The Lamplighters

We all have taken a journey through the halls of education. Some of us have walked. Some of us have run, like Michael Kearney. He graduated from the University of South Alabama at age ten. He received his Master’s degree from Middle Tennessee State at fourteen. Some of us have taken leisurely strolls, aimlessly wandering around without a pass, occasionally stopping by the boys room to smoke; now and again peering curiously through a random classroom door, but never mustering the courage to enter.

Some of us have raced down, on motorcycles no less, like the guy I went to high school with, Mark Noll. Some have run naked when that was in vogue, like Charlie Jeffers, another of my high school classmates. Some of us have felt like we’ve being going to school our entire lives, though we haven’t set foot in a classroom in years.

Today, it is quite normal to have a child go to some sort of structured learning environment from three months old until he or she is twenty-two; even longer if they decide to go to grad school without any interruption, or they have a serious mental breakdown.

Some of us have gotten our educations voluntarily, some with the constant prodding of our parents. I know several people who’d still be in bed to this day, sans any formal education, had a parents not coaxed them out of bed each and every morning. There is also the short list of individuals who couldn’t wait to go to school each day and were deeply saddened when summer vacation rolled around. I secretly loathed their enthusiasm.

Most of us fall somewhere in between with different degrees of the characteristics previously mentioned. Growing up, we all had our favorite classes as well as the classes we dreaded. As far back as I can recall, aside from PhysEd, lunch, and recess; social studies was my favorite. Later, when social studies became the more specialized “history;” while my classwork suffered exponentially, my interest did not wane. In high school, I even took an interest in Political Science, another topic that came under the umbrella of “social studies.” And true to the subject matter, psychology and sociology tickled my fancy when I felt like going to either class.

I have had many teachers. I can remember many of them. All have taught me something no matter how insignificant it may have seemed at the time. Some of these little life lessons I carry with me to this day. My road to higher education has always had numerous potholes, and it has also had its share of multi-car pile ups. I have taken many exits along the way, gotten lost, didn’t ask directions of course, but somehow made my way back on the main thoroughfare armed with plenty of change for tolls. Here are some of the folks who assisted me along the way.

At Elkwood Play School I was mentored by Mr. and Mrs. McGiffin, who I always referred to as Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus due to their striking resemblance. They taught me to not try to jump on the merry-go-round while it was moving lest become subject to great physical harm and emotional anguish. They didn’t say the last part, but after having tried it at both three years old and much later in life, I can attest that that was the lesson I was supposed to learn. They frowned on me shitting in my pants, and I would be better served going to the bathroom immediately when the warning signals of possible impending disaster loomed on the horizon. They also scolded me for eating locust shells, which is always a good tip. Some twenty-five years later; I would work at the Chesapeake Bay Seafood Restaurant for the son of one of my teachers at Elkwood Play School.

For some strange reason I don’t remember my kindergarten teacher’s name, bringing me to the conclusion that Robert Fulgham was full of shit. If I can’t remember my teacher’s name, how the hell could I possibly have learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten?

Mrs. Porter, my first grade teacher, gave each student a hug when we went home from school. What a kindly gesture by a kindly woman. Today, she’d be arrested and vilified and labeled a community pariah.

Miss Schmidt was my second grade teacher. She had lost her husband prior to my arrival in her class. I then proceeded to test the very limits of her patience with my affinity for not completing class assignments without the aid of some psychoanalytical acronym to serve as a crutch.

In third grade, after my parents had completely disrupted my world by moving to Chester, New Jersey; I had the good fortune to be put in Mrs. Duane’s class. Despite her close talking ways, chronic halitosis, and constant expectorating when painstakingly and futilely trying to get me to master cursive handwriting, I was fortunate to have been mentored by one of the ten teacher finalists to travel on the space shuttle Challenger. I’m glad she wasn’t picked for obvious reasons.

That same year, recess at a new school brought bullying by Joe Drake and Dean Conklin. I learned that year that fighting never solved anything, and I didn’t need Mrs. Duane for that. I learned fighting was stupid all by myself.

Forth grade started with Mr. Peter Joseph and ended with Walter “do ‘dem problems” Hoynownski. Mr. Joseph taught me to appreciate reading, while Mr. Hoynownski unknowingly unearthed my knack for ass kissing, which got me by on more than one occasion.

In fifth grade, Mrs. Polly DeHart, over the course of the year, read the class the Tolkien Lord of the Rings trilogy. I sat enraptured each day listening to her bring to life in melodic tones, the hobbit adventures.

Mr. Paul Hamlin was my sixth grade, and finest teacher I ever had in my life. He saw through my ruses. He commanded respect. He didn’t cut me any slack. He made me accountable. He also loved sports. A combo like that was unrivaled until I entered college.

It was also in the sixth grade I had the pleasure of having Drew Lindsteadt as my gym teacher. He taught me to shake hands and all the responsibilities that came with its meaning, many of which I’m still working on.

The seventh grade brought changing classes for different subjects. What I got out of seventh grade was an inability to accept disappointment concerning a variety of circumstances. Seventh grade brought an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy on many levels. Hell, my utter lack of pubic hair caused such trauma; it directly inhibited my growth towards interaction with those of the opposite sex. Eighth grade was no better. I did have pubic hair, but constant disappointment reigned supreme.

And if eighth grade was bad enough, the following year I suffered the indignities of a high school freshman. The disappointment continued to dog me almost to the point of changing schools my sophomore year. In addition, I had to walk in the pall my demon seed sister had cast over West Morris Central High School. Her feats of incorrigibility became lore. I felt as if I was in a constant state of mortification. That is, until I blazed my own nefarious trail.

I learned from Mr. Schiller and Mr. Steffan; Mrs. Schmidt and Miss Ruscyk, the latter whom I had a latent schoolboy crush on. I learned from Coach Harry Zingg and Vice-Principal Ronald Batistoni. I learned from Mrs. Young, Mr. Yurkison, Mr. Scheller, Mr. Lamar, and many others. Nothing really stands out as being anything extraordinary. The things I learned weren’t all positives, but each one necessary to experience to survive in the real world. High school was high school. I left thinking what all the fuss was about.

In college I failed miserably. I was thrown out once, and flunked out the second try at community college. There were a couple of professors I feel bad for now that I didn’t put forth my best effort as a student when they were doing so instructors. I may have no longer been in a formal classroom setting, but oh how my education continued!

Twenty-five years and many war stories later; it was suggested to me to make another attempt at higher education. Attending classes as a non-traditional student with classmates half my age was a humbling experience. Particularly when most of them distinguished themselves better than I academically. I still suffered insecurities, just not the same ones that had plagued me in my younger days. One thing that hadn’t changed at all was my love for history. As a matter of fact, it intensified. Once I got my bearings at the community college level, I was ready to tackle a university setting.

It was at Florida Atlantic I had the honor and pleasure of being mentored by one Dr. Stephen Engle. There are many other professors whom I hold in reverence, but Dr. Engle taught me more in two years than I learned in the twenty-five years prior. I will always be eternally indebted to him. The most important thing he first taught me, then later reiterated by my other instructors was; “It’s all about the process.”
That means everything; the learning experience, relationships, child-rearing, reading a book, going to the food store, life in general. It took me forty-three years to get that.

Yesterday, I registered for my first classes as a PhD. candidate. I weathered my first meeting with my advisor, who happened to be one of the administrators who interviewed me for the program. She’ll get used to me as I’ll get used to her. It’s a process. Our apprehensions toward each other will evaporate. I look forward to a fruitful and fulfilling relationship working under her tutelage as she takes through this most lofty of educational aspirations. I’m confident she’ll do this without spittle on my work.