I must admit that this week’s blog topic, organic, really stumped me. I looked it up in the dictionary, the thesaurus, and even ruminated what the word meant to me. About the only thing that came to mind was my high school biology teacher, Mr. Cook and his provocative way of questioning us.
Mr. Cook was a nice guy. He was kind of low-key, as teachers went, preferring to integrate life-lessons along with the academic subject matter. His favorite tactic was asking the class questions, and sitting in front on the edge of the desk waiting for someone to hold up a hand to answer.
“Is your arm an organ?” Mr. Cook asked.
No one replied.
He had this way of staring at the group, then singling out individuals. Even with a question so germane to the course, the class was reticent. And Mr. Cook would sit there waiting, not offering anything more. Usually it took one person to break the stalemate, so I raised my hand.
“Mike,” he said as he called on me.
I lowered my hand. “Mr. Cook, is your arm an organ?”
Yeah, I know I was merely firing his own question back at him without offering up an answer, but this was usually the only way I could get things moving again. I sort of felt like it was my role to be his straight man. He would always seem to accept this as a break in the stalemate and would slide off the desk and begin an animated answer. He often would draw diagrams and pictures on the board. I think perhaps he was a frustrated artist.
I remember Mr. Cook offering a detailed explanation of the subject matter, starting with, “Well, as near as we can figure, it is, depending on what your definition of an organ is. If we accept the definition of an organ as being a specialized part of an animal or plant, made up of specialized tissues adapted to perform specialized and specific functions, your arm is indeed an organ.”
Aren’t you glad I settled that question? I’d hate for it to have kept you up nights wondering.
Another time Mr. Cook was lecturing us after an exam. It seemed that somehow a person from the first period class (the one I was in) had absconded with a copy of one of the mid-term biology tests before it could be administered to the afternoon students. Naturally, the afternoon students aced it, which made fairness in grading a problematic chore for the teacher. Mr. Cook was highly upset over this and the next morning positioned himself on the edge of the desk and asked another of his poignant questions.
“How many people in here cheat?” he asked.
This time, no one raised his hand. Well, I started to, but just to break the deadlock. When my hand was midway raised, I realized I couldn’t rephrase this particular question in any meaningful way to allow for Mr. Cook’s subsequent pontification. And I wasn’t the one who’d cobbed the test, either.
Luckily, if he saw my hand dart upward, then drop, he made no mention of it. This time, he just paused for effect and then went on and answered his own question.
“Well, if you can’t be honest with me, at least be honest with yourselves. Someone stole a test from my desk yesterday, and I want you to know that person not only cheated himself, but every other person in this class and the afternoon class.”
I remember Mr. Cook had these real sad looking eyes, and they looked even sadder that day. It was like he was on the verge of tears. It’s rough, sometimes when your idealism is shaken. He went on that morning talking about tests and cheating and learning and it made a lot of sense to me.
The bell finally rang and as we gathered up our books and moved out of the room a student named Ross Kilagrew (not his real name) grabbed me by the arm.
“I just want to shake your hand,” he said as we walked in the crowded hallway.
“For what?”
“For having the balls to admit you were the one who stole the test.”
“But I didn’t steal it,” I said.
His grin was wide. “Yeah, I know. I did. But now Cook thinks you’re the culprit. Way to go, Blackie.”
I was left in the hallway thinking of how things must have looked to Mr. Cook, and was sure he’d flunk me for thinking I was the test thief.
Up until then I’d been a mediocre student in his class, but I buckled down and studied pretty hard. I actually got pretty good grades on the rest of the tests in Mr. Cook’s class after that. If he held the “How many people in here cheat?” misunderstanding against me, he never let it show and I left sophomore biology with a better understanding of life’s lessons.
I also left with a pretty good idea of what was organic, and what wasn’t.
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I’m scheduled to attend the Killer Nashville conference in Nashville, Tennessee later this month. This will be my first time there, but I’ve heard great things about the conference. I’m also looking forward to the release of my new book, The Incredible Adventures of Doc Atlas--- The Doc Atlas Ominbus, from Oak Tree Press.