Mr. Sutherland, my French teacher at Shortridge High School, rarely used the blackboard on the side of his classroom. The blackboard in front he filled often, sometimes with conjugation charts, once with an enormous head whose pursed lips protruded to make the initial sound of “une.”  We struggled most of that class period to shape our lips like the monstrous ones he’d drawn bigger than his own head.

Because the blackboard next to the door got so little use, its emptiness was inviting—it was a blank slate.  Literally.  I took to writing quotations or song lyrics when I arrived.  Most of the time nothing more would happen with the side board. Sometimes Mr. Sutherland would comment on the quotation, which might lead to an extended discussion—of altruism versus buried self-interest, for instance—that would crowd out the lesson he’d planned.

I’ve been thinking about the opportunity offered by that empty board. It provided a public space to pursue matters that mattered to us.  What we chalked on that flat stone was a curriculum for being sixteen in Indianapolis in 1980, lessons we were primed to learn that day.

I’m a little jealous of Mr. Sutherland.  He taught in a school that was underfunded and ignored by the school board.  Since he was already way ahead of expectations by getting us to care about advanced French, he could afford to give time to other topics.  For me, teaching in a college prep school in an age of increasing academic pressure, it feels harder to justify time off topic.  Last year I tried posting thought-provoking quotations above the white boards in rooms 208 and 209.  This year, seeing a call for Tower bloggers, I think maybe it can be a chance to find space for the sort of spontaneous thoughts that made Mr. Sutherland’s classes so memorable. I’ll write some then leave the chalk in the tray; I hope you’ll take the chance to respond.