Chapter 9. Lawful Rebellion

Mr. Wood taught seventh and eight grade at our Adventist School. He was conscientious and boring. I remember thinking how sad it was that some people doing their very best could only be mediocre. Not every kid could be an A student. School work didn’t come easily to everyone, especially math. But still they had to go to school and accept their “C’s” and “B minuses.” It must be like that for adults who became preachers and teachers. They worked as hard as they could, but their best deserved a “C.”

Mr. Wood didn’t try to make us play Patty Cake. He was just plodding. He had spent years building the band program, with a beginners band for the lower grades and the concert band for the upper grades. Even a teenager had to respect his indefatigable commitment. But I couldn’t help overhearing conversations between my mother and my older sister, both musicians, about the pedestrian nature of Mr. Wood’s music. He was sincere, devoted, hard-working, but didn’t have a sharp ear or a gift for conducting.

In class I was required to respect him for his position and his dutifulness. But he failed when measured by the ruthless meritocratic scale my parents constantly held up, a scale with intellectual acumen at the top. Probably second in that ranking was, curiously, skinniness. A fat preacher or teacher was ranked far lower than a dull one. At least Mr. Wood wasn’t fat.

He combed his straight back. It had these amazing waves in it. I had curly hair, but I didn’t have waves like he did–precise, parallel lines of peaks and valleys from his forehead back, neatly held in place by Vaseline hair tonic. (I assumed it was Vaseline. That’s what my dad made me put on my curls to keep them in place.)

I survived seventh grade. The next year, Mr. Wood became the principal and the ninth and tenth grade teacher. I was thrilled we had a new teacher for seventh and eighth grade–Mr. Streeter. He seemed like a really nice man. After the first week I knew this school year was going to be a lot more interesting than seventh grade.

But then came the “peninsula incident.” It was geography class and we were talking about land forms. Mr. Streeter wrote “peninsula” on the board and asked for examples of a peninsula.

I raised my hand.

“Johnny.”

“Florida.”

“No, Florida is an isthmus.”

I raised my hand again. “Yes, Johnny, what is it?

“Mr. Streeter, Don’t you mean Panama is a isthmus?”

“No. Florida is an isthmus.”

“But I thought Panama was an isthmus.”

“No, Panama is a peninsula. Florida is an isthmus.”

I couldn’t believe a teacher could be so dumb. I waited until the lecture was over. Once Mr. Streeter finished and released us to work on the assigned exercises, I got up and brought a dictionary from the shelf back to my desk.

I raised my hand and waited to be recognized. Finally Mr. Streeter looked up from his desk.

“Yes, Johnny, what do you want?”

“Mr. Streeter, I know you said a peninsula is a narrow strip of land that connects two larger land masses. But this dictionary says a peninsula is a strip of land sticking out into a body of water. It lists Panama as an example of an isthmus. Which are we supposed to believe, you or the dictionary?”

He asked me to bring the dictionary to his desk. I did. He read the entries as I stood there.

“Well, I guess you’re right.”

It was only the first time.



We were studying compound interest. He told us he was going to show us a short cut. He took the simple annual interest based on the initial amount, divided it by 365 and multiplied it times the number of days the money was on deposit. “That’s your total interest for the year compounded daily.”

I raised my hand.

We argued round and round.

At home that afternoon, I recounted my argument to Mom. She always supported
teachers when I complained about them, but I could see her surprise as I described Mr. Streeter explanation of compound interest. I showed her my work and she agreed I had it right.

The next day, to his credit, Mr. Streeter said he had done some more study. He went over compound interest again and did it correctly. But the class remembered yesterday.

Blood was in the water, and we were sharks.

One assignment in language arts class was to create our own vocabulary list each week. Each of us chose twenty-five words to write with their definitions. Naturally, I looked for interesting words. The third or fourth paper was returned to me with the word “aardvark.” marked wrong. I couldn’t believe it. I raised my hand. (I only asked questions in private when I didn’t already know the answer.)

“Mr. Streeter, I have the word aardvark on my vocab list. But it’s marked wrong. Can you tell me why it’s marked wrong?”

“Bring it up to my desk.”

I did. I laid my notebook on his desk and pointed to the word.

“What’s wrong with this word?”

“Johnny, your vocab words have to be actual words. You can’t just make up words.”

“But it is a word. I found it in the dictionary.”

“No, it can’t be. There is no such word.”

“Yes, there is. Let me show you.”

I fetched the dictionary, laid it on top my notebook and opened it to the first page of entries. “See. It says right here, aardvark. A-A-R-D-V-A-R-K.” The entire class was listening, delighted.



Late in the fall, I was summoned to a meeting with Mr. Streeter and Mr. Wood, the principal. They talked to me about my attitude. If I wanted to, they said, I could be an influence for good. But my attitude was affecting the other students and making learning difficult. If I couldn’t make some changes, perhaps they would have to expel me.

It was a curious meeting. They were pleading with me to change. But they had nothing definite to pin on me. I hadn’t broken any rules. I never corrected Mr. Streeter without first raising my hand and waiting to be recognized. And Mr. Streeter was always wrong.

Mr. Streeter left after the first semester. I stayed. I felt sorry for him but felt he had earned everything we gave him. I found out later he became a preacher. That suited him–he was a nice guy, just not too bright.

Mr. Johnson took his place. He was a fiery, aggressive teacher. He pushed us hard and we thrived under his pushing. He left half way through the middle of the next year. Kids whispered rumors about something dirty going on at his apartment with some of the boys.