We’ve been studying World War Two in class. Well, “studying”. I’ve been talking about it – when I’m not reminding people to get in their seats, put away the phones, put away the phones, put away the phones – and maybe a third of the class at any given time is listening.
I don’t want to sell my students short, but most eighth-graders aren’t terribly interested in learning about, well, anything aside from a viral video or an Aeropostale sale.
So here we are, four weeks in, and we’re plugging along. The battle of Midway, the raid at Dieppe, the Americans coming late to the party… We’ve compiled memorial lists of Shoah victims, color-coded maps of Europe circa 1939, and discussed whether or not Hitler was clinically insane and/or just plain evil.
The whole time I’m wondering: are they getting it? Am I going overboard? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Is this opening sequence from Saving Private Ryan a little too intense for a roomful of fourteen year-olds?
I should point out at this juncture that my class is… a little rowdy. Most of them come from homes that don’t exactly match up with the sitcom images that middle America grew up with. Sometimes I forget how young they are because they act so hard.
“Guys, I’m not asking a ninety-something war veteran to come in and talk to you if you’re just going to be wild, you know?”
Yes, it’s true: against all logic, common sense & gentle warnings from the administration, I arranged a class visit from a WWII veteran. I had given my class almost a months’ warning, because they are not the group to spring things upon. On Monday, I perched on the edge of my desk and gnawed my cuticles, praying that he would remember to show up, that they would be OK, that we would learn something.
He was ninety-three and shared a name with a Hollywood actor. When he spoke his voice was thin and gravely. He told us how when he was in grade eight he went to the same school that he was visiting now, how then it was run by nuns who weren’t shy about using the strap on “a smart-alecky kid”. He told us about landing on the beach in Normandy. He told us about how Nazis would hide landmines underneath bodies in the trenches. He told us about being in Paris on V-Day.
He told us that in seven years there probably wouldn’t be any more WWII veterans left.
You could have heard a pin drop for the entire hour that he was there. When the bell rang to change classes, several students asked him for his signature and shook his hand.
“They were much better listeners than a grade eleven class that I spoke to a few weeks ago,” he told me, as I handed him the “Thank You” card covered in student signatures. “Those kids were falling asleep and writing messages to each other. You have a very nice class here.”
“They’re fantastic,” I agreed.
“I’m really glad that I came. I think it’s important to talk to the young people so that they don’t forget. And wow, _______ School… I haven’t been back here in ages.”
“Thank you so much for coming. Thank you for everything.”
I called him a cab and watched from the doorway as he climbed in, waving goodbye as the car pulled away. I felt… sad? Grateful? Humbled? Behind me I could hear the same class that had just treated a war hero with such dignity and respect going ape-shit in the computer lab with another teacher. After school the bell some of the students came into my room to talk to me about the visit. About how he was hard to hear but they tried.
“Were we good, Miss?”
“You guys were unreal. Thank you.”