... random reminiscences

Fall, 1978, Baltimore City College - the first year of the New Baltimore City College. We began with only ninth grade, 350 students and 22 teachers. That year I taught English I, a Cultural History of the 20th Century, by decades; Latin I; and Instrumental Music and Band.

I remember Melvin (although I may not remember his name correctly) in Latin class. Melvin was one of those crinkly-faced incredibly bright and very polite ninth-graders who visited this planet only during school hours. Or maybe only during Latin class, I sometimes suspected. So we're in the middle of some endless declension (all declensions are endless to ninth graders), we pause to catch our communal breath, and Melvin raises his hand and asks, "Do you take the bus to school or do you bring your lunch?" I said, "No," he said, "Oh," we continued the declension. The last time I saw Melvin, and this was many years ago, he was in his element working in a comic book store at the Inner Harbor. Melvin could draw.

Ninth-graders are not my favorite level to teach, Melvin notwithstanding, but they do have their moments. In English class one day, a very quiet little girl raised her hand mid-lesson and asked, "Do you think these are chicken pox?" (They were.)

And of course poor Roland. Roland was the stereotypical pudgy pre-pubescent bright hopelessly nerdy kid with the glasses and the pocket protector - in ninth grade, already. He's probably a stunning engineer or rocket scientist by now, but Roland will forever be remembered in the annals of City College as the kid who got the hole punch stuck on his lower lip.

Melvin - yes, the same wonderful Melvin, was very very bright but not much of a student. We had a lot of those over the years at City, most of them learned to study quickly enough to stay there. Melvin could create graphic novels in his notebook, but the traditional literary type one encounters in English class wasn't his thing. But he could do math. He managed to keep his grades just passing each quarter. Right before the semester exam, he asked what score he needed on the exam to get a 75 for the semester. I told him; that's the exact score he made on the exam.

Then there was William. (Remember that now, forty years later, I have not a clue as to what their names really were.) William was in my Latin class, at least physically. He was a baseball fanatic; the faculty decided that he came to City College mainly because we were located right across 33rd Street from Memorial Stadium, the home of Baltimore Orioles before they moved to the new Camden Yards stadium downtown. That meant, among other things, that we were the only school in the city that closed for Opening Day - so stadium patrons could park in our parking lots. It also meant that William didn't have to hook school to go to Opening Day. He sold hot dogs at the games. In baseball season, baseball was all he thought about. When baseball season ended, his thought process hibernated until the next Opening Day. This meant that he didn't learn much Latin, among other things. Oh, he tried valiantly but it just wasn't there. He came for tutoring, he stayed after school for coach class (when there was no game), it just wasn't there. He knew this, his parents knew this, the guidance counselor knew this, I knew this - so at the end of the year we made a solemn pact: he swore on his glove that he would never, ever take another class in Latin, and we let him pass on grounds of great although hapless effort and honesty. He did in fact never take Latin again.