More weight.

Recently, my junior English class read The Crucible, Arthur Miller's poignantly scathing critique of the Red Scare woven into a stylized account of the Salem Witch Trials. And over the last couple of days, we watched a recent film adaptation of the play. The film was well made -- cinematography, casting, performances. The students' response to the film was emotional, and rightfully so; how could one be unmoved by the hideous consequences of false assumptions, categorization, fear, and "faith" run a muck? We also had a solid discussion that began with a student assuming out loud, "Well, I'm glad nothing like that happens any more."

The assumption was a great segue into the fact that the class would soon research other examples of mass hysteria in American history: the Japanese-American internment during WWII, the Red Scare/ McCarthyism, and the anti-Arab actions of citizens and the Federal government in the aftermath of September 11, 2001. As the class continued, I shared enough information about the examples to whet their appetites for further study. And they expressed a certain level of appropriate outrage.

So, then, with online research being on today's educational menu, I again led my students across the hallway to the library to computer lab B -- the technological equivalent of the nose bleed section at a minor league baseball game. It's in the back of the library. Some of the printers don't print. The computers are slow. Some don't work at all. It is a constant uphill battle -- a stalemate between stalling hard drives and certain stagnating students. As it turns out, computer lab B is a self-contained metaphor of my experiences of integrating technology thus far. Whereas technology, in theory, speeds research, writing, work, and life in general, and whereas it is supposed to be Popeye's trusty can of spinach for sagging academic forearms, thus far it is has been a constant frustration.

That is not to say that no learning has taken place -- to the contrary, in fact. Students who would learn in most situations still learned; those who struggle through and do their best struggled through and did their best; and those who put forth minimum effort put forth less. In the lab there are so many more distractions -- a larger room than normal full of many more students than usual and plenty of other visual stimuli, constantly malfunctioning equipment, students sitting in closer proximity to each thereby increasing the temptation and feasibility of copying other students' work. Thus, the initial difficulty of managing a classroom of 30 teenagers is instantly multiplied.

At a certain point, I noticed that one of the students was very obviously getting answers from another student. This particular student is a constant challenge in the classroom. He combines a passive-aggressive disposition with a quick wit and sharp tongue. Although by far the most disruptive student as well as the one who puts forth the least effort on a daily basis, he may well be the most intelligent; despite failing the first 9 weeks of the class, he scored a 25 on the ACT. When I asked him about what he was doing, he was truthful; he stated precisely and with confidence what he had done. After I offered a different suggestion on the issue of academic honesty, he replied:

Well, why shouldn't I? It's worked for me this long.

And in a certain way, he is right. It has "worked" for him. It has, indeed, kept him from doing work. And, perhaps to his credit, it has liberated him from the sense of duty and responsibility to established socioeconomic and/ or cultural assumptions that preys upon and exploits the honest efforts of so many.

But what fruit will his assumptions bear in the long run? Although I have no desire to be needlessly cynical, I fear the outlook is bleak. According to the US Census Bureau, around 35% percent of Whitley County residents collect disability; less than 50% have jobs, and about 25% live below the poverty line -- which is twice the national average. Although it can be fallacious to reason from one's experience in a single classroom to a city, county, or region as a whole, it seems that local culture is pock-marked by cycles of generational dependency and sense of entitlement.

Since it seems that the motivated students are becoming, to a certain degree, self-educators (and will always be learning if that is the case), I feel drawn students like the one I have discussed -- it's the students like him whom I want to influence most. It's not that I (necessarily) want him to buy into academic pursuit and the way it is typically understood and conveyed in the modern secondary school. Certainly, school and academics are not for everyone; however, learning to desire and seek out the truth is indispensable to living a whole life. Thus, I hope to instill a love for knowing the truth that transcends the classroom, diplomas, academics, culture, and even language.

But is that what I am doing? Am I speaking truth? How can one do it in the first place? It could very well be that my best efforts to that end could be antithetical to it.

And now as the workload piles up -- the normal work of a teacher, the work of a student, and the subsequent tension of idealism confronted by a litany of assumed practicalities -- I find myself questioning if I have the courage to speak the reported words of Giles Corey from Act IV of The Crucible as slabs of rock were being gradually placed on his chest that he might falsely confess to witchcraft:

More weight!