It is all John Updike’s fault. It really is. I had just finished reading Updike’s quirky novel Rabbit, Run when it suddenly hit me. “I can do this!” I thought. “I can write my own novel”.

Now this certainly wasn’t a new thought for me. I have dreamed of being a writer since I was in high school (which is more years ago than I want to admit) and I had made some pathetic attempts to write a book before, but it wasn’t until I finished Rabbit, Run that I thought I could actually do it.

Now don’t get me wrong, in no way am I comparing myself to Updike. The easy prose and the simplistic story line of Rabbit, Run simply served as a catalyst. It helped show me that I didn’t have to have an overly complex story line and I didn’t have to rely on flowery wording and cute turns of phrases to actually write a novel. I just needed to have a strong character who would drive my story. Although I had trouble rooting for or even liking Henry Angstrom, the main character of Rabbit, Run, I couldn’t help trying to figure out what made him tick, what drove him to do what he does in the story. This is the key to the novel and the key to my own novel (or so I thought). All I needed was to create a character people would want to read. Sounds easy right?

Well, I rolled up to my computer and just started trying to write about my surroundings, to describe what I could see, hear, touch, and smell at that very moment. I didn’t have a storyline in mind, I just needed to write something, anything. This is what I came up with:

The August heat stifles; the air is thick with moisture. The walls ooze wet drops of grim; the remnants of ninety years of blood, sweat, tears, dirt; wear and tear. Sweat drips down his brow, under his arms, through his shirt, as The Teacher walks into the classroom. It is the first day back in the school at the start of another school year. As he crosses the threshold, his stomach twitches in a flutter; sweat stings his eyes. He always feels this way on the first day, nervous; hot. This nervousness remains unspoken; the heat simply draining. Outwardly, he shows only disdain. This is his act though. On the outside he hates this place; he hates the building, he hates the classroom, he hates the administration, he hates the students. He holds everything about this place in contempt, but this is only for the benefit of his fellow haters- the teaching staff. One is not supposed to like anything about this place, and The Teacher will perpetrate his hating act because he knows he must continue the cycle with his fellow teachers, just to get along.

He is awkward with his partners in academic fraud, his fellow teachers. They do not know what to think of The Teacher; he is a rarity. The majority of those teaching in this building have been doing so for at least twenty years. They began their teaching careers before the school declined and now cannot escape. They are invested in the school; they cannot afford to begin again. The others are first-years; those grabbing a quick shot of experience before bolting for greener pastures. The Teacher is different; he has chosen to stay for six years when he could go- should go- year after year. Some think he is a crusader, others just crazy; all wonder about him. The Teacher is aware of this awkwardness, so he tailors his behavior to suit other’s needs; not his own. He hates, as he is supposed to hate, so others feel more comfortable. Secretly though, inside of his heart and his mind, he loves this place.

The Teacher is not always clear on the why of this love; he just knows that it is exhilarating. There is stress; frustration, but love as well. The students have captured him, in his heart; his mind. They keep calling him back, year after year. He is honest with himself. He would not have come back for another year, if this place did not captivate his soul of souls. It is all in the challenge; the challenge of getting through to these children of poverty, to teach them things they did not know before they experienced him. It is a thrill really, even though it is a challenge, it is what makes him get up and come to work every morning.

As he walks back and forth across the tattered remains of carpet, he runs the one-act play he has titled Opening Day through his head. He believes this is what teaching really is; acting. He must perform his act, his play, for the benefit of the students. The performance must be good to engage an audience for ninety minutes each day. He is not just the actor in this play; he is the writer, director and producer. He controls the entire performance; except for the audience. This is the one variable each actor; each teacher, cannot control. How will the audience receive this day’s play, his performance, and will they play their own roles? This is an interactive play; the audience must be involved for it to reach its conclusion, but will they cooperate? He asks himself, “How will it go today? How will it go?”

The Teacher stops to make sure everything is exact. He wants the room to be perfect and the props ready; all of the posters straight, the desks arranged, his desk organized, his pictures in their place. He lingers at the photo of his wife and their two sons; and feels a pang of loss. Although he is mesmerized by this place, it wrinkles his heart to see the summer’s end. Having spent lazy days with his sons, running, jumping, hitting, catching, playing; he knows the magic of those summer days has slipped through his fingers for another year. Now The Teacher's days will be filled with teaching and grading and the talk of things learned and homework to be done, both at school and with his sons.

His children are his pride and joy. It is a struggle to be a good father; but a good father he is. His children color everything he does; every action he takes. Everything in his life centers on his family; his wife and his sons. The Teacher knows it is his obligation as a father to give his children more opportunities than he had, which is the challenge, for his opportunities were plentiful. He strives to give them every advantage possible; to teach them everything he knows. His love is unconditional.

In many ways, his students remind him of his sons, struggling to unlock the mystery of letters and numbers. At three and five, his sons are learning how to read and write; how to recognize letters and numbers, how to count and talk. Unfortunately, his ninth and tenth graders are still struggling to unlock these same mysteries. It is sad really, but this is part of the challenge when one teaches in an inner-city, low income school.

The teacher continues to pace back and forth across his room, as the minutes tick down, before the students enter the school. The students will not arrive at his door until 7:15, so he still has an hour to wrestle with his rotten stomach and the adrenaline coursing through his veins. The knot of his tie suffocates. He loosens it an inch as he continues to battle his nervousness. His throat tightens and loosens, tightens and loosens, again. His hands begin to tremble, so he grabs a yard-stick, which is only another prop, in his hand, and twirls it around. He finds it almost- almost- relaxing and he swings the stick back and forth, back and forth. The repetition is more to give his hands something to do than anything else, but his stomach wins the confrontation and is still flush with nerves.

The need to throw-up passes again, while he reminds himself that he has done this before. He has been teaching for six years now, and today is no different from any other first day, which is part of the problem. He was nervous on those other first days, and today it is the same, no different. He is not sure why he always feels so sick, but he smiles because he thinks it is a good sign. His nervousness is a signal that he still cares, about his job and his students – no, his kids.

Yes, they are his kids, even though he was not present at their births, or even the first fourteen years of their lives. They are his children to shape and mold. They are his for ninety minutes, each and every day. Just as he does his own children, he wants success for them. He wants them to learn and live, to grow and mature, too take responsibility for their lives. He knows he can show them the way, if he can just reach them, and they can get past the color of his skin. Being able to stand up to and face down racism is difficult for everyone and it is not any different for a light teacher in a dark school. This is the challenge again.

The teacher thinks back to his first, first-day in this place. He was nervous then, but then again, he was not nervous enough. Disadvantaged by the cool crisp October air, instead of the oppressive heat of a Midwest August, he started late. He was a replacement, hired after the commencement of the school year, an innocent lamb walking into a den of wolves. Although his gut was twisted and his heart a machine gun, he thought he would get a honeymoon- a few days to settle in and get caught up. Not nervous enough, the honeymoon lasted less than a day, less than an hour, less than even that first minute. It ended when he walked into that classroom for the first time. He introduced himself and then the torment began. Every vile name known to mankind, and then some more, spewed from the mouths of those students. They were teasing the lamb before moving in for the kill. They taunted, yelled, racially slurred, left the room, came back, threw things, threatened. Not nervous enough, until the student threw the punch. It was a warning, for the bare knuckles missed his face by a fraction, with a purposeful glare from the angry eyes. He was so lost that day, not knowing the students name, his fellow teachers, where he was, how to get help. He was alone. He recognized the challenge then and took heart. He does not back away from a challenge, even when he is crazy not too. Instead of allowing himself to be the lamb, he fought back and became the alpha, the leader of this pack.

The first days have all been easier since that very first day, but they are still awkward, and he still gets nervous. The teacher thinks he has the key though. This key is to yank the students’ attention away from summer and into the classroom, the moment they cross through the door. A teacher must harness his personality and his resources and with as much force as necessary, pull the students away from their thoughts, conversations, memories and thrust them into the reality of the now: the classroom and the teacher. The smile flashes across his face, he knows a few tricks, learned over time and from experience, to get their attention. This is the intention of his Opening Day play.

He is known in the school now; he has worked hard on his reputation amongst the students. He has cultivated his air of craziness that makes the students flutter with awkwardness. The majority of them know who The Teacher is, if not personally, then by his reputation alone, and not many are looking forward to his class. Those who are unaware of The Teacher are in for a rude awakening, he is nothing like the teachers they have ever had before, or so The Teacher hopes. Out crazy the crazies, as the saying goes.

His reverie is shattered by the first bell of the morning and the yard-stick tumbles from his hand. It is the warning bell for teachers, the warning that students are now being allowed into the building, and The Teacher’s heart accelerates and his stomach flops. It is almost time. He whispers to himself, “Are you are ready?" They are coming.”
He retrieves his prop from the floor; quietly walks to the door and nudges it open. It swings in the wide expanse of the empty hallway. He savors the quiet for a moment and then quickly crosses the room and climbs onto one of the student desks. He removes the American flag from its holder and descends back to the floor. The Teacher unfurls the flag, as he walks to his desk.

His arrival is marked by the second bell of the morning, the bell that frees the students from the restraints of the cafeteria and gives them the freedom of the building. He strains his hearing for the first sounds of the morning jungle. When it is carried to his ear by the stale, humid, scorching, school air, he takes a deep breath, exhales, straightens his tie, steps up onto his desk, swings the flag around a few times and begins to sing. The play has begun.

As I was writing, a rough outline of a story formed in my mind, and I latched onto The Teacher as my Henry Angstrom, my character who would ultimately drive my story. I didn’t know it at the time, but this Updike inspired writing eventually became the prologue of my first novel Sex, Lies, and the Classroom. Of course, these few pages of random thoughts, ideas, and phrases went through revision after revision before coalescing into its final form in the novel, but this was the moment my writing career began.

Now that Sex, Lies, and the Classroom has been published, along with my second novel The M-16 Agenda and my recently released Musings of a Particular Bear: A Poetry Collection, I can only offer Updike my undying gratitude for giving me the confidence to make another start and to believe that I could right. Now I can only hope to match Updike’s proficiency and success.

It is, after all, Updike’s fault that I am now a writer.