He waved at us, mouthed the words “Thank you,” and stepped away from the window.
The noise died down as we all stood transfixed, staring up at the window, wondering where he had gone. For a moment, I wondered whether we had done the right thing. Was he upset with us? Was he proud that we had taken a stand for what we believed in? My answer came moments later when Mr. Kaplan, dressed in his Sitting Bull costume and headdress, appeared in the window and spread his arms wide to encompass us all.
One of the students raised the American flag on the flagpole, shouting, “Mr. Kaplan rocks!” the crowed erupted into cheers. At that moment, I fully understood another lesson Mr. Kaplan had taught us: I had the power to change and the ability to affect others.
Despite all our efforts, Mr. Kaplan was fired. But due to the overwhelming support of parents and the local news stations, none of the students were suspended.
Mr. Kaplan took a job in another state with new school run by parents. These “charter” schools are very popular now. Whenever I hear of one, I think of Mr. Kaplan. And I give thanks for this extraordinary, dedicated teacher who took risks and used his knowledge, creativity, and humor to give some dull-eyed students the gift of a lifetime: the joy of learning.                                                                          Jacqueline D. Cross