The Year of the Gadfly (3 page)

“That's exactly what I'm talking about,” Mr. Kaplan said, staring down the offending students. “I know you're used to being coddled like toddlers or lap dogs, but in this classroom we are going to treat one another like adults. Do you understand?”

The students nodded uncertainly, but my own head felt paralyzed on my neck.

“What about you?” Mr. Kaplan's eyes whirred into my face like drill bits.

“I understand,” I peeped.

Mr. Kaplan nodded and began pacing back and forth in front of his lab table. At the end of the room he paused and turned, fixing those laser eyes on us. “In addition to studying microbiology, I am also an entomologist. Currently, I am working at the University of Massachusetts, examining insect colonies that have been bamboozled by patterns of climate change. And though we all know how much your headmaster likes to have a couple PhDs on hand, I assure you that I am
not
a trophy teacher. I am here to give you something you have not had thus far in your studies: namely, an education in science.”

My classmates stared at their desks.

“I am familiar with this school and its reputation.” Mr. Kaplan paced with his hands clasped behind his back. His cuticles were swollen and raw. “I know you all work hard, but I am doubtful as to whether you
think
hard. You do what you are told. You strive to succeed within the parameters your parents and teachers have outlined. But do any of you truly know what success means?”

For me, success meant a cover story for the
New York Times Magazine
or an editorial position at the
New Yorker
or a Pulitzer Prize. So what did Mr. Kaplan know that I didn't?

“For the next few weeks,” he continued, “I will be replacing the usual biology curriculum with a unit on my academic specialty—extremophiles, the extreme-loving microbes from which all life originates. I am sure you've never considered it before, but at this very moment microbes are swarming in your intestines and crawling on your skin. Microbes were the first life on earth, and they transformed it from a planet with a serious identity crisis to the comparatively stable hunk of rock we know today. Three and a half billion years ago, the earth was a crucible of cell-sizzling radiation, oscillating temperatures, and environment-altering earthquakes. The atmosphere was mostly methane, carbon dioxide, and water vapor. Miraculously, a couple billion years later, microbes learned to photosynthesize. It is thanks to microbes that you and I inhabit a lovely green planet where the atmosphere doesn't burn our skin off and the ground only occasionally cracks open beneath our feet. And the relatives of those very first microbes haven't changed. Some of them live in boiling water. Others can be frozen and resuscitated. Still others sustain pressures that would crush a Mack truck, let alone your own nubile bodies.” Mr. Kaplan paused and looked from face to quivering face. “If you think this sounds extreme, you have a self-centered view of the situation. Put any of these extreme-loving organisms in your normal environment and they would die. Just as you would expire instantaneously in their habitats. Any questions?”

The room was silent. Mr. Kaplan stood there looking at us like he was prepared to wait all day. After an uncomfortable moment he started talking again. If anyone in the room believed human beings originated from mud pies, he said, we could pack our things and head over to Blessed Sacrament. “There is going to be no religion in this classroom. As far as this course is concerned, the only religion is science, and the only commandments are the laws of physics. In this classroom we are going to use our minds, not our hearts. Our brains, not our beliefs.” He snarled “beliefs” like it was a dirty word.

“You!” He pointed to a girl with curly brown hair in the second row. “What's your name?”

“Marcie Ross.”

“Ms. Ross, where did you come from?”

“Uh . . .” Marcie looked both ways as though she intended to cross a busy intersection. “My mother's womb?”

“You weren't listening, Marcie.” Mr. Kaplan wagged his finger. “You!” He pointed at a meaty, big-nosed kid. “What's your name?”

“Christopher Barnes.”

“Mr. Barnes, where did you come from?”

Christopher sat back in the chair and cocked a half smile. “God.”

“You are hilarious, Mr. Barnes. Unfortunately, you weren't listening either. I said no bullshit. And so you'll pay attention next time, you are going to memorize the periodic table, down to each atomic mass, and be ready to recite it in front of the class tomorrow morning.”

Christopher's smile vanished.

“Here's a copy of the table.” Mr. Kaplan pulled a paper from his bag and handed it to Christopher. “You've already wasted thirty seconds of precious study time.”

Mr. Kaplan looked around the room as though challenging any more smart alecks. But even the smart alecks had shrunk into their holes.

“The reason I'm asking where you came from,” Mr. Kaplan said, “is not simply because it forms the basis of our curriculum this year. I am asking you this question because it impacts everything you will do
for the rest of your lives!
Your biological ancestors were extremophiles, and I am here to help you return to your extremophile roots—metaphorically speaking, of course. Embracing extremity will bring out the characteristics that make you unique and independent—
different
from everybody else.”

Mr. Kaplan scribbled the word “difference” in large, messy letters on the chalkboard and then turned back to face us. “We are going to have a class slogan this semester: ‘Difference is the essence of extremity.' Say it with me. ‘Difference is the essence of extremity.'”He swept his hands through the air like an orchestra conductor, and we repeated the phrase in chorus. “Again!” Mr. Kaplan proclaimed, and our voices rose and fell together.
Difference is the essence of extremity!

When the room was silent again, Mr. Kaplan looked at us, his brow knitted, his eyes compressed to small points. He scanned the rows, shaking his head. “You!” He thrust his finger at a girl in the third row. The very force of his hand seemed to fling her against the chair. “Why did you just say ‘Difference is the essence of extremity'?”

“Because you told us to.”

Mr. Kaplan nodded. “And do you agree with this slogan?”

The girl shrugged. “I don't know. I guess I'd have to think about it.”

“Now, this is curious,” Mr. Kaplan said. “Why would you recite a slogan if you weren't certain you agreed with its message?”

“Because you're the teacher,” the girl answered, shrinking against the chair. “If we don't do what you say, then we'll get in trouble. Or get a bad grade.”

Mr. Kaplan nodded. “Do you know what I'm seeing at this particular moment?” It was unclear whether this question was rhetorical, but everyone seemed to make the same calculation: talking = possible beheading. “I'm seeing twenty young people who are utterly afraid to think for themselves. I see that you are willing to repeat what you are told, without taking any time to think through what you are saying.”

“My name is Sarah Peters,” the girl beside me announced with a haughty cock of her head. “And you tricked us! You didn't give us time to think about the slogan before you asked us to say it.”

“Thank you for speaking up, Ms. Peters. But I did not trick you. I proved a point. You all need to take some risks, even though there may be repercussions—like a bad grade or being forced to memorize the periodic table.”

I was surprised to see Christopher Barnes actually smile at this remark, as though his chore had suddenly become a mark of distinction.

“If all you needed from this class was a textbook and an exam, there'd be no reason for me to be here. But you need so much more. I am here to teach you biology, of course, but I am also teaching you how to think about biology.”

I perked up.
Yes,
I thought.
He's right
. But the kid next to me, a boy with sandy hair and freckles, didn't seem so convinced. He put his hand up slowly, like he was afraid Mr. Kaplan might bite it off at the wrist.

“But what you were saying about extremophiles . . . Are you telling us we're extremists?” he asked. “Like Al Qaeda?”

Mr. Kaplan grabbed a piece of chalk and started attacking the board. “‘Extremophile,'” he said, “comes from the Latin
extremus,
meaning extreme, and the Greek
philia,
meaning love.”

He stared at us as though he'd just imparted the meaning of life, but the class stared back with various expressions of terror and dismay. Except me. What I'd just witnessed from Mr. Kaplan was the most amazing pedagogical display I'd ever seen.

“What's your name?” Mr. Kaplan said, snapping his eyes at my face.

“I'm Iris.” I swallowed. “Iris Dupont.”

“And why are you smiling, Ms. Dupont?”

When he used my last name, shivers scurried up my arms, as though his invocation of Ms. Dupont had transformed me into a different person. I was the focal point of the room. I realized I could shrug and look away, uniting with my fellow classmates and giving myself a fighting chance of social solvency at this school, or I could speak my mind, thereby aligning myself with Mr. Kaplan and irreparably destroying my reputation before I even had the chance to build one. I looked over at Christopher Barnes, who was furiously reading the periodic table. Then I looked at Mr. Kaplan.

What would Ed Murrow do? But of course I knew the answer. “I want to be an extremist—I mean an extremophile.”

I felt nineteen pairs of eyes roll in their sockets, and behind me somebody whispered a snide remark about my briefcase.

“And how will you achieve this extreme status, Ms. Dupont?”

I hadn't expected a follow-up, and my palms started to sweat.

“I open this question up to everyone,” Mr. Kaplan said.

At first I thought he was simply saving me from my misery, but then I realized he really did want the others to jump in. He waited, and the silence was even more excruciating than before. Was he faltering? If so, he recovered immediately.

“No one has any suggestions? No advice about how we can display our unique minds? No methods for showing your extremity—your distinction from the group?” Mr. Kaplan shook his head. “It seems,” he said, beginning to pace, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum, “that rousing you from your collective stupor is going to require an anathematic approach. A test of your courage. A display of your difference.” He halted and turned to face us, his eyes glowing, crazed.

Maybe he was bizarre, but I didn't care. Murrow was the only other person I'd heard speak about individuality and courage in this way. In Boston, I had sometimes lain awake, listening to his old broadcasts, absorbing his words, their sounds and images nutrition for my mind. Most people no longer spoke like Murrow or lived by his standards. But once in a while, you came across somebody who surprised you. Like Mr. Kaplan. Or Dalia. Tears rose behind my eyes for no good reason, and I forced my face into the
See It Now
stare.

 

The rest of class was all business. Mr. Kaplan explained the syllabus. Class participation, including daily exercises in the Socratic method, made up nearly half our grade. In addition to tests, there were interactive experiments and long-term projects. Mr. Kaplan was a young PhD, obviously brilliant, so maybe that was how he'd received approval for this unusual curriculum. But if he was a prodigy, why was he teaching high school?

I was mulling this over when a scream ripped through the room. We jumped out of our chairs and rushed out the open door. The hallway was empty save one startled girl gasping outside the bathroom door. Mr. Kaplan pushed by and walked into the girls' bathroom without hesitation. We followed, only to stop short. Looking down on us from the mirror above the sinks was a horrific face with four eye sockets and a sinister, smiling mouth.

The face was nothing more than a rough sketch, but it was drawn in red dripping paint. I thought I could hear the creature's deep cackle echo across the tiles. Mr. Kaplan's face, so assured just a moment before, was white. Everyone started talking at once. But I just stood there, looking at the ugly image, unable to shake the feeling that it was laughing at me. Its eyes were locked on mine, just as Mr. Kaplan's eyes had been at the ice cream social. I glanced at him to check his reaction, but he was no longer there. He'd slipped away as though fleeing the scene of a crime.

 

The following week, I put on a business suit and went to see Ms. Mallory, the college counselor. All Mariana sophomores must choose an academic major to impress the colleges, but waiting a year made little sense for my own four-year plan. Before I'd snapped open my briefcase, however, Ms. Mallory eyed my suit with disapproval and said, “Iris, I'm afraid we don't offer a journalism major here. Besides which, all the local papers are closing. Wouldn't you be better off going into PR?”

Defecting to the Dark Side was more like it.

“In any case, Iris, it's only the second week of school. Get acclimated. Have some fun.”

“Ms. Mallory,” I said. “At twenty-one, Edward R. Murrow was elected president of the National Student Federation of America. He believed students should care more about current events than ‘fraternities, football, and fun.'”

Ms. Mallory looked nonplused. “Are you talking about that terrific George Clooney film? That's what I mean, Iris. Go to the movies with your girlfriends. Gossip about movie stars. Be young!”

I could see Joseph Pulitzer having a postmortem conniption fit. But I'm a professional, so I thanked Ms. Mallory for the advice, picked up my briefcase, and walked out.

As I changed back into my school uniform in the third-floor handicapped stall, I thought about Murrow facing off against McCarthy, and decided not to let the newspaper naysayers deter me. There were far too many reasons to preserve the print media: the sharp, sweet newsprint smell and the sound of crinkling paper; the experience of reading words printed on a page. I love blogs and web news, of course: the constant stream of new information, the democratic nature of everybody having a say. But there's something comforting about words that stay put. Words that, a day later, will be exactly where you left them. Unlike the news, the news
paper
is consistent. Even if you go to bed reeling, it's okay, because by sunrise the paper's there waiting for you.