Trust: Book One of Gypsies, Gamblers & Thieves

Chapter 5: School

From the minute I arrived outside her classroom, I liked the lady with the salt-and-pepper 'fro. She stood in the hall grinning, greeting, and giving a spiel about choosing a seat for the entire semester. I entered the room, turned right, and perused the horseshoe-shape made by a dozen desks that seated two to three students each. I walked around the horseshoe, examining every angle from which to see the long green chalkboard and open floor plan. Most of the new Honors English students sat down before me. I settled in by the door.

My spot was ironic because it allowed for a quick exit, which was good. Yet, it caused me to sit for fifty-five minutes, five days a week, with my back to a door. In general, that's a bad idea. But, when Mrs. Cartwright's class started, I forgot about everything on the outside. And that felt great.

The hour became about ideas: How certain ones shaped the sociopolitical fabric of American society, while others impacted humanity's relationship to nature. Ideas: Their facets, sources, and consequences. The hour became about writing: How to craft theses, develop outlines, and wrap linguistic clothing around an essay's skeleton.

With the enthusiasm of Tigger, Mrs. Cartwright bounced around, behind, and inside her horseshoe of desks. Even the tight curls of her hair vibrated with energy. "Words are Power!" she'd exclaim. "Words provide knowledge and knowledge is power! Words are power!" She repeated this, like a diamond needle stuck on a vinyl record.

That first day of class, we filled out index cards with our names, homeroom teachers' names, class schedules and contact phone numbers. On the back of the card, we wrote down our favorite book, or the most recent one we had read; and—in three sentences or less—summarized the work and our opinion of it. Within ten minutes of the first bells sounding, we had passed the cards to the front of the classroom.

"In the interest of time management and memory retention, we'll introduce ourselves to the entire class, a few at a time over the next two weeks," the energetic educator stated. "We'll talk more about that assignment during the first ten minutes of class tomorrow. For now, let us begin a conversation about Western Civilization's most famous playwright. Who can tell me that writer's name?"

Several hands shot up. Mrs. Cartwright called on the only girl who raised hers. "William Shakespeare?"

"Correct. What's your name please?"

"Bethany."

"Thank you, Bethany. What else can you tell us about Shakespeare?" 

We discussed tragedies, comedies, histories and sonnets. That's what Bill the Bard wrote.  We learned that several of his works were adaptations of stories pre-dating the Elizabethan Era.  Among his darkest plays, The Tragedy of King Lear was one of those. Unlike its predecessor, the popular folktale Cinderella, this five-act drama casts a wet web of political intrigue and family betrayal. His loving daughter Cordelia gets a noose to the neck, rather than a glass slipper; the aging King Lear suffers abuse and abandonment by the false daughters he blindly trusted. Hubris and hatred prevail. Almost everyone dies at the end.

As if anticipating backlash about the spoiler alert, Mrs. Cartwright opened her arms wide above her head and bellowed, "WHEN WE ARE BORN, WE CRY THAT WE ARE COME TO THIS GREAT STAGE OF FOOLS... IS MAN NO MORE THAN A DAMNED FOOL?"

To this, several students leaned back in their seats, some exhaled "Whooooaaaaa." Others giggled. I just grinned.

"King Lear repeats this idea, both to himself and others in acts three and four of the play." Mrs. Cartwright practically pirouettes to the chalkboard, where she writes the inquiry in a large, elegant cursive.

 "Tonight, after you finish reading Act One, I want you to answer King Lear's rhetorical question. Draw on your own experience and what you read in the play. Provide at least three examples to support your position. When you cite the play, write down the act, scene and line number after the quote or paraphrase. Any questions?"

One boy raised a hand. 

"Your name please," Mrs. Cartwright requested. 

"Donovan." 

"What's your question, Donovan?"

"How many examples do we need from the play? And how many from our life?

Mrs. Cartwright thought about it for a moment. "Let's go with two from the play and at least one from your life." 

As the long hand of the wall clock approached the eleven, pens and pencils scribbled furiously on college-ruled notebook paper. Then, the bell rang and we converged upon the halls.