Daniel Did His Homework

“All atoms of an element are identical.” As I read this chemistry study line, I became very aware of the drooping bags underneath my eyes. I became accustomed to the restless nights spent memorizing possible test questions and their all too real answers. It was May during my sophomore year of high school, and the academic hangovers resulting from finals week gave me a rugged look for the remainder of those last couple of days. Sitting in the shrunken desk in the science room going over the final review packet seemed surreal and climactic given the scandal that took place just a couple of months ago. Through what school district U-46 likes to remember as a rough patch, the members of Mrs. Reason’s period 13-14 chemistry class witnessed a uniquely disturbing display of dismal contempt from a faculty member. A hysterical plot that demonstrates certain differences between age groups, as well as presents the probable clash that might arise when people who see each other every day butt heads. I couldn’t refuse the fact that it had a lasting impression on the class, especially when noticing all of the blank expressions gazing into cut-up college-ruled index cards. I was doing a good job looking at each bullet point in my review packet and not returning to any type of negative memory associated with the class, but I failed at the next line.

“Chemical compounds are very different from mixtures.” This was a gem dating back to the first unit. Not really sure what to expect from chemistry, the first couple of weeks appeared regular in terms of how the class was run and how people behaved in the science room. Sometimes engaging in small talk regarding everyday matters, our teacher, Mrs. Reason, was a stern instructor with the stance of a front line soldier. Her hair was the color of old hay bales, but her eyes distracted you from that by being the same color as an elder dacnis. She would perform lectures with an intrusive timbre and leave little time for questions that would usually beg for elaboration. The first time I went to ask her a question after a difficult lesson, I learned a little bit more about her teaching style and what was in store.

“Ms. Reason, I have a question. I don’t really understand the difference between ionic bonds and pol-non-I mean covalent bonds.”

She reacted with boorish eye contact, and her mostly-horizontal grin twitched before answering.

“Did you take any notes at all today?”

“Yeah, I paid attention. It’s just this one part’s got me-”

“Listen, you need to look at your notes and figure it out. I can’t hand out answers!”

I muttered something to the extent of “okay,” and then participated in the first of many walks of shame that I would take back to my desk in the middle of the classroom. I didn’t think much of this encounter, considering the number of teachers at South Elgin who were stubborn with the helping of assignments. I thought less of it once I found out from other kids that she responded the same way to their questions.

I soon found out that Mrs. Reason was comfortable with letting her anger get the best of her and aggressively conversing with the class as a result. One regular weekday, Mrs. Reason’s period 13-14 chemistry class was a bit chatty when she stormed into the room with the force of a locomotive. The sound of papers slamming down and her huffing and puffing was enough commotion to capture the entire class’s attention.

“I swear to God I have had it up to here with my other classes! They always leave a mess behind and I don’t know if that’s worse than the side talking in this class! I swear my generation would’ve never treated adults this way. I swear all you guys do is bitch and moan and bitch and moan. Nobody has integrity, instead you all just bitch and moan-”

My eyes quickly darted to the clock on the wall and started counting the number of times she would use the phrase “bitch and moan” in the next minute. I had never heard a rant like this before. An explosion of built-up frustration all being extinguished towards thirty very confused students. After a couple of more minutes of scolding, Mrs. Reason switched over to lecture mode and started her lesson for the day. The class was slowly turning grayer and grayer.

“Atoms become larger as we go down a column of the periodic table.” This next review question brought me back to unit five where the other class, the one that was always complained about, finally pushed Mrs. Reason to strike down with scholarly authority. Like many other days, she started by listing all of the mistakes the previous class had made and making it a point to predict our eventual slip-ups. This particular day, however, she ended her monologue with a special announcement. This broadcast was to explain the new set of rules that were effective immediately in her classroom. As of that day, anyone who didn’t complete homework would lose points. Anyone found to be using a phone will lose points. Anyone who had missed more than three assignments was not eligible for end-of-the-quarter retakes. This was fine by me; none of these decrees affected my behavior in that class that much anyway. Her final regulation was the one that caught the class off-guard. Written on the whiteboard with fresh markers, the words Any student caught on their phone can get reported by another student for extra credit shined menacingly. Nobody in the class had ever heard of such a dirty way to receive a reward. The feeling of being a lowkey scumbag was worth the extra credit, though, especially with the material becoming more and more impossible. Now it was evident that any points coming your way were to be taken graciously, and the rarity of good scores created a drought where no brainstorm visited.

There was a lot of zoning out in that class, but a distinct memory that resents the idea of being forgotten still appears clear whenever I return to it. Mrs. Reason talking about some type of house or property that she owned and how much of a shame it would’ve been if it had caught fire. This would have resulted in a large check getting cut in her direction. When she said the word arson, the sounds of forced laughter trumpeted out of my classmates’ mouths, and when heard simultaneously they created a ghoulish ambience. The mental image of a house burning down replayed in my conscience until the next ethically bothersome back-and-forth took place.

The first five minutes of class one day were not spent reviewing or summarizing, instead it was a vivid explanation, one that I didn’t know I didn't need up until that point. Mrs. Reason fleshed out this master plan of how you could get rid of a human body with chemicals. Using sulfuric acid, you can dissolve a person no problem. Hoping not to find any of this on the upcoming quiz, I forced myself to daydream instead of listening to the rest of this particular pre-lesson. This makeshift coping mechanism let me deal with the helter-skelter of high school with heavier skepticism.

“The term state can be defined as a set of conditions that describe a person.” It can be described that the state of that classroom was damp and anxious. The classroom was filled with cats on hot bricks getting their fingers burnt, and Mrs. Reason transitioning from teacher mode to preacher mode was simply jumping out of the frying pan into the fire.

“It would have never been acceptable for me to be this disrespectful! I swear I don’t know what happened to you guys. You guys should’ve been more beaten as kids! I mean, really, I think all of your parents went easy on you if this is how you wanna act!”

I slouched a little deeper in my seat I as I listened to her go off on us. I found myself reflecting on my upbringing, trying to calculate whether or not it met my teacher’s standard. Deciding probably not, I looked down and wrote pretend notes while fantasizing about a calendar where June came quicker.

“High melting and boiling points.” A day that will live in infamy among school district U-46 lawyers took place the same week we learned this fun fact. Looking back it seems like it flew by, but during that day time had stopped working I remember. The first red flag was Goldfish crackers and water bottles being opened near the food-restricted science lab. One of my classmates played a now-classic practical joke on another classmate. The prank was set up as one student putting a Goldfish cracker in the other’s water bottle. It wasn’t the hardest I’ve ever laughed, but there was some amusement to it. Mrs. Reason did not share the same appreciation that I had towards what happened, and that became apparent with how silent she was for the following couple of minutes. Not a peep coming out of the opinionated instructor’s body caused an unsettling buzz in the air. The first person in that classroom to speak after several moments was the victim in the prank yelling out “STOP, don’t drink that.” Everyone’s eyes jumped back to the yelling and saw the sight of a water bottle being snatched from one student’s hand by another. Waving the plastic around, she explained that she had seen Mrs. Reason put something in it. To the owner of the water bottle’s astonishment, our teacher confirmed the warning and confessed to us that she did, in fact, put a chemical in his beverage. Eyebrows were raised and jaws were dropped in reaction to the news.

“Well it’s not like he drank it! It’s fine!” Mrs. Reason sang out while disposing the evidence of what I didn’t realize at the time was a crime. It turned out to be barium hydroxide. Hypothesizing the hypothetical lawsuit behind the incident, the water bottle owner was describing what it would have looked like if he had swallowed the mixture. He started listing side effects of skin contact with it, and some highlights included profound tremors, chest pain, severe burns, and cardiac arrest. It was concluded that this survivor truly dodged a bullet by not drinking the poison. One student feared for her safety and evidently wrote an anonymous note telling the administration about the events. Someone from the class wrote an anonymous note telling the administration about the events that evidently made this student fear for her safety. Mrs. Reason went on to be suspended for one week, one miraculous five-school day stretch in which I finally learned about chemistry. This vacation was short lived. She came back after that utopian week.

“Atoms can not be created or destroyed.” It was the second-to-last month of school, and chemistry class became more mellow with Mrs. Reason’s return-turned-stay becoming set in stone. We had accepted the reality that not even crossing the most dangerous line could result with this teacher getting replaced. Many of the students had hoped for some sort of change in heart or epiphany within Mrs. Reason when she returned, maybe an apology. We did get a half-assed one, which was more than I was expecting.

She began the crisp Spring lesson by going desk to desk checking for completed homework. Stuck in the middle of the room, I was waiting in what felt like a firing squad. When she approached my sloppy nest and filled my frame of vision, I saw giggling in her eyes. She asked for my assignment, and I mechanically handed over a packet. This caused her to light up like dungeon torches and grin like the Grinch when his heart was small. She lifted my paper and stood as if posing for a picture. Waving it around, she announced to the class with maximum sarcasm, “OOOOH, look, everybody, Daniel did his homework. Look at that! Good job!” She raised her hand to give a triumphant high-five.

My eyes must’ve looked completely black when she did this. I rejected her gesture and tried to find the reason behind this outburst within her eyes, but all I saw was a joyous spark as if she was singing “Happy Birthday” to her best friend. It was hard to believe that this certified instructor that just had her job on the line made absolutely no effort to try to alter her approach with students. I realized that there was no other way when it came to this individual’s teaching style. Mrs. Reason’s belittling comments and spiteful remarks would only continue, and the only thing changing in that classroom was the rotation of audience members for her apocalyptic speeches. New students would sit down where we sat up and receive the same martial rationale as the classroom’s predecessors. It’s inevitable to end up disliking someone who you see every single day. During period 13-14 chemistry, I learned certain situations leave you so exhausted that you have no energy to dislike someone. You become tired of the reasons stacking up to dislike them, so tired that the only opinion you can make towards that person is an indifferent acknowledgment that lingers for a while. This feeling started with that final blow, and it was instrumental in learning that thirty melting candles can lead to a dynamite stick exploding.