Seven Days in May: The Teacher in Apocalypse

Abstract

V Vhat does a man do when it dawns on him that life chosen, career laboriously prepared for, work he loves best on earth, has somehow mysteriously disappeared, no longer exists save in his memory and fantasy? Well, whatever he does, he feels strange-by turns unbelieving, defensive, resentful . . . excited, impatient, overeager . . . frightened. For some in my profession-teachers who've been political men almost exclusively for close to a decade -career and savored intellectual labor disappeared long ago. Others had the in moratoria and other class suspensions of 1969. Some, of course, are still untouched-they're facing upcoming school year with confidence and relish not greatly changed from that of past. In my case experience in question came after 20 of teaching, at a time when I was certain I'd found my way in my work. Twenty years has a portentous sound-I apologize. It's not that count, it's that toward end of stretch I'd come on my own teaching style, something that was personal; not irresponsible; capable-as though it were an independent source of energy, not a mere style-of generating questions fascinating (to me) in themselves. Simultaneously I was learning how to link up my teaching self and my citizen self in satisfying ways-small tutorial projects in Mississippi, work with ghetto schoolteachers in Washington, lobbying for controlled shifts of curricular and admissions policies at my college. One way of saying it is that I knew where I was, believed I earned my pay, felt confident I'd improved immensely at my work over years, felt pleased by my luck in capitalizing on expanded chances for using teaching skills in settings less privileged than my home base. I will lay it out in cliche: fulfillment seemed near at hand.