Red Pen

I wrote this in the hour after an unhappy incident with a student teacher in my junior year of high school. (Writing this was without question the most productive time I ever spent in trigonometry class.) It was published (the next year) in the school literary journal, One Hand Clapping. Since the story is essentially true up to the third paragraph, it was amusing to the students who remembered the incident when it was published.

We used "Ralph Peterson, Jr." as a standard anonymous name on the literary journal after he had been run as a fake candidate for student body president the year before. (I took it upon myself to run him for Student Union Assembly chair at UCSC in 1989; I don't have any of the posters we produced for him, though, or I'd put them up here.)

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RED PEN

Ralph "Papa" Peterson

The student came into the class angry. He didn't like the teacher; he didn't like the work she assigned; he didn't like the books she made him read. But he came. He sat down peaceably. The bell rang. Announcements were read. Papers were passed back. his essay was dotted with corrections that -- more often than not -- were arbitrary. His anger increased. Dittoes were passed out.

He corrected a ditto, giggling and smirking. He found many mistakes. More than she had found on his essay. He giggled as he marked with red felt-tipped pen. He wrote, "Those who can, do; those who can't, teach," in big dark red letters. He finished. He waited for the right moment, giggling to himself. Then he handed the red-splotched paper back to the teacher.

She was not pleased. She stood in front of the student's desk. She said, "Come outside."

The student replied, "Red pens. Three touches." She nodded.

They went into the hall. Another teacher came. The second teacher officiated. The student and the first teacher began walking apart. They turned to face each other.

The officiating teacher shouted, "Go!" They began. They thrusted. They parried. They lunged. The teacher scored, the student's sweater acquired a spot. Then the student scored. A red splotch appeared on the teacher. The end was in doubt. But twice more the student scored. Two more blood-red marks were found on the teachers coat. The second teacher called it over.

The teacher and the student slowly reentered the class. The other students stared. The old teacher took the student's desk. The student went up to the podium and spoke.

"Let's continue, class."

Stopping by the typewriter on a sultry evening

This was dedicated to my high school English teacher.

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Stopping by the typewriter on a sultry evening

(To M. C.)

Teacher this is I think I know.
His room is in the hall below;
Essays I write have made me fear
The grades I get, so very low.

My typewriter must think it queer
To start without an idea near.
I go on as my fingers ache
As on the page the words appear.

It gives its line-end bell a shake
As through the book my fingers rake.
I only hope I'm ab'l to leap
To bed before the dawn shall break.

To doze leads on to something deep,
But essay mine, it will not keep;
I've pages to write before I sleep,
And pages to write before I sleep.

What, Definitions? What's a Definition?

I got pretty bored in my high school chemistry class (although not so bored as I was the next year when I repeated it, having gotten a D -- because I never did any homework, not because I didn't understand it). When we received an assignment to write a story (or an essay, or something, I don't remember now) using a bunch of chemistry vocabulary words, I jumped at the chance to do something interesting, and at that point I felt getting a low grade on this assignment was worth it for the jokes. (As it happens, he didn't take off much for words I misused, only words I didn't get right in the first place -- for example, the word was "base" not "basics," and freezing points are lowered, not elevated. But there was a big "Don't do this again!" written on the paper.) My silly teacher let me read this in front of the class -- not the way to encourage me to do good work, even if he did precede my reading with "this is an example of what not to do."

Still, I had changed my mind about this being a good idea by the next year.

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What, Definitions? What's a Definition?

Alistair continued driving up the mountain road. It was winter, and he was on his way to his ski-cabin on Mount Dooright in the Sierras de Luz in northern Coloflornia, one of the Federated States of Vespucia. He saw a sign by the road. "Cation! Falling Rocs!" A gigantic bird fell from the sky and missed his Bristol convertible by two inches. Two more signs, pointing out two rock formations, read: "Boiling Point: Elevation 2426m" and "Freezing Point: Elevation 3101m." It was mid-November, and the posters for electroned officials and proton and conton various propositions were still up. A military truck went by and the people on it soluted him, ostensibly because he was wearing a doorman's uniform. He didn't think it was funny, but what was he to do? He was a doorman. It was cold, and he closed the solvent that let the air into the car.

He continued to his cabin. A homogeneous mixture of white fluffy aqueous precipitate had fallen on the ground around his cabin, in contrast to the heterogeneous pollution found near the road. He found some needles and other paraphenalia from the previous owner's addiction to acid, but Alistair was down to basics. He turned on the electrolytes so he could see better; it was a dark cloudy day. He went to the kitchen, where he saw some horribly green anion rings from a hamburger joint and a box of salted crackers. He went and unpacked his brand-neutron telescope -- he liked to look at stars when he wasn't in the city. Moons were good too, and he remembered the view he got of the Galilean satellite Ion once -- what a sight! He had a solubility telescope for sun-viewing at home, too.

As he put away his telescope, readying himself for bed, he looked out the window at a gopher, digging with high molarity. He smiled. Tomorrow would be a good day.