Viktor James - Teaching Frankenstein: A Cautionary Tale

Copyright 2018 Viktor James

Cover Design by Ricarda Wegmann gt. Eiker

nd Edition

All rights reserved.

ISBN:0-0692-18467-7

ISBN-13: 978-0-692-18467-7

For Wilson, my brother in arms

I AM NO longer a teacher.

By the time you finish reading these pages, youll understand why. This is a cautionary tale, a warning. It is not for the faint of heart nor is it for the easily offended. While I have changed descriptions, names, and locations to protect those involved, I have done my best to recount the events that happened as accurately as possible. The core of the story echoes the truth. However, as with all tales retold, imagination fills the gaps.

My goal is not to sway you one way or another, only to show you how things were. I believe youre wise enough to come to your own conclusions.

They say the best example is a non-example.

A fitting epitaph

Yours,

A Nameless Mister

THE DIRECTIONS ARE on the board, I repeated.

To be fair, they were trying not to laugh. Trying and failing. I couldnt blame them. If I were fourteen, Id be laughing too.

In my defense, I had tried to scrub it away, but that only made it worse. It wasnt my fault the image on the whiteboard wouldnt erase. They hadnt even needed to use a permanent marker because the board somehow absorbed everything written on it. And now it had absorbed a penis, a penis drawn in black ink that wouldnt erase just in time for observations.

Was it a sign?

It looked like one.

It was a pretty crude drawing, two orbs and a long elliptical. I tried to scrub it off, but it only added shading, turning it into a kind of ghost dick. Fitting, I suppose, considering the approach of Halloween, horror, and all things macabre. I bit my tongue to keep from smiling. The Neolithic drawing of a floppy cock continued to curve like a jellied finger towards the daily lesson plan projected onto the board.

I stumbled through attendance, feeling sweat ooze behind my collar. Suddenly, there were sounds: the unzipping of backpacks, the shuffling of papers, the slamming of binders. It shouldve been quiet. All they needed to do was sit there and read the board. There was even a phallus pointing right at the instructions, and yet that didnt seem to help.

Read the directions, I said for the third time.

Why was that so hard to understand?

Teaching literature was 85 percent pretending to be a hard-ass, 10 percent reading at least one entire book without SparkNotes (maybe), and the other whatever percent was having What? Patience? Wherewithal? The ever-elusive it teachers in TED Talks bragged about? You mean the fantastical manifestation of ability that surpasses a rational sense of observation? You mean the pathologically developed, anxiety-induced continuous distrust forged after years of experiencing teenagers trying to get away with absolutely anything? That it?

Thats not talent. Thats PTSD.

And if there was an it to teaching, I definitely didnt have it. I could barely remember to read my emails.

I continued taking attendance, something much harder that day because I had to eyeball who was in my class and who wasnt. Normally, I had a seating chart. A body behind a desk meant here and an empty one, not here. It was easy. And because I still didnt know everyones name, it was also convenient. At two months into the school year, I probably shouldve learned them weeks ago, but anyways.

I had decided to look cool and show off my teaching skillz for the bossman and had overlooked the whole no seating chart thing. There were a lot of things that happened that day, that year even, that I had overlooked.

And the dong was definitely on the list.

The nervous sweat seeped underneath my suit as growing murmurs betrayed the waning attention spans.

It looked like most of them were there, so I submitted the attendance and logged out. It wasnt like anyone gave a shit anyway.

As you mightve guessed my voice was awkward, choked off by nerves were doing something a little different today. Before we start the novel next week, were going to take a look at Mary Shelleys world. This way you get a feel for

A click drew eyes to the slowly opening door.

A trail of students entered. I waited.

Tardy.

I glared at them. Grab any seat. Were just getting started. I walked back over to my computer and tried to log into the system again to adjust the attendance. A spinning hourglass appeared in the middle of the screen. Not now. The suit itched. I could feel the sweat pooling in my pits. I looked up at them from behind my computer; awkwardly standing by the door, checking out their options, calculating how to sit next to their friends.

Just grab any seat. You wont be there for very long.

The computer was still loading as two of them walked towards the empty chairs. The other stood there, staring at me.

Grinning.

From my desk, I picked up where Id left off. I wasnt in the mood to waste any more time, especially on that kid. Well be taking a look at Mary Shelleys world. To understand the novel, you have to understand what was happening around her during the time that she

He started scooting over to me like one of those toy robots in every Christmas movie. Slowly, he raised his hand from his side, revealing an apple. His face puckered red with restraint.

I looked at it, trying to hide my annoyance.

Here you go, Mister. I got it for you.

I thought of telling him where he could stick that apple. Even better, I wanted to throw it in the trash and say something street like, Fuck yo apple, bitch. But the principal was recording everything I said and did for my formal evaluation, and keeping it real wasnt one of the graded categories.

Thank you, I said through clenched teeth.

He had found out that I hated apples and decided to hand me one periodically just to annoy me. It would continue until he found another way to get on my nerves. My passing daydream of launching the apple at his head like some kind of medieval warlord laying siege to a castle faded.

I took the deformed apple and carefully placed the dull, lopsided thing on my desk, making sure it wouldnt fall to the floor.

The computer was still loading. Fuck it, I thought. I pretended to click some buttons and then closed it shut.

Today, we begin a journey into a very familiar and very dark tale, Frankenstein. I took my place center stage. Many of you may think you know the story, but youre mistaken. For the next eight weeks, youll enter into a world of despair, anger, betrayal, and death. Our goal will be to answer a very specific question. That question is this: When pursuing scientific knowledge, is any action justified?

There it was, the big question. Boom. I had hoped for piqued interest, imagined some kind of reciprocal oooh or ahhhh. Instead, confused faces stared back at me while the sound of rapidly clicking computer keys continued in the background. Sweat still itched across my skin.

Yes! apple boy suddenly shouted sarcastically.

Shut up, Anita said, pushing back her crimson bangs as she gave him a sideways glare.

What? I answered the question, Joaqun fired back.

The sudden desire to throw the apple at his head appeared again.

Were not supposed to answer it now, she said, then added, dumbass.

Were supposed to answer what now? a girl asked.

Wait, what does that even mean? another said.

Try thinking for one fucking second and youd know, Anita said.

Anita, be respectful, I said, hinting a reminder with my eyes that the principal was in the room.

Sorry, Mister, she said, then turning to the principal added, Sorry, Nimitz for good measure.