Thank You, Mr. Jackson

Mr. Jackson was my seventh grade English teacher--and my eighth grade teacher, as well. A World War II veteran, he was gruff and set in his ways. Looking back, I suspect he may have suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He certainly never made any effort to get to know his students personally.  I don't remember that he ever smiled.

I don't remember his first name, either. I'm not sure I ever knew it. None of his students would have ever thought of calling him by his first name, not even outside of school. To tell the truth, we were all more than a little bit afraid of him.

Mr. Jackson lived in an apartment in Fairbury during the week, but spent weekends at his home in Lincoln, 70 miles away. He wore a full, dark-colored suit and tie to school every day. I don't think he ever removed his suit coat. He stood by the classroom door most days as we filed silently into the room, but he rarely greeted any of us by name. We found our assigned seats quickly--alphabetically, by last name. Mine was always toward the back, in one of the rows closest to the door.

He taught English Grammar. We did not read any books in his class--that happened in our Literature class. I don't remember writing any reports, either, although he probably assigned an occasional one-page essay, written in cursive, with ink, on a sheet of loose leaf paper. Writing was not a large part of our curriculum in Junior High, or even in High School, for that matter. (The widespread use of computers, in recent years, has significantly changed the way writing is taught--but that's a different story.)

Mr. Jackson's goal was to drill us so hard that the rules of English Grammar would forever be stuck in our heads. So, we conjugated verbs, practiced parts of speech, and copied, corrected, or diagrammed sentences, over and over, and over again.

Anyone who came unprepared to class was instructed to stand in the back of the room, holding a large stack of dictionaries or encyclopedias, often for the duration of the class period. Leaning against the wall was forbidden. The same fate awaited anyone who dared to pass a note, or whisper to their neighbor, or slouch in their seat. Boys were the usual culprits, but I remember a girl or two who suffered through the same discipline once or twice. As a result, Mr. Jackson's classroom was usually a model for good behavior.

Some of my classmates lived for those days when Mr. Jackson would go off on a tangent, talking about some current event, or the time before he came to Fairbury Junior High, when he worked in "the Big House" (the state penitentiary). We sat and listened, without any interaction, hoping that his tirade would continue until the bell rang, just so we wouldn't have to recite more parts of speech.

Fifty years later, as I read what some of my former classmates have written in their Facebook posts, I can't help but notice that everyone, without exception, uses uncommonly good grammar, spelling, and punctuation. And as I sit here at my desk, typing this blog, I find myself checking and rechecking my grammar and comma placement, even more than usual, as if Mr. Jackson himself were looking over my shoulder.

So it seems as though Mr. Jackson's goal has been met: the rules of English Grammar are stuck in our brains, forever.

Thank you, Mr. Jackson.