Epitaph for an English Teacher

By Howard Good

He wasn't the most brilliant or stimulating teacher I ever had, just the most influential. His name was Harry Thompson. He taught me Advanced Placement English in 12th grade at John F. Kennedy High School—a class that, strictly speaking, I wasn't prepared for and shouldn't have been allowed to take. That was more than 30 years ago, but I still remember Mr. Thompson with a kind of awe.

Why? It isn't because he was physically impressive. He was a little pear- shaped man with a prematurely bald head that made him look a lot older than he was—only 37 at the time, if my math is correct. And it isn't because he was a flamboyant showman who entertained us with anecdotes and impersonations as he taught. His classroom style was actually rather drab. No, I remember him for the simple reason that he was sympathetic and encouraging to me when so many other teachers would have been the exact opposite.

I ended up in Advanced Placement English not because of my grades, which were mediocre at best, but because of my big mouth. The class had previously been confined to outstanding students who had followed an accelerated academic track since junior high. Average students like me were exiled to slower, lower-level English classes. I argued that this was elitist. During the political and social turmoil of the late '60s, the argument must have carried a certain weight. The English...