At its Annual Meeting in Orlando, NSPE hosted an event in which members used activities involving hoopgliders, Ping-Pong balls, and gumdrops to teach more than 50 grade school kids basic lessons in engineering. Attendance was voluntary. I was tired from my work week and a four-hour drive. Running late, with no time to check in to my room, I was tempted to skip the event. No one would miss me. But I went, more out of a sense of duty than enthusiasm.
It's 1959; I attend Benjamin Franklin Elementary in Miami. I'm in the second grade. My teacher is Mrs. Hill. There are 29 kids in my class. We're not a very diverse group. There are no African-Americans. Our schools would not be integrated for years. There are no Hispanics. Castro has achieved his revolution, but Operation Pedro Pan would not begin until later this year. Fourteen thousand children would be sent to the U.S. without their parents. Our schools—and our City—would change forever, but not quite yet. Speaking of diversity, four of us are named John.
I teamed with Michael Dean, P.E., from Alaska, to work with a group of 20 students on a series of four engineering design challenges. During the next two hours, as we rotated through the activities, we asked and answered many questions. Everyone laughed and everyone learned, including the two old guys. Our entire group of students had been invited by one teacher, Mrs. Hoover. Jabria, a frail 12-year-old girl, told me that she always hated social studies until she had Mrs. Hoover, and now it's her favorite subject. I sought this inspirational teacher out. When I saw her name tag, I realized that "Susan Hoover" was one of five finalists in Florida's K–12 Teacher of the Year competition, which I had judged only two weeks earlier. Small world.
It's career day at Benjamin Franklin. My dad is here. He's a fireman for the City of Miami. (The correct term is firefighter, but this is 1959, after all.) He's dressed in his hat and bunker coat and rubber boots. He explains how the boots keep his feet dry, the coat protects him from the heat, and the wide brim on the hat keeps the tar from dripping down the back of his neck. He talks about what it takes to become a fireman—the physical abilities and training, the tests you have to pass, the things you have to learn. He talks about all the things firemen do when they're not fighting fires, or making rescue calls, or retrieving cats from trees. My dad's a fireman and I'm no longer just one of Mrs. Hill's Johns.
Near the end of our time with the students, I realized that they ranged from second grade to seventh. I asked Mrs. Hoover how it is that she teaches so wide an age span. I learned that she does home and hospital schooling for sick children. Some of the kids in our group are seriously, perhaps terminally, ill.
A dozen years have passed. My dad now commands his own station. He and his crew are eating dinner, hoping that the bell doesn't ring. There's a new guy at the table, just graduated from the fire college. My dad asks the new recruit how it is that he decided to join the fire department. He tells a story about how, when he was in elementary school, a fireman came to visit his class. He thought the guy was so cool, he decided right then, that's what he wanted to be. My dad mentioned that he had visited his kids' classrooms a few times when they were young. He asked, "Which school?" "Benjamin Franklin Elementary." "Small world, my kids went there. What grade?" "Second, Mrs. Hill was my teacher." His name is Mike Jones. He was in my class that day.
I replayed the questions we had asked Jabria and her friends, especially, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I wondered about Jabria's health, but I didn't ask. I'm glad we didn't know. She didn't need our pity. Whatever inspiration Michael Dean or I were able to convey to Mrs. Hoover or her kids, we got back a lot more.
Two score and nine years ago, a dad gave some of his precious time to a second grade class. I'm sure he thought the class would little note nor long remember his words. He could not have been more wrong.
I urge you to take the time to visit at least one class in this New Year. Our profession, and our society, will be better for it. You may not have the good fortune to see it, but your labor will bear fruit.
NSPE member John Hall, P.E., F.NSPE, of Coral Gables, Florida, will be writing occasionally about K–12 education issues in 2011.
