Tag: North Forsyth

The man responsible for my first experience with anything less-than-an-A in an English class.

A paper. About something. Each submission received two marks: one for grammar and one for composition.

He was new to North Forsyth. He was not one of the village elders. Brash. Confident. Business-like. I didn’t know him. He took over as the advisor of the CYNOSURE, the Viking yearbook. The grapevine was bustling with rumors about his intensity. But, he was the 10th grade Honors English teacher. So…

My mother’s initial critique of his teaching style after my entirely wholesome, unbiased, first-day-of-school description, was “he has more ambition than good sense.”

He plopped the paper on my desk. C/50. Written unapologetically in red ink, at the top of the first page. The first “major” assignment of the year.

“A ‘C?’ ‘C’ what? A ‘C’ as in what follows ‘A’ and ‘B?’ A 50? Ain’t no way. There is no way that little man gave me a 50.”

I was not the only Honors English student left in dumbfounded silence.

He stood at the podium.

“These papers are horrible. The first grade is for composition. Most of you earned an ‘F.’ There are no ‘As’ nor ‘Bs.” If you have a ‘C,’ that only means you were in a classroom one day, when your teacher may have briefly talked about writing. But, I doubt you paid attention. There are no passing grades for grammar. You should already know this material. I suggest you get your grammar book and correct your mistakes. You may submit your paper again. If the grammatical errors have been addressed, the grade will be bumped to a 70. The composition grade stands.”

It was an intriguing way for the new teacher on the hall to try to win friends and influence people. I dare say, for most of the high school sophomores in his tutelage, it was our first brush with academic failure.

Many of those early days, I left his classroom angry, frustrated and irritated. Eventually, the days became even-keeled. He shared stories about his family. Photographs of baby Alex. He cheered at our ballgames. He bought the World’s Finest Chocolate bars, with a Pizza Hut coupon on the back of the wrapper. He came to SOUTH PACIFIC, the spring musical.

He was not, at all, “the bad guy.” It would be unfair to classify him as an adversary. He was our teacher. With even a little hindsight, anybody could see. He was a GREAT teacher.

10th grade Honors English. The year I started to learn how to write. (Although… he compelled us to read SIDDHARTHA, by Hermann Hesse. I didn’t understand it then. I’ve read it again, as an adult. I don’t understand it all-that-much now. But, I digress.)

Dennis eventually became the principal of the Summer Enrichment Program. Every school administrator should know how to work with Maggie and Larry and Gretchen and Terry. They learn much. It’s a real-time lesson that cannot be replicated in a textbook, nor taught in a staff development workshop.

Later, he was tapped to lead the Career Center. He is the administrator that welcomed me into the teaching profession. Dr. Moser entrusted me with the Broadcasting Program… four students and one class period.

Dennis and I clashed (as allies will) many times. He trusted me more, with every passing day. What began as sheer intimidation, grew into respect. As a principal. As a friend. As a human being. He will forever be my teacher.

I, along with several other teachers, was assigned “AM Parking Lot Duty” at the Career Center. Oh, goody. I was one of three male teachers standing in the parking lot, coffee in hand, watching a female student struggling to park. She could not get her car inside the lines. She would open the door, look down, back up 18 inches, pull forward and remain confuddled as to why her vehicle hadn’t magically jettisoned to the center of the parking space. She finally gave up.

Male teachers are not inherently more mature than their teenage counterparts. We were laughing. One of the other instructors hollered in the girl’s direction. “Is today your first day driving?” She looked perplexed and we laughed more heartily.

Well… that girl’s mama apparently didn’t like the way that scene unfolded. She began calling the school on a daily basis, demanding the heads of those male teachers (mine included) served on a silver platter.

Dennis’ assistant principal pulled me aside. “Jeffrey, please call that mama and apologize. Play nice. Say whatever you need to say and make this go away. We’re tired of it. I certainly can’t ask Mr. Whomever or Mr. Whatever to call. You’re our best chance.”

Got it. Will do. I understand the mission. I called the mama.

“Hey, this is Jeffrey Griffin from Career Center. I understand you are frustrated with us, and, I don’t blame you. I would be, too. I also have a daughter and if I thought anybody was laughing at her, or, making fun of her, I would be furious. We were wrong. No excuses. I wish I had a better explanation other than we were behaving like junior high boys. We were ridiculous and silly. We were goofing off and acting like fools and, yes ma’am, we laughed at your daughter trying to park. That was immature and inappropriate. I’m calling to apologize to you and your daughter. We are deeply sorry for our behavior and we hope you will forgive us. Will you share this conversation with your girl, or, would you prefer I speak to her privately at school?”

I fell on the sword. I apologized every way I could think to apologize. I took one for the team. No big deal. School life. An irate parent. It happens.

The mama replied, “please, do not speak with her. I’ll handle this. Thank you for calling.”

I thought it was done. Over. No more laughing in the parking lot… no matter what.

I went to Dennis’ office to let him know.

“I called that mama. I apologized. It’s done. All is well.”

He looked at me. “Jeff, you have to know better. Be sure Twiddle-Dee and Twiddle-Dum, understand.”

His secretary, Butch, walked in his office. The “Obnoxious Parent Of the Year” candidate was on the phone. Again.

“I thought you said you called?”

“I DID. Five minutes ago.”

Dennis motioned for me to be quiet. The assistant principal was sitting in the other chair. He touched the speakerphone button. Before he could say a word, that mama ripped into him like she was the last soldier on Iwo Jima.

Her first threat was to call every member of the School Board, “because this was nothing but sexual harassment!”

I had not seen Dennis “angry,” until that moment. He picked up the receiver. “That is a very serious accusation against my teachers and not something I take lightly. This conversation is over. You can reach out to our attorney at Central Office if you have anything else to say.”

He ended the phone call.

“Dennis! Should you have done that?”

“Jeff, you can go. She won’t call. We won’t hear from her again.”

He was right. We didn’t. It was a defining moment in our teacher-principal relationship. We talk about “supporting teachers” and “having your back.” Dennis walked the walk. He defended me (and the other two) without a second thought. There was no hesitation.

From my first failed writing to Summer School to a bat-crazy parent, Dennis has shown up, stood up and spoken up.

I trust the man implicitly.

When my mother passed away and I was putting together the Celebration Of Life, I forwarded the bulletin to Dennis. I asked him to proofread.

It didn’t take long for the first correction to land in my email inbox. I had to laugh.

My response? “Dennis, that’s scripture. We’re not editing the Bible.”

Forever the teacher. I looked again. Dr. Moser was correct. There was a grammatical error in the text.

There is a reason. There are resons. I trust Dennis. Always.

Dennis Moser. He’s the one. In Dennis I trust.