Mr. Pearson

I'm pretty sure seventh grade is weird for everyone. You're not the top of the food chain, you're not the bottom, you just are. In the early 2000s school was no different from probably how you remember it: If one could just get through the first few classes to lunch they would be fine. There was always that one class though wasn't there? The one that separated you from lunch. The last one before you could freely talk with your friends and argue with style and sophistication about the gourmet courses served a la cafeteria de garbage.

In 2004, that class for me was 'reading' with Mr. Pearson. He was new to Heartland Middle, and as such was neatly labeled fresh meat. I guess I should back up a little bit, it's not like our class was really a group of cannibals, despite appearances.

Heartland Middle was a private school. No, not that kind. Think run down portable trailer classrooms with a mixed scent of plaster and mold. Think old heavy text books with thirteen or so signatures on the front page of previous owners. Think that the school field trip was to the local dump, because that's what we could afford to do.

It was a Christian school made up of an elementary, middle, and high school. For many kids it was the bridge between public school and juvenile detention. The graduating class was usually less than double digits, to give you an idea of the scale. So in a way, we were a very tight knit family, with a good number of kids going all the way from elementary to high school, with the same people.

Did I say family? Well, no, I guess that is the right term. Dysfunctional though. Our class was that class. We weren't delinquents, yet. Our class was famous for driving away three Spanish teachers in one year. 2002 was a big year in particular as well. We drove out eight different teachers.

Now, they never said it was us. It was a health condition, or it was a family situation, or it was that they were really only there on a temporary basis anyway. Good luck trying to convince us that we didn't play a significant role in their departure though. We knew it, and we were proud. It was a subtle art really.

It would start on day one when we consistently got the teachers name wrong. Day two would begin by us casually switching first and last names. If they made it past the first three months we knew we had to up our game. It turns out you can only get written about so many times on a marker board before it starts to get to you. "Who wrote this?" can only be asked so many times. "Who turned this paper in?" gets old to anyone after a while. At a certain point, the teacher asks themselves if it's them. What are they going to do after all? They can't expel a whole class. One or two troubled students were manageable, but a class? An entire class unified for the sole purpose of everyone passing, and no one excelling? That's dangerous. But it was a game to us, and one we were terribly good at. We didn't care about the whispers that would greet new teachers about 'that class'. We didn't care that we were likely causing mental grief for Mrs. Boothilouse, or probably incurred actual therapy expenses for Ms. Fordehill. We didn't care that just like us, this was probably a teachers last stop too. That was our biggest crime, and disease all in one: we didn't care.

So, 7th grade enter: Mr. Pearson, he was a bald, tall man in his late forties or early fifties, and he was fresh meat.

"I've heard rumors about this class." He said, peering down at all of us from his little lectern. "I just have one rule," he said and he wrote it down on the marker board. "If you can dish it out, be able to take it." He wrote it in permanent marker. Smart.

We were fired up for all the wrong reasons. It was entertaining to see a teacher fall, but the reward was much greater if the teacher cared, or if the teacher was strong. I'll say this about Mr. Pearson. He was strong.

I can't tell you the exact story or moment when it happened, but he was teaching a reading class, and I liked it. The whole process. Learning, reading, communicating ideas, getting positive and negative feedback from someone who was smarter than me. Whenever he would see that as a class we weren't paying attention he would switch it up. He had this running bit where he would pick on the laziest one of the bunch - usually me - and not only have me read out loud, but in different voices and accents. He made the story come alive.

-

What made me, and a few of my closest friends like him, was that he didn't care for rules. He would stand on his desk, he would kick holes in the poorly plastered drywall, (that he would fix himself later). He would tell vulgar jokes, and he understood us. Every year a reading list is put out by the school informing parents and students alike what books they'll be responsible for purchasing throughout the year, and what they'll have to read. One of those lists was the dreaded summer reading list.

"Mr. Pearson, I didn't read any of the summer reading list," Robbie said, unprompted on the first day of class. Usually a good opener, sets the stage for a year of belligerence and laziness.

"Me neither," Mr. Pearson replied, then laughed. He read the list out to us stopping at a couple of titles saying, "No, wait, I did read that one, it's terrible the author's a snob - don't waste your time."

"I read the whole reading list Mr. Pearson! My grades should reflect that," said Lidia. Typical. No one really liked Lidia but she served a purpose. If anyone could put a rebellious teacher in their place it was her. Robbie and Lidia provided a dichotomy that trapped 'cool' teachers and thwarted try hards.

"Oh, good. I spent my summer relaxing, because I didn't get paid to read them. Were you promised good grades if you completed the reading list?" He asked in all seriousness.

"Well, no, but it isn't fair that I had to read them all and Robbie didn't and we're going to get the same grade now?" Lidia asked.

"I never said you and Robbie were going to get the same grades. I said I didn't read the list, so I don't expect any of you to have. Tell you what though, since I'm so nice, you write me a paper on any of the books that you read, and I'll consider giving you extra credit" Mr. Pearson said. It didn't take him long to figure out the dichotomy exactly and tread it with perfect balance.

"But-" Lidia started

"Ah, but if you keep disrupting class then you'll probably get worse grades for being disruptive, look at Robbie sitting quietly asleep. Be more like Robbie." It had the effect of waking Robbie up, and of silencing Lidia. I was impressed.

-

So when it came time for the school year reading list he handed us all a paper, usually consisting of six or so small chapter books, this paper had three.

"I've talked it over with the school board, and they've agreed to go with this new list of books. The ones that the school had for 7th grade wasn't good. We'll read them mostly at home, and have quizzes on them every week" He said, as if the three books weren't the Count of Monte Cristo, Dracula, and 1984. Three books of at least high school level reading.

"Mr. Pearson this is bullshit!" Phil said. Phil Mcpherson was from south Jersey with nearly a full beard. We didn't really have a bully collectively but if anyone fit the bill it was him.

"What, you want more books Phil?" Mr. Pearson asked, peering down his glasses once more, "Let's see, have you read Don Quixote? It's not bad, but it's a bit lengthy, I guess we could try to fit it in." Mr. Pearson mimed doing some mental math as to how he could fit in another gigantic book.

"No way, I'm not reading it," Phil was, if nothing else, stubborn and consistent.

"You don't have to, it's way easier to grade zeroes, honestly you'll make it easier on me." He continued doing fake math on a notebook.

"Mr. Pearson, meet me after school, we're gonna settle a score" This was the second time that Phil had threatened violence on a teacher, but it was the first time that he had done so in front of the whole class. Phil wasn't small for his age at all, but it's not about that really. It's a lose, lose for a teacher see. If the teacher agrees to fight, he's going to get a nice lawsuit for assaulting a minor, if he doesn't agree to fight, he's a coward. Phil crossed his arms and kicked his legs up onto a nearby desk. Thinking probably that he had just thrown down a gauntlet.

I've never seen anyone more composed before or since, when Mr. Pearson picked up that metaphorical gauntlet like it was a crisp dollar bill.

"I'm busy after school Phil. Let's settle it now." He took off his glasses and opened the door to the outside world, humid air started to seep into the cracking paint on the walls.

"What?" Phil uncrossed his arms and, sitting behind him, I think I'm the only one that caught the quick glance that signaled he was in trouble.

"I'm busy after school, got a dentists appointment right at three thirty. You're close enough to a man, let's settle this now." Mr. Pearson gestured for Phil to go first.

"Mr. Pearson! You can't do that, you'll get sued, it's illegal to hit a minor" Lidia was the first to be the child legal representative.

Mr. Pearson shrugged, "Well, yeah, I'll probably get in some trouble, But I know Mr. Mcpherson, and I think we can probably talk it over later. Besides, I'm not going to hurt him too bad." Mr. Pearson started taking things out of his pockets, a wallet, a small package of BC powder.

"Never mind." Philip hunched over in his chair. I'd never seen someone so defeated. To this day I don't know whether Mr. Pearson intended to fight Philip or just call a bluff, but one thing became very clear in my mind. Mr. Pearson wouldn't have lost that fight.

-

Like I said at the beginning, school was weird. A group of 7th graders were reading Shakespeare and Dumas and loving life. We were acting out skits we were creating plays. We were being a class for once in our infamous careers. It even started to bleed over into other classes. We stopped making fun of Mr. Henley for his stutter because Mr. Pearson had said that the man was a saint and he had respect for him. We stopped throwing food in the hallways because we saw Mr. Pearson take a personal mop and broom to clean it up. He became a weird sort of dad to our highly dysfunctional family.

Remember that school trip to the dump? Yeah, he wasn't for that. He self-organized three different trips for our class, because, get this, he was also a licensed bus driver. We had two trips to nearby caves, because they were free and he was a practiced spelunker. At the end of the year he paid for all of us to be able to go to a Renaissance festival.

We had never been outside the city limits on a field trip, and this was three hours in one direction. Most of us didn't know what to expect, but that trip will be tucked away in the recesses of our hearts for a long, long time. Even the 'coolest' kids enjoyed becoming transfixed on rides that were all hand operated. Robbie and Phil had a competition to see who could eat the most giant turkey legs. Robbie won by eating two and a half. Lidia entered a knowledge of the old ages competition and lost, much to everyone's delight.

I bought a journal that I had no idea what I was going to write in. I didn't really journal all that much, but it was a cool thing to have. When Mr. Pearson saw any of us, he would nod and act as though we were his friends. Did I mention he was the teacher that would let us walk around unaccompanied by an adult? It could've gone horribly, but, miracles happen, and at the end of the day no one was bleeding or dead.

-

By the end of the year we had read The Count of Monte Cristo, Dracula, 1984, and Don Quixote. I guess Mr. Pearson was doing real math. He was the teacher that inspired us to read, to explore with our imagination, to create and to love learning.

At the edge of a forgotten town, somewhere in a school for broken kids was a rusty trailer where magic happened. None of us would've said so at the time, but we all loved, and trusted Mr. Pearson. He was a teacher that reminded us that we were kids, that we were still young, that there was still time for us. He was the teacher who reminded us, sometimes with strictness, sometimes with a deep tenderness that there is still compassion in the world. He taught us about the headache miracle drug known as BC powder (something I still use to this day), he taught us that sometimes the best way to tell a rock from salt is to lick it. He taught us that if you want to be respected you have to give it.

He was a bald, tall man in his late forties or early fifties, and he was our hero.

On behalf of that 7th grade class, I want to thank Mr. Pearson for making a difference, and letting a class know, in the still and profound way that we mattered.