Rock Bottom Girl(24)

I picked up the plastic tote I used every year and began my trip up and down the aisles collecting cell phones. I wanted every ounce of their attention. I also didn’t want them capturing me burping the first line of the Declaration of Independence and putting it up on Snapchat or whatever the fuck.

“Let’s talk about why you are going to end up caring about American history,” I began. I could feel the freaking eye rolls and embraced them. “Quick. Someone gimmie the definition of insanity.”

“Making us learn history.” A blasé motherfucker in the back row smirked, his size fourteen sneakers stretched out insolently into the aisle. On the spot, I made it my mission for the semester to turn him into a history freak.

“Funny guy, Chuck.” He blinked when he realized I knew his name. “But that’s not the definition I’m looking for.”

A girl in the front row waved her hand. She wore glasses and one of those thick headbands to keep her curly hair scraped back from her face, a total Hermione. “Chelsea,” I said, snapping my fingers at her.

She blushed. I was aware of my manly appeal, but I ignored reactions from the under thirty crowd. “Doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results,” Chelsea said primly.

“Bingo.” I pulled the five-dollar Starbucks gift card out of my pocket and tossed it to her.

Her face lit up like Times Square billboard, and the rest of the class, including Size Fourteen Chuck, sat up a little straighter.

I dropped fifty dollars a month on gift cards just to keep these guys engaged. I didn’t need every single one of them leaving here with a burning passion for American history, but they would sure as hell know shit.

“We study history so we don’t make the same mistakes over and over again. So we can grow. Do better.”

“Mr. Weston, man, aren’t we already the greatest country in the world? Why wouldn’t we want to keep doing the same stuff?” This kid’s dad still drove around with a MAGA sticker on his Maserati.

“What makes us the greatest, Perry?”

He looked confused like he was walking into a trap. It totally was.

“Our military.”

“Our military that leaves roughly 40,000 veterans without a roof over their heads?”

“Okay. Then wealth.”

“Qatar, Singapore, Brunei. Hell, the U.S. doesn’t even crack the top ten richest countries list. I know what you’re going to say: education. Twenty-one percent of our adult population reads below a fifth-grade level.”

Perry was searching for some random Fox News “fact” to back up the line.

“Let me tell you a secret, something no history teacher has ever told you before. Are you ready?”

They were all leaning forward in their chairs.

“You’ve been lied to your entire educational career. But guess what? You’re old enough for the truth.”

Kids loved salacious gossip. They loved scandal. And thankfully, American history was chock full of both.

I taught American history. Black history. LGBTQ history. Feminist—or womanist—history. I taught what actually happened to get us to where we are today. If someone did something or said something that contributed to turning this country into what it is today, I taught it.

“You know that Thomas ‘All Men Are Created Equal’ Jefferson fathered six children with his slave, Sally Hemmings. But did you know that before President George Washington fought the British, he fought for the British? How about that he was in love with his best friend’s wife? Did you know that Elizabeth Cady Stanton, who launched the women’s rights movement, said some really racist crap?”

I dumped the phone bin back on the desk I rarely sat at.

“We’re going to learn real history this semester. If you know what really happened, who the real heroes are, then you can go be better Americans. Because maybe we’re not the greatest country in the world. But we’ve still got potential. Our strength comes from our diversity, our willingness to change, to fight inequality, to explode scientific advancement.”

They were all sitting there blinking at me like I’d lost my damn mind. I loved it.

“So…” I rubbed my palms together. “Let’s get ready for your first assignment.”

Groans went up, and I heard the whispered “But it’s the first day,” complaints. Poor babies. Summer was over. It was time to embrace it.

“Break up into teams of four or five. You’re going to work together to write a gossip blog exposing the truth behind any of the historical figures on that list.” I pointed at the board. “Due on Friday.”

They hopped to, shifting their desks around.

This little exercise did more than get the students excited about history. It showed me who had friends. Who was left out. Who was willing to get creative and put some effort into the assignment.

I thought of Marley sitting on the bench in the front office. I hoped she had some creativity, some effort to put forth. Because that would make her even more interesting.





15





Marley





Half of my first day was officially behind me without any major trauma. Punishing my nemesis’s teenage son, having Jake Weston witness me in my principal office shame, and being warned to take my students’ safety more seriously notwithstanding.