The week progressed. The course met every day for one hour. Dr. Simon was quite brilliant. He taught by asking questions, raising issues that none of my teachers had ever raised before. He challenged us to think and to think deeply. Social issues, political issues, personal issues all were grist for the mill in this class. It was a class in methods of teaching social studies and it was far-ranging. The teachers I had in high school taught social studies—history, geography, economics and so on, as rote subjects, lists of facts and names and dates to be memorized and returned to paper on exams. Rarely had anyone asked us to think.
At first, I thought he was going to propagandize us for or against something, but not Professor Simon. Instead, he simply asked us to think, explore, research, question and thene up with our own responses. Frankly, I became even more ufortable. There was something delightful, refreshing and inviting about his teaching, but since I had rarely experienced this style, I had no“coping strategies” to help me deal with him. I knew how to do well in a class: sit up front, tell the teacher how much you “eajoyed” the lecture, turn in neat typed papers written according to a formula and memorize, memorize, memorize!This class was clearly something different. I couldn’t use these time-worn, time-tested methods to pass.
The second Tuesday came. I wrote on my card, “A stitch in time gathers no moss.”Again, not trusting him, I covered myself with humor, which had always been my best defense against unwanted closeness. The next day the card came back with this note:“You seem to have a sense of humor. Is this an important part of your life?” What did he want? What was going on here? I couldn’t remember a teacher caring personally about me since elementary school. What did this man want?
Now, I raced down the hallway, 10 minutes late to class. Just outside the door, I took an index card from my notebook and wrote my name and the date on it. Desperate for something to write on it, I could only think about the fight I’d just had with my dad.“I am the son of an idiot!” I wrote and then dashed into the room. He stood, conducting a discussion,