Captain, oh Captain

(Dedication to Walt Whitman and Robin Williams)

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart!

In his lifetime, Walt Whitman admired President Abraham Lincoln so much that he wrote and dedicated a poem to him after the president’s assassination at Ford’s Theater on April 15, 1865. President Lincoln was assassinated just one week after General Lee surrendered to General Grant at the Appomattox Court House ending the Civil War.

One of my favorite movies Dead Poet’s Society with Robin Williams as Professor Keating and Ethan Hawk as a young student name Todd. Professor Keating urges his students to call him “Captain oh Captain.” At the end when Professor Keating is dismissed after an unfortunate incident, all of the students stand on their desks and call out “Captain, my Captain” as Keating leaves. It is a scene that always touches my heart so much that every class I have ever taught is subjected to watch that scene. This powerful scene demonstrates the reason I became a teacher in the first place.

“Well, you have some arterial blockage.” The doctor told me after my third ambulance ride in a month. “You can continue to teach, but you won’t have to be concerned about your retirement.”

“You’re saying I should I retire?” I swallowed hard. I was not ready to face reality this morning as I sat in the I.C.U.

“If you don’t, one of your arteries will take care of everything for you.” He said with a serious expression on his face.

My wife’s expression was more concerning to me. She was there fourteen years ago when my artery known as “the windowmaker” required the surgeons to implant a stent in the blocked artery. I learned later there was only a forty percent chance of surviving a blockage in that artery, but somehow by a miracle I had. It was being made clear to me that I would most likely not survive another.

“You have to retire.” She told me on the drive home after I was discharged from the hospital.

“I’m not ready for this.” I closed my eyes and rubbed the bridge of my nose between my fingers.

“He said you are going to need another stent.” She argued.

With only two weeks left in the current school year, the only thing I felt at that moment was being robbed. I had no regard of how fortunate I had been, the only thing I felt was my career was being cut short.

I had been teaching at the Academy for seven years. I taught whatever I was asked to teach literature, art history, social studies, science, and creative writing as well as working with students in special education. Most of our two hundred students were there because they had difficulty in public schools. We used the military discipline model that included wearing military uniforms during the school day. Any disciplinary infractions would be dealt with through the non-commissioned officers (NCOs).

When I got home from the hospital, I needed a few minutes to think things over while my wife went to work. The doctor told me it would be wise to take tomorrow off, but I hated missing another day at work. I would return on Monday, even though it was a good bet no one would be listening anyway since Wednesday would be our last school day before Summer Break. 

Summer was nice, but I spent most of my time planning for the next school year. It was hard for me to imagine there would be no next school year for me. When I went back, I would tell the principal that I was retiring. Just thinking about it made me apprehensive, because I did not want to admit that this was it, finieto.

I pulled my Kia Sportage into the parking lot and grabbed my things before exiting my car. Walking in the front door, I turned right and walked into the administration office to sign in.

“Glad to see you.” The Principal said when she saw me walk into the office. “How are you feeling?”

“Better.” I said as I signed in. “Can I talk to you in private?”

“Sure.” She nodded, “C’mon into my office and close the door.”

I followed her into her office and closed the door behind me.

“The doctor recommended I retire.” I managed to say as I sat in a chair facing her desk.

“Alright.” She nodded, “You will need to contact King’s Valley HR. Let them know.”

“Sure. I’ll do that before my first class.” I agreed. Sorry about the short notice.”

“It’s alright. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.”

“They want to put a second stent in.” I told her unable to look her in the eye. I stood up. “I have to get ready for my first class.”

My first class was my Creative Writing class. The students were high school juniors and seniors. Most of them had no real interest in being a writer, but they had been with me throughout the school year. One of my students had been very resistant to instruction and told me as much. The problem was he was my favorite, because of his blatant honesty. He also had talent, but no interest in using it and only did what he had to get a passing grade.

The other ten students had played the game long enough to know and abide by the rules. A couple of the students aspired to move on to college, but the rest just wanted to get their high school diploma. I had no illusions that any of them would be inspired by what I taught, but I hoped I could offer some nuggets of wisdom on their way out the door.

Five minutes before class, the students were lined up outside in two files with one of them holding their guidon. They would be standing at attention waiting for me to order them inside the classroom. My classroom was once the school library. The bookshelves filled with a wide assortment of books surround my classroom on three sides . Sometimes these books would sometimes be a distraction.

In the front of the classroom was a Smartboard that was connected to my laptop where I would post activities and assignments for the class. At the moment I had a visual writing prompt displayed on the Smartboard.

“Good morning class.” I greeted them at the door.

“Good morning, sit.” They responded in unison.

“Enter.” I watched them file in. Once they were seated, I would pass out their writing journals. This had been the routine since day one. They would see the visual prompt on the Smartboard. On this day, the visual prompt shows someone floating on raft with a Megalodon ominously swimming underneath ready to chomp on the unsuspecting person floating on the raft. Each student has ten minutes to write a narrative about what they think will happen.

When the bell sounded, I stood in front of the class, “May I have your attention.”

I look at each of them. It is much too early in the day for them to have any facial expressions.

“I just want to let you know at the end of the school year, I will be retiring.” I pause trying not to respond to the catch in my throat. Some of them gasped upon hearing this.

“Retire?” One of them blurts out.

“Yes. I have missed a lot of days as you are all aware.” I cough. I have missed more days this month than I have missed in my entire time at the Academy, but they don’t need to know that or why I have missed all those days.

“What are you going to do?’ My favorite student asks.

“Take it easy and follow the doctor’s orders.” I smile.

“I’m going to miss your lunchtime serenade.” He gives me a half smile.

During my lunch, I pick up my guitar and pluck out about ten tunes. Since he is usually in trouble, he spends lunchtime with his lunch in the hallway outside the First Sergeant’s office in lunch detention. Since the First Sergeant’s office is next door to my classroom, he gets to listen to most of my songs which come from the Baby Boomer era.

“For the rest to the time, you are to catch up on your assignments. All assignments are due on Tuesday. Final grades will be sent to you on Friday.” I know full well that they will not finish their assignments. So I go to YouTube and find one of my favorite scenes from Dead Poet’s Society and press play. I find the scene when Professor Keating has the boys read the poems he assigned them to write, but Todd does not have a poem. Professor Keating touches something inside of Todd that awakens the sleeping poet in him with the help of the spirit of Walt Whitman. I love that scene because to me, there is nothing more powerful than awaking the sleeping poet inside someone else.

“Dead Poets again?” My favorite student shakes his head, because I am so predictable.

“What else?” I am fighting off tears as I begin to feel how this scene always gets to me. Or maybe it’s the inevitability of what is to come. Nobody is really doing anything, so what harm is there in indulging?

“Can you read mine?” One of my female students asks. She is one of my students who prides herself in her writing ability. With some practice and patience, she could become a good writer. I often find the problem is that it’s too easy to give up. When you listen to others, you begin to believe that your writing really is shit. I am cognizant of the fragile egos of my students, so I always tried to extra gentle in my assessments even if their writing is really awful. 

I fell in love with writing when I had an English teacher in my junior year of high school. He had me write a story, In the right corner of my paper, he wrote “A+.” When my mother saw it, she went into his class outraged.

“He had multiple misspellings and a lot of grammatical mistakes.” She pointed to them on the paper. She had survived Parochial school where these things counted heavily, “How could you possibly give him an A+ for this?”

“His ideas are great.” He said without blinking an eye, “That’s why I gave him that grade.” 

“I will read it when I grade it.” I told her, but she was proud of what she had written, so I ceded her request. It took almost no effort on my part. It wasn’t bad. She had used some of her exquisite writing skills. “Very good.”

When class was over, I had the class leader line them up at the door.

“Are you really retiring?” My favorite student asked.

“Friad so.” I hung my head unable to meet his gaze. “Class leader take them into the hall.”

“Yessir.” The class leader snapped. “Single file into the hallway.”

The first file marched into the hallway followed by the second file.

“You guys have a good day.” I tipped my hat.

“You too sir.” A few of them replied as they left.

“Hey, I heard you are retiring.” One of the female teachers approached me in the staffroom at lunch.

“Yes. Next Wednesday will be my last day.” I nodded.

“We will miss you.” She sighed.

“Thank you. “ I smile and then add, “For health reasons.” Still I shifted on both feet feeling rather uncomfortable with my decision at the moment. What makes me angry is the decision wasn’t even mine to make.

After a while, I sit in the breakroom staring out the window into the parking lot. A lot of thoughts are walking through my mind like spirits from the past.

“The ambulance is on their way.” My wife told me as I lay there on my bed doubled over in pain. For a moment I wasn’t sure I was going to make it, because the pain was so bad. When they came in our bedroom, the paramedic game me a nitroglycerin pill and some .87 mg aspirin. My mouth was dry so I spit the aspirin out so the paramedic gave me two more. I spit those out.

They put me on a gurney and walked me down the stairs. I wanted morphine to ease the pain. The ambulance hit some potholes, and I inhaled deeply as the pain shot through me like electricity. It seemed to take an hour to get to the emergency room at Gilbert Mercy Hospital.

I did not plan for retirement. I never even considered it, but now I was facing it and it did not seem real. I loved teaching and I thought I be teaching in a classroom on the day I died. This was not to be the case. After dinner, I sat in my chair and sulked.

My memory shifts to when called King’s Valley and let them know I was retiring. After I pressed the red button on my iPhone, I felt as if I had been nothing but a routine personnel matter that had to be dealt with.

When Wednesday came, I walked into my classroom for the last time. I brought some empty boxes to collect my things before I left for the evening.

“How are you doing?” One of friends from special education walked in.

“Alright, I guess.” I shrugged, “Hey, would you take a picture of me?”

“Sure.” She said as I handed her my iPhone.

“Just press the button.” I requested.

“Alright.” She put the camera to her face. She was a lot younger than I was and I figured she knew more about my camera than I did anyway. Seconds later, she handed me my iPhone back. Seeing the pictures she took I knew they would become a couple of my favorites. I was sitting on the edge of my desk, in uniform for one last time, and holding my coffee cup. My forced smile caught my mood perfectly.

“Thanks.” I nodded.

“No problem.” She sauntered out of my classroom. “If you need anything, you know where to find me.”

The class was outside my door. I slowly came to my feet and waved them in.

“Last day?” My favorite smiled as he walked in.

“Yeah.” I tried to smile.

Once they were seated, I stood in front of the class.

“Welcome to the last day of the school year.” I paused to catch my breath, “I wish you all the best in the coming year but first enjoy your summer break.”

I rubbed my hands together to distract me from my emotions.

“As you know, after today, I will be retired from teaching. It has been my pleasure to be your teacher. Some of you will leave here and begin your future while others will continue until you graduate next year. I wish I could be there for you.” I paused again as I felt my voice catch on a lump in my throat. “We covered a lot of material from art history to creative writing. Do not be afraid to discover the beauty inside each of you by whatever means you wish to communicate it.”

“Are you about finished?” My favorite ask abruptly.

“Yeah, I guess that about covers it.” I shook my head as he grinned at me. 

“Class, positions!” He said in an authoritative voice.

Much to my surprise, the rest of the class stood on the chairs of their desks. The ancient wooden desks had to be almost as old as I was, so my first reaction was fear that these old desks would not support their weight. But my initial reaction was replaced when they together they all said, “Captain, oh Captain.”

I was stunned seeing them all there just like the final scene of Dead Poet’s Society. Seeing the entire class standing there on their desks, I felt like Professor Keating. I gave them a heartfelt salute.

“You better get down before your desk gives out.” I put my hands together in front of my face, “You will never know how much this means to me.”

“We have a pretty good idea.” He said still grinning. “Go ahead take a picture while our desks are still holding us.”

I did as he requested knowing that this picture would become my new my favorite picture.

Later a I got some nice mementoes from some of my teacher friends and a card from King’s Valley signed by the personnel office. When I left with my boxes packed with my stuff, I did not look back. My days teaching at the Academy were over. It was time to move on.