This is unrelated to China, or traveling, or writing or tea drinking, but as I was writing the Gobi desert post, I kept thinking of my former high school science teacher Mr. Goby. It might come as no surprise to you that I was not much of a science person. Instead of biology or chemistry I took something called ‘unified science’ which was basically science for the dumb kids. My classmates included kids with severe dyslexia, jocks with pea brains, troubled kids, ditsy girls, foreign exchange students who couldn’t speak English and lazy art-kids like myself.
We were a motley bunch to say the least, and in my first unified science class (with a different teacher) we were a terror. I remember one class, when we were suppose to disect a worm, one jock ran around the room, worm hanging out of his mouth, girls squealing and hiding, and the teacher trying vainly to regain order. She kicked one student out so often (the worm eater) that we organized a protest and if he was kicked out, then the rest of us walked out with him. Afterwards she didn’t kick him out quite so much.
But senior year Mr. Goby was my teacher and somehow he got us all interested in science. (I later learned that dealing with troubled kids was his specialty, though I didn’t know it at the time.) I remember one class we went outside on a sunny day with a concave mirror. He wanted to show us the power of a small curve to harness the sun’s energy. “Give me a cigarette,” he said holding out his hand. We all shuffled our under-aged feet and looked at the ground. “Oh, I know some of you smoke, just give me a cigarette!” he said a little harshly. Nobody moved but a few of us looked pleadingly at the smokers. We wanted to see what he was planning on doing.
He sighed. “I’ll turn around, close my eyes and count to 10. By the time I turn back, I expect to see a cigarette that didn’t come from any of you, but magically appeared.” As soon as he turned around the smokers all eagerly reached for their packs. Mr. Goby got his cigarette, and then he lit it by placing it in the center of the concave mirror. (A student then joked if he could have his cigarette back, a request Mr. Goby did not comply with.)
His class was fun, and the two of us got along really well. Somehow a strange tradition between us started. Every time we would run into each other in the hallway, or the start of class, I would say, “Hi, Mr. Goby” in a strange nasally voice, and he would say “Hi Mr. Goby,” right back in the same way.
I only knew him for a year, but he quickly became one of my favorite teachers and I asked him to write my college letter of recommendation. Even at the time I thought it was strange. Art-focused Becky, applying to art based schools, was asking my science teacher for a letter of recommendation?! It was almost blasphemy. But he agreed, and the letter was amazing. When my college asked me to send a “letter of appreciation” to any two prior teachers I immediately picked Mr. Goby (and my singing teacher Mrs. Lipson).
The last time I saw Mr. Goby was when I was a junior in college. I was working at a movie theater in Boston, selling tickets, and Mr. Goby appeared with his son who was attending Boston University, right down the street. “Hi, Mr. Goby,” I said automatically. “Hi, Mr. Goby,” he said back, a big smile on both our faces. It was a Friday night, I was the only ticket seller and I had a line out the door. No time for chatting.
On Aug, 14th, 2011, while I was writing my post on the Gobi desert, Mr. Goby passed away from complications of lymphoma. He left his wife of 43 years, 3 kids, and 4 grandchildren. He was a great teacher.
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