Now that I have Internet access again, I was planning on doing a post about being forcefully cut off from the world online (except for at work) and how that shifts one’s perceptions about media, communications and people in general. There was also the possibility of discussing the trials and tribulations of moving and uprooting oneself successfully, but feeling uncomfortable about the situation all the same. I might have written something about living on my own and being the only animate thing in my abode, the stiffening silences and the discomfort of hearing noises in the night. But towards the end of last week, I received news that couldn’t be ignored.
Mr. Black, one of my favorite teachers from high school (or any school), the educator most responsible for my world-view, writing style and current interests, the man who taught so many so much, died.
I’ve only heard second-hand and third-hand details, so I’m not going to jump to any conclusions about the hows or the whys. All I know is that he’s no longer here, and like so many of my former classmates, I feel a sense of loss.
Mr. Black taught “Theory of Knowledge,” the capstone course for the IB senior class at my high school. It was an odd mish-mash of art, psychology, history, anthropology, English, and most of the other social sciences. And it was quite subjective.
In one assignment, we were told to take pictures that represented a phrase from two words picked out of a hat. Unfortunately, all of the words were figurative, so there was no easy way to take a picture. Somehow, my interpretation of “Cool Revenge” wound up winning Best in Class:
When I asked Mr. Black later about judging and how it was determined if a photo matched its theme, he told me it didn’t; it was all up to the observers. Art cannot be objective, he said, because it’s created by subjective people. Every art-related assignment we had, from painting self-portraits in the style of famous painters to creating abstract sculptures, was like this. There were no clearly-defined parameters or rules, and the scale of grading was abstract.
For a class of kids who were beginning to realize the power of the Internet and whose very academic life followed the motto, “I.B., therefore, I B.S.,” it was almost maddening. We couldn’t fake our way through these assignments, so we actually had to apply ourselves and put in effort. Studying was useless; it was all about creating tangible results from every piece of education we’d absorbed up until that point. It was hard work, and sometimes, it seemed terribly unfair.
If one student had hired another to write a ToK paper for him and if Mr. Black could tell, he would give a higher grade to the paid paper. Soon, the practice stopped entirely. We did our own work with our own methods, and for the first time for many of us, we spoke in our own voices. We wanted to succeed on our own terms, and every one of us respected him for making us do that. For the first time since my freshman year English teacher shot down my authorial dreams because I used too many comma splices, I wanted to write again. We were inspired.
Not as much could be said for the History teacher who would surf the web for topless biker babes during class presentations on the socioeconomic fallout from the Bay of Pigs.
Mr. Black was also one of the faculty advisers for the Speech and Debate team. While I originally joined to have a way of seeing a lady-friend who was on the S&D team for another school, I soon found myself drawn to the practice itself. On the team, we were encouraged to experiment and interpret things differently than we might have during normal class: dramatic interpretations of Fight Club and SLC Punk! while other students were reenacting stories of AIDS and Leukemia suffering; presentations on the distinction between nerds and geeks or the evolution of reality TV up to the early years of American Idol where competing schools offered dissections of the mining potential of the Oort Cloud and the scientific potential of testing on Capuchin Monkeys. We were going against the grain, and while we didn’t win many contests, it was great fun. Also, it helped me get over my public speaking anxiety. Had I been coerced into reciting scenes from The Jungle or presenting data on the impact of the Ozone Layer’s depletion on the flora and fauna of Australia, my life would be very different right now.
A number of my old classmates have taken to Facebook, writing stories of Mr. Black’s impact on their careers (academic and professional), writing great quotes that inspire them to this day. Truth be told, I remember little of what he said to me. I can recall the assignments and lessons that he doled out in his trademark deadpan tone, always slightly muffled through a bushy salt-and-pepper beard that hid any evidence of a smirk or a scowl. I remember that he always seemed to be one of the last teachers to leave, willing to stay past the last bell to discuss the day’s lesson with interested students, debate a current event, or just chat about life. I remember that during the faculty talent show, he performed spoken word renditions of pop songs with such perfect poise, eloquence and charm that it was impossible not to laugh. But I have no memories of anything profound or life-changing that he said to me.
Then again, his teaching influenced my work ethic, my interest in culture, and my perspective on much of the social world. His lessons challenged me in a way that few assignments from anyone, educator or manger, ever have. Maybe his quotes have become so ingrained in my mind that I can no longer attribute them to him, though Mr. Black would probably argue that I’ve got a serious case of an attributional bias going on right now.
In the years since graduation, I’ve met many people who were IB students in other schools. When we compare notes, it seems like their ToK classes were more like glorified writing sessions. Many times, the IB alums would comment with a tinge of jealousy that they wished they’d had a teacher like Mr. Black, as their lessons were devoid of any real content or inspiration. It was a source of comfort to know that he was still teaching, helping disaffected smart kids combat Senioritis while pushing them to new heights of creativity.
Now, though, my teacher is gone, and I’m not sure how to respond. There are no clearly-defined parameters or rules for this sort of thing. It all seems to terribly unfair and arbitrary. But thanks to Mr. Black, I have some experience on dealing with the unknown, and not just in theory.
I’ve always had trouble keeping New Year’s resolutions. It seems silly that a time of year should dictate one’s preferences for personal growth and development, especially in the winter, when it’s too cold in most places to do much of anything. Perhaps it would make more sense on the sunny shores of Australia, though I’d imagine that most Aussie resolutions would then have to do with getting a tan, taking surfing lessons, domesticating wombats, or doing other things beyond my mental stereotype of the Australian lifestyle, but I digress. Any goal-setting should be done when the goal-setter is ready to actually accomplish their self-given mission; rushing it doesn’t help.
There’s a lot of power in numbers. Statistics can be manipulated to swing opinions one way or another, to discover hidden truths, or even for proving silly points (like 
